#ITS THE GOD DAMN SIDE DOOR WITH THE POOR WEATHER STRIPPING

[toomanythoughts2]

Paranoia is running high tonight, boys. Boy oh boy, I fucking hate roaches in my room :) please go away :) I can't sleep now :) I also burnt my thumb on my bug zapper :) I'm going to sleep in my car if I lay down and I see another one :) haha :) :) :)

[clevermonkey93]

put your faith where your doubt is (don't walk alone)

also on ao3

They’re well into their fifth week travelling together, through awful weather, terrible inns and the witcher trying to walk off serious injuries after a hunt didn't go as planned, when all three seemed to happen at once.

Geralt wouldn’t have argued back when the innkeeper told him there weren’t any rooms for his kind, but the bard was right next to him, snarling at the stockier man behind the bar that he'd better let them stay if he wanted his inn still standing in the morning. And that’s just what the bard would do.

Geralt just grit his teeth. Anymore and he wouldn’t be able to hide the pain from the wound below his ribs any longer. If Jaskier really knew how bad it was he probably wouldn’t have even asked for a room, just taken one of the keys hanging behind the bar.

“No fucking room my arse,” Jaskier grumbled as they ascended the creaking stairs, key in hand. “Half dozen keys hanging there and only three people at the bar.”

Geralt lets him grumble. Lets Jaskier usher him into the rented room, lets him just sit quietly –

“Oh, for Melitele’s sake, take the armour off first, I’d like to sleep without the warg guts everywhere even if you don’t care,” he chastised even as he started on the buckles of Geralt’s armour.

Barely five weeks, and the bard already knew how to get it off in the dark. He’d had to a couple of times actually.

“Leave it.”

Jaskier pointedly ignored the witcher as he methodically stripped him of his leathers. At least the bard had stopped stinking of fear and worry upon seeing the state of his companion’s return from this hunt. Just the scent of concern. It had taken several days for Geralt to recognise that scent for what it was, so long had it been since someone had felt concern for him.

“Hold still,” Jaskier instructed quietly as he pressed near the wound on Geralt’s abdomen, working out if it was a bandages or a stitches job. Or a potion job. Or a vodka job.

“Leave it, I’m fine,” Geralt snapped. Jaskier ignored him again. Silently – and when was he bard ever silent, fuck he really must be worried or just that pissed off – Jaskier decided it was bandages.

“You’re going to let me look after this,” Jaskier started in a tone that brokered no arguments, least of all from stubborn witchers. “And then you’re going to get into bed. And then you’re going to let me get in for once too because it’s cold as balls and all my clothes are either wet or covered in warg guts, thank you very much, or both.”

Geralt glared at the bard but let him carry on. As the moments passed, and Jaskier could see that he was helping, the tension left his shoulders visibly, and finally the relaxed scent of sandalwood and mint, with the barest hint of lavender, encompassed Geralt. He hummed contentedly.

“See, not so bad is it?” Jaskier patted the side of his face, oblivious. “Just rest, darling. I’ll get some ale and some food but I won’t be long.”

Darling. It had started on the third day of their traveling together. It wasn’t teasing, nor did Jaskier call everyone darling or dear heart.

Geralt tipped over onto the bed rather than laid down, and he must have been more tired than he thought because the next thing he knew was Jaskier sat up next to him, a gentle hand running callused fingers through his hair while the bard drank from a mug.

“No ale downstairs worth drinking, but the wine isn’t awful,” Jaskier said softly.

Before Geralt could stir, Jaskier helped him sit up and then passed him the mug and what was left of a plate of crusty bread. Ah, it had probably been far too long since the bard's breakfast and Geralt didn’t always remember how often the human needed to eat.

While Geralt finished off the food and the mug of wine – guess they’re sharing as Jaskier only had so many hands to bring everything up and then get the door – Jaskier took to ridding himself of his clothes. Fuck, the bard was still damp and he would probably bitch about it all tomorrow.

“Now is this a don’t-touch-me night or a Jaskier-doesn’t-get-to-breathe night?” Jaskier asked lightly, this time teasing. Geralt just glared at him. He didn’t have to keep bringing up the time they’d woken in a camp off the beaten path to find the witcher curled protectively around the bard in their sleep. Jaskier definitely hadn’t minded.

“Just get in the bed,” Geralt muttered.

“Always a winning line,” Jaskier sang as he tucked in next to Geralt, bare as the witcher, both down to their shorts in a too-cold inn room.

“You’ve given in for far less,” Geralt snarked back. It had been a long time since anyone other than his brothers would snark and banter with him.

“Of course. I’ve given in for hand gestures,” Jaskier said. He didn’t let Geralt argue as he pulled the witcher’s arms around him and his chest to his back. “Just try to rest, darling.”

That should have been it.

As the bard slept, the sandalwood and mint and lavender scent drew Geralt closer and closer to sleep. Until that muskier smell, one that Geralt knew all too well since the first night in Jaskier's company, snuck its sneaky tendrils into Geralt’s senses.

“One fucking night, is that too much to ask?” He grit out.

Jaskier stirred slightly, hummed delicately and rolled over in his arms. “I can’t help it.”

Of course. He was young, human and always dangerously horny. And completely unashamed.

Not that he wanted Jaskier embarrassed. Or nervous around him. But a little decorum would be nice.

Geralt rolled his eyes when Jaskier rutted gently against him. That was new.

Probably sensing Geralt's surprise, Jaskier retreated and woke up a bit more.

“Sorry –” he cut off to yawn into Geralt’s sternum. “I can go –”

Geralt tugged him closer before the bard could retreat further, and closed his eyes at Jaskier's broken moan at the pressure.

“Want this?” was all he asked. He could sense if Jaskier was lying, or if the bard was scared again.

But nothing of the sort.

As soon as the question was out of his mouth, Jaskier’s lips were on his. Jaskier kissed him with a demanding urgency he wouldn’t have expected of the bard given the delicate and flowery way he worked through other young men and women throughout the cities they passed. But no, Jaskier barely let Geralt breathe between the almost violent way his mouth, tongue, teeth took over Geralt’s.

All he could do was moan as Jaskier climbed astride him. The gentle rutting against him from before was long abandoned to the needy thrusting against him now. Jaskier panted into the kiss as he rubbed the hard line of his cock against Geralt's. Fuck, there was already a damp patch on the tip of it, brushing earnestly against the witcher’s stomach.

Geralt gripped Jaskier's hips firmly, stilling him long enough while he shoved their shorts out of the way. Damn human was going to end this before they even started. Not that it mattered for a witcher, he’d need a few before he was really satisfied, and honestly the bard was young so –

“Ah,” Jaskier cried out as Geralt wrapped a large hand around both their lengths. He was breathing so hard and his hips moved erratically as he tried to speed up and hold back at the same time. “Geralt!”

Gods. The sight of him sat up on him like this. If they never did this again, Geralt knew he’d think back to this for years to come. Jaskier practically glowed with the sweat and excitement, his dusky nipples pert within that tantalising canvas of hair. Geralt sat up, ignoring the pinching in his side from the healing injury, and bit down on one of those beautiful little buds.

“Ahhh,” the bard almost squeaked in either surprise or proximity to his pleasure. Or both. “Oohhh please tell me my pack is in reach,” Jaskier gasped.

He still had the wherewithal to look around the room and then curse colourfully as he yanked himself up from Geralt's lap. Geralt would have been annoyed if it weren’t for the stunning view of the bard bent over his bag, rounded arse bared for the witcher’s eyes only tonight.

He must have growled out loud, because when Jaskier turned back to him, half empty vial of oil in hand, a sultry smirk curved his mouth into a sinful dream.

“Tell me what you'd like, darling.”

Oh god. Geralt wouldn’t be able to hear that fucking endearment again from the bard without getting hard.

“Get back here,” he bit out, and reached an expectant hand forward for the oil.

Jaskier perched on him with challenge in his eyes, was about to snark back something for sure, but the sudden vice grip of Geralt’s hand on his cock cut him short.

“Ah!” It was probably too tight but Jaskier only thrust up into the hold.

“Don’t come,” Geralt instructed, and noted the way Jaskier’s flushed cheeks darkened considerably. “Not until I tell you,” he added, just to watch Jaskier's throat bob and feel his dick twitch.

Geralt held Jaskier’s eyes as he slowly released his dick. Both arms wrapped around the bard so he could only listen while Geralt fumbled with the oil behind him. With the first curious finger between  his cheeks, Jaskier leaned forward with a little gasp to kiss Geralt again. Jaskier kissed how he wanted to be touched, his tongue firm and searching against Geralt’s lips as the witcher’s first and then two fingers spread him apart. By the time Jaskier was desperately riding the three digits buried to the knuckles, he couldn’t keep kissing, just panting and crying out against Geralt's mouth.

Geralt looked down between them. Jaskier's poor ruddy length twitched desperately against their stomachs with every movement and the witcher delighted in the way it jumped when he curled his fingers.

“Ah, ah, Geralt,” Jaskier gasped out. His hands on Geralt’s shoulders clenched and pinched, maybe bruising for a short time, and Jaskier suddenly bit down sharply on Geralt’s collarbone. “Please.”

He did want to see how long Jaskier could hold out, but Geralt was still just a man. He lifted Jaskier up, said nothing about the hitch in his breath as he did so, and slowly sunk the bard into his cock. He carefully watched the story of newnewnewperfect sweep across Jaskier’s brow and only when he felt the desperate little shakes as Jaskier tried to get more did Geralt lift him again.

Jaskier's eyes lit up at the realisation that Geralt was just going to move him as he wanted and only then did Geralt realise what fucking his barker meant. Jaskier almost screamed his pleasure, his trained tenor marking every time Geralt's dick rubbed into that spot inside. Jaskier wasn’t going to last long, and neither was Geralt with the shear noise he was making. He pulled Jaskier off and onto his cock at a wretched pace, chasing release, groaning at the quivering tightness and looking up at the bard in worship. Jaskier bit his lip, licked it, cried out and wailed over and over again, before gasping the beginnings of “please –”

“Go on,” Geralt permitted and without another touch, he felt the warm splashes of Jaskier spending on his stomach. Jaskier didn’t stop gasping though, and Geralt felt him suddenly find strength and urgency in his thighs as Jaskier determinedly rode him off the edge.

Geralt clenched his teeth on a groan as he spilled inside the bard, panting as Jaskier just kept moving, ripping everything from him and more. Geralt fell back against the bed as Jaskier continued to rut on him, a filthy mockery of the sleepy urges that started this whole mess. Geralt lost count of the times Jaskier pulled ecstasy from him, only stopping when the witcher dragged him to his chest with a final sigh of exhaustion.

It had been a long time since he’d felt that sort of exhaustion.

Gods, what a mess.

“Enough?” Jaskier purred and that his voice was almost shot was a testament to how loudly he’d screamed his pleasure. Even after what he’d put his body though, he still had the gall to tease Geralt.

Geralt Hmmed, disentangled them and ignored Jaskier’s protests over the mess. From the way the bad had cried out, regardless of the innkeeper and other patrons of the inn, Geralt doubted Jaskier cared much about leaving bedding that would probably need to be burned.

“Just sleep,” he told Jaskier, letting his eyes fall shut.

“Please tell me we can sleep in,” Jaskier whined, already bratty. “I’ve got more ideas.”

Geralt opened one eye to enjoy the renewed pink to his bard’s cheeks.

“Hmmm.”

[scrawnytreedemon]

Glory, glory, glory, call the Bells of Hyrule Castle Town, And how sweetly they ring, Under the screams of a populace Sent into a blind fervour, Victory is mine, and it's so Sour it's sweet,

The halls are long and winding, Matroned by suits of armour and Moth-eaten carpets, flattened by the Work of many feet, their rotting threads Worth the endeavours of my people A thousandfold, So I relieve them of their paintings, Strip the stands of their armour to give to My troops, set new candles in these Chandeliers, bejewelled, It's a Thursday when they're lit the first Time in my honour, for all my work, Hyrule Castle is mine, and it's a bitch To keep, always moaning, groaning, For wash, for care, for repair, And care I give, in droves,

It's almost easy to forget there's, by some Technicality, a war going on outside, a war against One, maybe two senseless renegades, It's easy to forget, even after we lift the forged-Twilit barrier, glistening like carved gold, Nothing really happens here, and that, dear Companion, is bliss. Honestly, my boy, have some Cake, our foes are small and a ways off yet, There's no good in rushing, not unless you wish To throw yourself on the blade of his sword, Then be my guest, I'd say, if I were cruel and unyielding, But I love you so, little prodigy, little usurper of mine Nestled b'neath my wing, and I know I did good In choosing you,

But you don't wait, you don't eat cake, All you think is war, and how to win it, and I wonder then if you'll ever learn to enjoy its spoils, But that is your endeavour, and not mine, And a good teacher always lets his students Trip, as long as there's soft ground to fall on, And there is, in abundance, I can rest knowing you'll be fine,

So I tend to my garden, and recline in the Fruit of their beds, when my work pays off And the weather is nice, But I suppose my idea of nice weather differs From yours, and I can't help laughing when You rush to get me out of my wet robes, Yammering on about sickness and disease, Of my poor, poor heart, and how it's Constantly straining under the sheer bulk Of my form, My love, of this, we have not to worry, Do you remember not the pact we made, Swearing that we'd never die? We'll never die, my dear, Not in any way that matters,

I clean the windows, and leaf through the Endless pages of the castle library, It's been centuries, since I could read like This, with such leisure, with no urgency, And it bores me, I'm restless, My hands twitch and fiddle, and I rise Constantly, hoping foolishly in doing so I'd find something new, eventually, I think incorporeality has weakened me, Dear friend, its taste souring every Sweetness of the flesh, And nothing deigns to ease its note,

But I'm insistent, insistent on Living life, daily, wholly, or close, I didn't conquer for conquering's sake, My boy, I conquered to live, to build Anew a life for me and my kind, And though their voices are now mere Hums in the desert wind, they live on Through me, through you, my boy, You know the insignia on your robes Has meaning, don't you?

The people cower and quiver, though Soon enough I hope they'll realise They're to be treated with respect, I shudder to think what horrors I could've Wrought, had I come to such a height In days younger, the burns of Hyrule's Great sins a many still fresh on my Sun-kissed skin,

Oh, boy, dear boy, though you smother it The ardour of youth lives on in you yet! And it is wonderful as it is dangerous, Temper it with my counsel, so that it may Grow into a resolve firm and straight by your Old age, Hah! You don't like the thought of that, do you, Your lithe, nymph-like form with its smooth Skin and feline grace withering? Oh stop it, I know you meant it not a slight against me, A slight not it was taken. You worry so, It ought to be your heart of concern, not mine, Because if there's one thing I know, it's that Fear eats, student steadfast, fear gnaws The threads of ones psyche, Are you sure you don't want tea?

But you're off again before I can come Once more, off to twist the path of the hero With your own hands, and I'm left in the Dark of the tearoom, the rain lashing in Torrents outside, wondering someday if Children, yours or mine, will race down these Palace halls. You're young still, my prodigy, My progeny via this legacy of deceit, Find a nice girl, build a dynasty while you can, I get the feeling my cousin would've endeared you,

It's late into the night, when you return, Sopping wet, not looking even half as Triumphant as you claim to be, Oh, pity, come sit by me, if either of us Were so inclined, I might even suggest You lay your head on my lap,

Hah! You don't like the thought of that, either, I wonder, what things do they teach young Men like you about intimacy, over there? All touch is sacred, my boy, and none of it Is to be soiled by careless caresses, do you Hear me?

But come now, sit by the fire, as ease yourself as Close or as distant as your heart desires, Let me make fellowship with you, friend, We can even pretend to pray, I curry Din's favour, how about you? Ah, none. Bitter yet, I take it? Not to worry, I am, too,

We spend a few days like this, a few weeks, Maybe even a month or two, It's hard to tell, when you're my age, Everything blurs together like smudged ink, Whatever the length, it was too short, As soon as you caught wind of further Moving from that wretched pair, you set off For your palace,

I wish you'd taken the time to say goodbye, I wish I'd made you.

Everything came crumbling down after that, You should've stayed, stayed by my side, There isn't enough time, isn't enough time For you to knit yourself back together, If only these damn brats would slow, then I'd have time! Time, time, time, so little time, Where did it all go? It seemed more than content To linger when all was well, Maybe all was well because it lingered, Perhaps I'm being abandoned, hah, Hold on tight, I beg of you,

All of this, all we made, all we wrought, all We founded, the carpets set down, the armour Given to warriors mighty, the chandeliers Polished and lit anew, the garden I grew, Waiting for a time I could spend at ease with you, All of it's falling apart, Recipes written, never to be cooked, Robes set to be woven for balls never thrown, The piano, the mahogany piano I set in the Room we'd have had them, knowing how much You loved to play, How on one, sunny afternoon I urged you to Sing, despite your mumbles and your Protests of 'really, my Lord, I'm not very good,' How wrong you were, Oh, how wrong you were, How wrong I was, thinking we could bide our Time, and forge memories sweeter a Thousandfold,

The door creaks open with a screech, Didn't I have that oiled? They walk in without a second glance, There's mud on the floor, I just had that washed, I wonder, what did they do to the Carpets?

It's not to him I look, but her, He is but a tool, a ploy, and I Wonder what on earth about him Ever struck you as Breathtaking? As worthy of Your efforts,

She ruins the castle in her wrath, She's crushed with ease, her Power dead and gone, Dead and gone, dead and gone, None of it makes up for even A fraction of the pain of losing you, All that's left are these two whelps, And my resolve to crush them,

It rains in our battle, the ground Slippery and sodden, I've seen More water this autumn than I ever Did in all my years back home, We began this last year in the summer, Didn't we? Or was it the year before That, I can't tell, I can't tell, not when Everything blurs together like smudged Ink on a thickly-margined parchment, His sword clangs sharply against mine, And I wonder if he even had the decency To let you die against it, Let you die a Noble death, But I shan't be owed mine, I shan't, I have the power of the gods at my Behest, my patron Din, Goddess of Might and Forger of Worlds, And what is he, what is he but a Farmhand with old clothes and A fancy sword?

A hero, apparently.

I watch your neck snap, in the Fading light.

We die standing.

—What We Made in Hyrule Castle

[lady-niennas-traphouse]

“A Proposal in Carpathia”

Writer: Lady Nienna (@lady-nienna / @lady-niennas-traphouse)

Genre: fluff 

Warnings: none

Age limit: I don’t know, all ages I guess, just cute things? Cute shit for all ages? Some swear words but fuck if I care

Rights issues thingy: Tiffany Valentine is not my character, I’m not getting any money of this, I’m not selling this

Pairing: Tiffany x reader

Published 07/2020 on Tumblr, may appear on my AO3 account “irtokarkki666” at some point

Title: a modification of Cradle of Filth’s song “Funeral in Carpathia”

--

(In Tiffany’s view now because my poor finnish brain cannot function in writing both in english and in third person) (also some editing mistakes may occour, read every “they” as “you”.) also i made up the movie, Lillian Gish was a real silent film actress but the synopsis is completely made up. Also the bath bomb named soft pink dreams does not exist, i think, i just "named" it ~~

--

“A PROPOSAL IN CARPATHIA”

I slam the car’s door shut, hassle a bit with the keys, get the damn car locked. It lets out two little blinks of yellow light and a beep, the car’s own way of saying “bye for now”. My feet are hurting. I’ve hoppled around since 7 am in my 12cm heels, and it’s currently 5 pm. And I don’t even go to work. Just some errands I needed to run, the puppet is still lost or in pieces, little do I know and little do I want to know, although the latter is much harder to admit. 

The house stands silent like a oversized version of the mess you find in the bottom of your bag. All kinds of leftover things formed into walls, doors, roofs, floors, furniture. I should paint the house pink, I think. I should paint it pink and get a new, cute tiling on the roof. Maybe get a glass ceiling window. Like this, the house looks old and cranky, like someone’s forgotten grandma wandering around in the semi-countryside. 

I manage to open the door somehow while not dropping my handbag, grocery store’s plastig bag, some designer logo-ed fancy looking bags with lots of wrapping paper, bubble wrap and a couple of Nice Things that cost a lot, but also look good. 

Inside, the first thing I do is kick off my heels. One falls down and shows its red sole, like some vulnerable little animal alarmed at a passerby. The other shoe stays up but turns it’s toebox to the opposing side from me, showing some anarchy to its owner. Red bottom heels, Vivienne Westwood dress, Vuitton handbag. Vintage car with modern V8 engine, perfect for high speed night cruises. A girl’s gotta live with style. I’m not made for anything lesser. 

I fling the entire grocery store bag into the fridge, get the Moët bottle out. I hunt for a glass first from the cabinet and then from the dishwasher. I resist the urge to shake the champagne bottle, only to pop it neatly like a waitress. I place the cork onto the sink egde, the wire I toss next to it. I take the bottle and now filled up glass with me, make it to the bedroom. I empty my entire bag onto the bed, the Vuitton shows it’s entrails hesitantly and I manage to find Your phone number written on a slip ripped from a newspaper. I never was the one to remember numbers. 

I put my hair up into a little bun, break the perfect 60’s style I created this morning. The back combed part of my hair keeps reminding me of its existence, so I give it a couple of gentle strokes with a hairbrush. Then I take a big sip of my drink. The bubbles tingle gently and remind me of the fact that my secret admirer pays for this too, not because I need it but because you want to, and I am a girl who likes to be treated with gifts.

 I smile at my reflection on the mirror. I look good, honestly. Then I begin to giggle a little when I strip tease myself out from my clothes, being both the teaser and the teased. Now naked, I take out my ring, earrings and necklace, all Tiffany’s, strangely prophetic, and put the jewelry carefully into a ash tray made from 1700’s Chinese porcelain, too old and fragile to use as an actual ash tray. 

I open the showerhead let the bath run and turn on my little TV, surf on the channels a bit, news, weather, sports, hairspray advertisement, stupid-ish comedy, more news, more advertisement, until I land a vintage, black and white silent movie. I think the actress is Lillian Gish, but I am not sure, since I got only a little glance of her. I shut the water source and pop in a bath bomb, it’s named “Soft Pink Dreams”, it begins to give off rose and vanilla scent and a lot of different pink-shaded bubbles. Now confirmed of Lillian Gish, I get the Moët closer to the bath tub, place my glass on the little table and get into the bath. 

I let my body relax, try to get my lower back stop hurting, wiggle my toes a bit, get another sip of champagne. I reach for the phone, it’s boringly normal black thing, but it does its job. I start to dial the numbers, first checking them on the paper slip.

 The phone keeps ringing for the time to Lillian start a conversation with some handsome gentleman, get flowers, and when the man leaves, she smells the roses and the screen goes black, and with violins now in crescendo, paints out the words “I just love him so much”, You answer the phone. 

First I hear a formal “Hello?”, and then a surprised, happy “Oh it’s you babe!”. 

“Hi sweetheart”, I say, immersed into the blooming love both on the TV and on my life. 

“I think you should pay me a visit more often, your girl is getting lonely..”, I do not mean to get my tone so desperate, but it does. Hopefully the line is bad enough to cover it up. 

I listen to the answer. I do not hear properly, since I am reaching for the Moët and messing with holding the glass and pouring the champagne, but Your tone is sweet and slightly flirty. 

“Oi! Stop that, I’m in the bath!”, I giggle and watch Lillian read a letter from someone else entirely to her lover. She frowns, little does she know that the mysterious woman is the gentleman’s sister, I know since I have seen this particular film more than twice. 

Then You make a comment on something you’re watching, and I have to ask if You are watching a Lillian Gish -movie. 

I get a “yes”. 

I look at my reflection on the glass, a bit wonky,and  rose tinted, but me. Now or never, I think. I take in a deep breath, and while You are contemplating the movie’s possible plot twists, I just blurt it out without any self control.

“We should get married.”

Silence. 

Then, after two long seconds, another “yes”.

I fill up with bubbles, little happy bubbles that begin from my chest and flutter down my belly, my arms, wrap up my brain. 

“So you do?” My tone now silenced down into a whisper. I dare not to speak any louder, the moment could burst like a soap bubble. 

“Tiffany, I do, by God, I do..” 

I make a little sound, something between a sigh and a small gasp. I need air, I need  anything, I am beginning to cry, I can feel them on my eyes, pricking and waiting.

“We should elope like in the 1800’s...”, You say. 

“Elope?”, I ask, little bit teary. “Like in the movies?”

“Excactly like in the movies, white dresses, running in the fields, small town legal offices, have a pink painted carriages with white horses...”

“No”, I say, now certain both about my future and my voice. “I want the horses to be black, and a black parasol”

[artificialqueens]

Uprooted, chapter 3: A Sappy Ending (branjie) - writworm42

A/N: Last chapter: Vanessa found out that Brooke is her manager, and also decided that breaking HR policy is definitely worth it. This chapter: Vanessa and Brooke get together again at Brooke’s apartment. Fun ensues.

Thank you, Holtzmanns, for helping me cultivate my skills as a writer and beta-ing for me <3 Without you keeping me grounded, this fic could never have become as solid as it is… I know my puns drive you barking mad, but the fact that you could stay so sunny is amazing. Thank you!

“Sorry I’m late,” Vanessa explained sheepishly as Brooke led her inside, “I had to feed my frog.”

“You have a frog?” Brooke turned around to look at Vanessa, smiling with an expression that Vanessa couldn’t quite decipher. She blushed, nodding.

“Her name is Bertha, and I–”

“That’s a good frog name.” Brooke’s smile widened, “I love it.”

Vanessa exhaled deeply, relief calming the tension in her chest. Brooke loved it. She still thought Vanessa was cool.

“Can I get you anything, by the way?” Brooke walked over to her fridge, swinging open the door and peering inside, “I have juice, water, some Diet Coke, wine…” her tone changed when listing that last option, and she looked back at Vanessa with a coy smile and raised eyebrow. Vanessa rolled her eyes.

“Alright Mary,” Vanessa laughed, “Let’s see what kinda wine you got, red or white?”

–

They talked while they drank, slowly getting to know each other over sips of the chilled white wine that Brooke had pulled out of her fridge. At first, the conversation was awkward–work, the weather, whether or not Vanessa had had difficulty finding the place. But then Vanessa asked Brooke what had gotten her interested in arboriculture, and Brooke had perked up, and Vanessa knew she’d hit the money.

It was a pretty cliche story, actually. Brooke had grown up on a produce farm in Ontario, where her family had grown everything from apples to cucumbers to even daisies and sunflowers. But what Brooke had always loved the most was the peaches, or, more specifically, the trees that they grew on.

“It was always so quiet in the orchard, and the ground is always so much softer around trees. It was perfect for laying down and just thinking.” Brooke mused, taking a sip of her wine, “And it always smelled so good. Not just the fruit—the trees.”

“I know what you mean!” Vanessa cut in, bouncing on her chair, “Dry bark and all that shit, put that with the fruit smell and the leaf smell and it’s better than an orgasm or some shit.”

The minute she realized what she’d said, she reddened, her hands flying up to her mouth as if to remind her to shut it for once in her damn life.

If Brooke’s bemused expression was any indication, though, she didn’t seem to mind.

“Better than an orgasm, huh?” She cocked an eyebrow, her voice dropping low and taking on a seductive drawl as she teased, “You sure about that?”

“Dunno,” Vanessa breathed, the sudden awareness of who Brooke was and what they were hitting her in more than just her chest. “Should we test it out?”

Then Brooke’s lips were on hers, pressing down in a slow, inviting kiss that Vanessa found herself craning to keep going.

“What do you think, baby girl, should mommy take you to the bedroom?” Brooke muttered when they finally separated, bringing a hand up to Vanessa’s cheek to cradle it gently. Vanessa whimpered, then nodded.

“Yes, mommy, please.”

Without another word, Brooke scooped Vanessa up and carried her to bed, kissing her all the while. The minute Vanessa hit the mattress, her hands were up, clambering for any part of Brooke that she could reach, only to be pinned back down again.

“No, baby. If you want to touch me, you’re gonna have to prove you deserve it.” Brooke murmured against Vanessa’s lips, her grip tightening as she moved along Vanessa’s jawline, biting and sucking down to her neck. “Think you can do that for me?”

Yes, anything you want, I’ll do anything.

But when Vanessa tried to get the words out, they caught in her throat, coming out in only a breathless, strangled moan. Brooke laughed.

“Good girl. Now, what do you say we get rid of these pesky clothes?”

“Yes please.” Vanessa gasped as Brooke straightened up, letting go of Vanessa’s wrists in favour of the collar of her shirt, toying with her buttons in an almost mocking tease.

“Yes please, what?” Brooke hummed, bringing her fingers to a stop while she waited for Vanessa’s answer, grinned as Vanessa squirmed with impatience underneath her.

“Yes please, mommy.” Vanessa breathed out a sigh of relief as Brooke resumed her work, finally stripping Vanessa down to her bra and beginning to undo the buttons of her jeans. She stopped suddenly, though, once she had pulled down the zipper, a peek of Vanessa’s panties revealing themselves underneath.

“Frogs.” Brooke looked down and blinked, stunned. Vanessa followed her gaze, only to turn crimson red at what she saw.

In her rush to get ready that evening, after her shower, she’d grabbed the first pair of panties she could see in her drawer, without realizing that it was a pair covered in cartoon frogs.

“Oh my God.” Vanessa brought a hand up to hide her face, her chest practically caving in with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry.”

Perfect, just fucking perfect–Brooke would probably think she was some frog-obsessed weirdo, would probably laugh at her for still wearing stuff that was so juvenile.

But when Brooke did laugh, it wasn’t mocking at all–rather, it was light and affectionate. “What for?” she mused, leaning down to give Vanessa a quick, fond peck on the lips. “It’s adorable.”

Thank God. Vanessa felt herself relax, all her tension leaving her as she exhaled deeply. Brooke, meanwhile, settled back down, a gleam of lust returning to her eyes as she brought Vanessa’s jeans down a little further, fully exposing Vanessa’s panties and giving her room to cup Vanessa’s cunt through the fabric.

“That being said,” she purred, kneading the area and grinding her palm into Vanessa’s clit, “As cute as they are, I do think they’re in the way, aren’t they?”

“Yes, mommy, so in the way.” Vanessa agreed with a shaky sigh, unable to keep her eyelids from becoming heavy under Brooke’s touch.

In no time at all, Vanessa’s panties had been discarded on the floor, leaving her cunt exposed for Brooke to begin playing with.

“I forgot how pretty your little pussy is,” Brooke mused, beginning to ghost her fingertips along Vanessa’s inner thighs, “And it’s all mine to play with tonight, lucky me.” she stopped just short of Vanessa’s vulva before trailing her fingers back down slowly, practically buzzing with a cruel sort of glee as she felt Vanessa shiver in the wake of her touch.

“Poor baby, you’re just aching for me, aren’t you, angel?” Brooke clicked her tongue, finally bringing a single finger to Vanessa’s slit and tracing her way up to just below the smaller girl’s clit, toying lightly with the area and smirking at how it made Vanessa go rigid.

“Please, mommy, please…”

“Please what?” Brooke batted her eyes with feigned innocence, adding another finger and finally easing them up to Vanessa’s clit before resting them there, pressed down but not moving. “Use your words, princess.”

“Please, oh fuck, please, mommy, please play with my pussy, please–”

“Good girl.” Brooke began to move her fingers in slow circles, and Vanessa felt herself melt into the touch, a wave of relief and pleasure washing over her and making her whole body feel light. Satisfied with the effect she had on the younger girl, Brooke leaned back down to take one of Vanessa’s nipples in her mouth, speeding up the pace of her circles and matching the pace of her fingers with her tongue.

Vanessa hardly remembered what happened next–a stream of words she didn’t hear herself say, a response from Brooke that she barely processed, a tenseness in her eyes as they squeezed shut against her orgasm, a feeling so intense that she could barely stand it. But stand it she did, for a second and third time before Brooke’s fingers finally let up, Vanessa’s eyes opening just in time to see Brooke licking Vanessa’s juices off her fingers with a satisfied smirk.

“Do you need a break?” Brooke checked in, climbing off of Vanessa long enough to plant a quick kiss on her cheek and scoop her into her arms. Vanessa shook her head.

“Alright then,” Brooke smiled with approval, straightening up and spreading her legs as if to invite Vanessa to settle between them. “Get to work.”

Vanessa wasted no time in moving where Brooke wanted her, kissing and sucking her way down Brooke’s body until she reached the taller woman’s clit, her heart soaring with excitement as Brooke sighed with contentment when her tongue finally came in contact with it. Vanessa began with slow, broad strokes, a tease that brought karma right back onto Brooke until her hand was knotted in Vanessa’s hair.

“Stop teasing, baby.” Brooke growled impatiently, pushing Vanessa’s face even closer to her cunt.

Well. If that was what Brooke wanted, who was Vanessa not to oblige? Laughing just a little against Brooke’s folds, she moved her tongue faster, honing in on the older woman’s clit and alternating between light, precise strokes with the tip of her tongue and deep, sucking kisses that left Brooke’s legs shaking on either side of Vanessa’s head.

Adorable.

“You like that, mommy?” Vanessa mused, drinking in her power with absolute pleasure as Brooke moaned loudly, unable to restrain herself from letting out a gasp when Vanessa sucked on her clit again, “You like when I suck you like that?”

“Yes, baby, yes I do…” Brooke gasped, her grip on Vanessa’s hair tightening still, pushing her even closer, begging for her to go even harder. Vanessa persisted, humming as she sped up her movements to a merciless pace.

Brooke came hard, her entire body seeming to lurch as Vanessa licked her through her orgasm, ceasing only when she felt Brooke’s hand drop heavily from its hold on her. When she moved up to Brooke’s level and settled into the crook of her arm, Brooke looked utterly sated, her cheeks flushed and covered in a thin sheet of sweat, her eyelids still hooded with residual pleasure.

“So, just curious,” Vanessa planted a slow, lingering kiss on Brooke’s cheek, her chest blooming with affection when Brooke sighed happily at the sensation, “We countin’ this as a date or what?”

“I mean, I was going to ask you out to dinner,” Brooke smiled sheepishly, turning to Vanessa and pulling her closer before returning her kiss, “But this works, too.”

Not for the last time that night, Vanessa thanked God that they both had the day off tomorrow.

[fatdrarry]

Two Can Play

Ao3

Okay I wrote this based off of a post parkkate had made about Draco finding a ring.

“He’s wearing it. He’s wearing the ring. He’s got the blasted thing on his finger, Hermione.” Harry glanced at the door behind him nervously. Draco had already found the damned thing and he was in no mood to be caught discussing the situation with Hermione. That nosy little wanker already knows too much. “And he hasn’t said a damn word.”

“Harry, you need to relax. He might’ve found the ring but you can still propose. Do you really think he would have just put it on and pretended it wasn’t on his finger if he didn’t want this? I know you’re a bit dense but honestly Harry, I think he just wants you to ask him already.” Harry could hear a fussy Hugo in the background of Hermione’s exasperated tone and decided that she was the last person he should be calling. Ron was off in Canada working on a North American branch of Wizard Wheezes, and got held up because of the weather and Hermione thinks the Ministry will collapse without her. “Give me one seco- Rose please stop touching that, if you hurt it Mummy’s buying.” Harry put the call on speaker and scrolled down his contacts until he got to the Z’s. Draco could really drag this out if he wanted to. The obvious solution would be to just propose, ring or no ring. And admit defeat? He bit his lip. “Harry? I’ll floo you when we get home. Rose is getting handsy with some very expensive mandrakes, and I’d really rather not get Neville damaged plants. Don’t forget lunch tomorrow at the Burrow, Ron’s finally got a portkey.”

Harry mumbled a quick goodbye before quickly typing out a message.

 Meet me at the Brew in 10, and bring your kit.

                                                ***

Harry had chosen a corner booth where he could see everyone who walked or flooed in and out of the bar. It‘s the same spot he’d seen Draco at for the first time since he’d returned from France. He’d downed two whiskeys, and ordered two more, by the time he’d set his eyes on Blaise Zabini. Blaise, instead of returning to Hogwarts for his 8th year, decided to travel in pursuit of precious metals and stones and now markets and designs jewelry to both the muggle and magical public. But his best he saves for higher profile clients and Ginny. He walked to the corner booth Harry had claimed and placed his briefcase on the scratched table in front of him before having a seat.

He nodded his chin out as a greeting before placing a wordless muffliato around their table. “Harry, you’ve pulled me out of bed with someone I hadn’t seen in weeks. You’d better be dying to have me here at this hour.” He didn’t try to hide his smile when he reached over and grabbed one of the glasses sitting in front of him.

“Please, I know Ginny returned from the States three nights ago, you’re lucky I didn’t call you earlier. And as a matter of fact yes I might die, of heart failure, if I don’t get another ring.” Blaise paused before swallowing the contents of his cup entirely, raising it to ensure his refill and then placed the glass down. Harry swallowed, “I didn’t lose it, I didn’t even hide it well to keep it away from Draco.” He dropped his head on to the table and groaned. “I. Am. Such. An. Idiot.”

“Knock it off, Potty, you’re not a bloody house elf. What do you mean? He found it? I thought you were going to propose?” Harry made a muffled sound and Blaise pursed his lips. “How did he find it?”

“I don’t know, you know how Draco is. I was going to propose. I was I swear it, but every time I’d planned it out, something ridiculous would happen. It’s like I’m cursed. I took him to that muggle observatory in London and was going to do it there but it started snowing so they closed the telescope exhibit. Then we went to Madrialo’s and we’d found that Draco black’s-don’t-have-allergies Malfoy is allergic to hibiscus extract and because neither of us new any anti-allergy spells, we were forced to go to St Mungo’s and a hospital is hardly an appropriate place for a proposal. When we were at the Manor last weekend for dinner with Narcissa, Andromeda and Teddy the bloody table caught fire when I reached in my pocket, because Teddy’s magic gets unstable when he’s sick. On Monday, Draco and I stayed up watching mean girls because for whatever reason it’s Draco’s favorite christmas film and I look over at him ready to propose before Regina has a chance to be fake hit by that bus and he’s asleep. I wasn’t going to wake him to propose, he’d hex me- I’d hex me. The next morning, I’m walking out of the shower and I smell bacon. Bacon! Kreacher was off doing whatever it is he does when I tell him to take the day off, because he’s old and God forbid I’m nice to a bitter old elf, and Draco is holding his stupid coffee mug- you know the one that has a hole on the bottom that only he has the locking piece to so no one drinks from it but him- with his left hand, ring shining and with the other he’s making bacon. The muggle way! And get this- then he kisses me good morning and offers me a slice of bacon, but says absolutely nothing about the ring hugging his finger. And he has continued to act like its not there for the past 5 days. So fuck it. If he wants to play this game I can too. I’m buying another ring and so help me God I will take the other ring and destroy it. I am going to go home. I am going to put the fucking ring behind the toaster and I don’t care if Voldemort is back to start a third war, I am going to propose tomorrow at the Burrow after lunch and Draco’s midday wine,” Harry huffs, his face is flushed and his eyes are puffy and he is angry. God he’s just so angry.

Blaise lets out a low whistle. Harry really has gone mad, the poor lad. It was inspiring.  “Alright, I’ll help you. The fastest way to get this done is to take a ring with a similar band as the one you wanted, because believe it or not, the band is really the hardest part to make with magical rings. Especially on such short notice.” He tapped the briefcase with his wand and it popped open. “You can have a look at these here, they’re silver, the ones next to it are white gold and they are for next year’s winter collection. I’ve been working with them exclusively. I know that with the last ring you had Narcissa help you choose it. I think you can do better.” Blaise let his fingers skim the rings before landing on a white gold band. It was nice, not too thin and had an almost invisible pattern engraved into it. “I made this when you called me and told me what you wanted out of a ring. Don’t get me wrong the other piece was beautiful but it’s something Narcissa chose. Not you.” Blaise held it up and Harry ran his finger over it and smiled. “Now, I can install stones, depending on how big or small and what kind they are it could take me twenty to forty minutes per stone.”

                                        ***

Harry flooed home at approximately dawn. The sky had begun to change colors shortly before he’d left the Brew. He came home to a sleeping Draco hogging the blankets and his side of the bed and his heart ached. He took his clothes off sloppily, stripping down to his pants before getting into bed with the blonde boy, who as if sensing Harry’s presence rolled over to lay on him, tangling their legs together before rubbing his nose into the crook of Harry’s neck. When he woke up at 10 to an empty bed and a missing boyfriend he grabbed his phone to send Draco a text. His lips pulling into a smile when he saw that he’d had left a sticky note on his screen saying that he was at Hermione’s watching the kids while she tidied up.

He took a shower and dressed carefully. Black skinny jeans and a light, gray sweater. He slid his phone in his pocket before running to the kitchen to grab the ring he’d shoved behind the toaster and walking to the floo.     

                                       ***

After a heavy lunch, three rounds of free for fall quidditch and extensive cleaning charms they sat in the living room at the burrow. They were so tight on the loveseat that Draco was practically sitting on Harry. Not that he minded. He loved seeing Draco like this, flushed from the wine and the heat of the fire warming the room, smile stretched on his face, eyes wrinkled closed as he laughed at Ron’s expense.

Ron had seen the sweets on the coffee table next to Molly’s lemon bars and went right for them, forgetting his 26 years of being related to Fred and George. Like the vampire vine liquorice. And they’re stupidly big fangs. The situation being much funnier considering he was away on business and should’ve known better. Draco snorted once before laughing even harder, head on Harry’s neck, pointing at the fangs hanging out of Ron’s mouth.

Harry pulled Draco closer, pressing his lips to the back of his shoulder. “Draco?”

Draco hummed at his boyfriend, moving his hand to intertwine his fingers with Harry’s.

Harry pressed into Draco’s back as he fumbled with getting a box out of his pocket. At this point Hermione had looked over and elbowed Ron, who started gaping at Harry. Harry flashed a smile before squeezing his boyfriends side and moving him onto the couch. Eyes still closed, fingers still intertwined with Harry’s, and the ghost of a smile tugging on his lips. Finding the silence that fell over the room odd, he opened his eyes, to find his stupid boyfriend smirking at him.

Harry’s smirk deepened when he saw Draco’s eyes flicker to his left hand where a ring was currently resting and to the ring in the box. “You didn’t see that one coming, huh?”  

Draco blinked slowly, once at his ring and then at Harry, before throwing himself at Harry wrapping his arms around his broad shoulders and kissing his face wherever there was visible skin. He pulled away to plant his lips over Harry’s, letting his tongue glide over lips and then teeth when Harry laughed and pulled away.

“Draco Lucius Malf-”

“Yes,” Draco blurted.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, “I’ve wanted to do this for weeks, let me.” Giving him a pointed look, he continued. “I’m going to make this quick. You’ve made the last couple of days for me unbearable wearing that ring around everywhere as if I’d given it to you. You’re so stubborn, and difficult. You make it so hard for me to think straight, even after four years, and I don’t think that will ever change. Will you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, marry me?”

“Yes.” He snatched the ring from the box, fumbling with getting rid of the one on his finger, eager to get the obviously charmed snake on his finger. He pressed his lips on Harry’s softly before pulling him into another hug, his lips ghosting the other boys ear. “You’re such a bastard. A sneaky, fucking bastard. I can’t believe I’m going to be with you for the rest of my natural life, you plebeian.”

“I love you too.”

[qwerty-top]

Desiderium

Rated M. I do not own Fairy Tail or any of the characters in this story. I only own the plot.

“Disgusting creatures may haunt your dreams, but wrong decisions will deem their demise.”

Summary:  Horrid monsters ravage quaint, unsuspecting towns, turning them just mere wisps of folk-lore. Ending their wrath won't be easy. A small group of warriors meet up to dream of the inevitable, but with doubts, debts, and barely any training, they don't know where to begin. Being humanity's last hope has its perks, but finding a traumatized young woman hiding in the forest -full of monsters- reality sorta just smirks and spits in your face, reminding you that you live in a dystopia.

Read this story on FF.Net!

Chapter One: Warm Memories and Dark Pasts

The street was barren. Lifeless. Dead. It was if Mother Nature had taken her sweeper and swept away the human filth. Disgusting. The bone-chilling cold wafted through the air, seemingly unfazed by the street's stillness. The male exhaled, fog from his breath visible in front of his pink tinted nose. He shivered- just a tad- while craning his neck to look at the sun-ridden sky. Snow slowly started to accumulate, just adding onto the suspicious aura the weather emitted. He sighed, snuffling deeper into his scarf while placing his hands into his hoodie pocket, trying to conjure warmth with a plume of smoke evaporating into the crisp, cold air from his sound of his boots clacking was the only sign of life. His pace quickened, suspicions growing with it. His fingers started to numb as he was rushing down the cobblestone pathway. Another puff of air escapes his body, much more in a haste than before. People who said running keeps you warm in the cold might as well be damned, but he was still determined to leave this freezing hell-hole as soon as humanly possible.

Quickly scanning each building, he scrambled inside his pockets in search of his key ring. House 372 on Octarila Avenue. Weird name, yes. Spooky looking house, also yes. But it was home to the rejects, who valued everything they were given; even if given meant stolen. He perused through all his keys, slightly jumping when the outside porch light flickered to life, sensing it was nighttime as an ominous dark cloud loomed over the town. His keys clinked together as he stuck the right one into the slot, then turned it. A low moan sounded in the distance, signaling he was to hurry his ass up. He threw himself inside and slammed the door behind him. He instantly cringed at the loud noise, hoping to all the gods it wasn't loud enough to hear from far away. He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in, and slumped against the door.

"Looks like someone just about pissed their pants. Also, don't go slammin' doors 'n shit, its like you're begging to be brutally torn to shreds." A tall, dark haired brute sauntered his way into the room, a frown of disapproval plainly showing. " Natsu...where have you been all day?"

Natsu grunted while stripping off his hoodie, not bothering to give a proper answer, or rather, one that Gray would be wanting to hear. He turned, locked the door, then yanked the curtains to a close, cutting off any light the windows were filtering in - which wasn't very much to begin with.

"Get along, now is not the time for arguing." A scarlet haired woman emerged from the hallway, arms crossed indicating she wasn't pleased with the dark haired male's behaviour. She raised a brow at his scowling. Pushing that aside for later, she welcomed Natsu back home with a smile, but a tinge of worry escaped her features for a mere moment. That was enough for Natsu to realize something seemed off with the two; in fact ever since he stepped foot in the household.

Suddenly, a flash of white light illuminated the curtains; barely peeking out from the uncovered sides. Following it was a distant grumble of thunder, agitating the ground slightly. Small knick-knacks clattered against each other while a pencil rolled off of a desk.

"Thundersnow.1. Not much to fret over. What's with you two? You seem…" Natsu paused, "...off." He draped his hoodie on the arm of the couch, not noticing the coat rack screwed to the wall behind him. Either that or he just didn't care.

Gray sighed, arms going limp on his sides, he pondered over his choice of words, obviously disgusted with what he was about to say. "We were…...worried about you. It's not like you to go out without telling anyone, and you were gone for hours. We thought you were….." His voice broke a few times, trying to grasp a hold of his words; he began again."We thought you were subjected to to horrors that everyone else was given." His hands were now clutched at his sides, bangs covering his facial features.

Natsu squinted his eyes at Gray's choice of words and thought about why he sounded so worried. It wasn't like Gray to get worked up over much, he never jumped to conclusions much. He also never shown any regard towards Natsu, unless they were fighting.

The scarlet haired woman spoke right after, "Natsu, you should know not to go outside like that. It's dangerous for your well being as well as ours. You should know full well that those things are closing in on our base. Stay here and do not leave until we are ready to move out."

"Move out?!" Gray's head flipped back up. "W-we can't just 'move out,' have you lost your mind? There's no way in literal Hell we could ever get out of here unscathed or alive. Soon they will find us and there will be no escape, leaving isn't an option!" He started to hyperventilate, distraught with her plan of action.

"I somewhat agree with you Gray, but it wouldn't hurt to try." His voice was low and understanding. Lightly tapping his chin with his fake golden claw, he predicted what should be their plan of approach.

"Are you insane?! 'Wouldn't hurt to try' my ass! It would literally 'hurt to try,' we might even die!" Natsu's eyes widened, never had he seen Gray so distraught over something. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off with another voice.

"Calm down Gray. We have something the other civilians will never have." The three looked at eachother and spoke without words, all silently exchanging looks; giving approval of leaving the base. Gray seemed to start calming down from the show he put on earlier.

"So, Natsu, I still don't think you answered Gray's question earlier." All eyes directed towards said male; slowly shifting uncomfortably under their gaze.

"I've been….out?" He gave a fake smile, sensing impending doom on his poor, old, fragile soul.

"Natsu. Answer. Now." She was starting to get ticked off, he could tell. A sense of anger radiated off her. He decided not to dawdle any further.

"S-sorry Erza.. I've been gathering intel about the monster's whereabouts and practically jotting down anything i can about them. The more we know, the better." His hands fumbled with his scarf, a sign he was distressed with the vexatious2 feel in the air. It was a habit, his scarf gave him the contentment he needed. It also helped with fumbling over words; it happened a lot to say the least.

"Sufficient answer. I'll take it." Erza elbowed Gray's side, earning another scowl from him.

"Yeah." Was all he said, giving Erza a rude look.

Erza nodded. "I want you all well-rested for tomorrow. Make sure to pack everything you need, but not too much it will slow you down. I really don't need someone else succumbing to a tragic fate."

Both Gray and Natsu exchanged glances, slowing shaking their head as to why she was so formal sometimes.

"Just say die." Natsu tilted his head, but jumped up at her murderous intent. Gray chuckled lowly, muttering an 'idiot' under his breath. Natsu decided to share Erza's murderous intent to Gray, nobody needed to be left out, now did they?

Erza slowly stalked off, leaving the two disgruntled men by themselves. Not the wisest of decisions made. When she was out of sight, Gray spoke up.

"You lied." He seethed. Clenching his teeth, he had given the most repulsive look directed to Natsu.

"I didn't lie. I just stretched the truth a little bit. No harm, no foul." Natsu was a bit irritated with the look he was getting but shrugged it off. He turned around and began to walk out of the room before Gray clenched the ending of his low-riding scarf and yanked it backwards, throwing the male to the floor along with it.

"What the Hell?! What do you think you're doing, you asshole!" Natsu rubbed his sore throat, trying to push up off of the floor and sock Gray in the nose.

"No harm done, eh? How about harm when Erza beats the shit out of you for deceiving her with your lies? Putting her in a false sense of comfort? She really believes you are finding information, do you really wanna know what she would do when she looks to you for guidance tomorrow when we leave here? And when she figures out you've been out drinking? You'd be dead where you stand. I can literally smell it, fire breath." Gray grabbed Natsu's scarf one last time, raised it upwards with his head following and dropped it, a loud thump and yelp resonating from the now injured male.

"Cut that shit out before I beat it out of you." Natsu grumbled, rubbing his scalp. "Look, I know she'll be mad, but I do have a few things written up about them." Natsu finally pushed himself back up on his feet then started to readjust his scarf.

"Like what?" Gray scoffed, watching Natsu's futile attempts at getting the perfect position for the scarf. He eventually just took the whole thing off and draped the two ends on each side of his neck. Gray raised an eyebrow when his eyes met back up to his.

"That they...like to kill?" Natsu averted his eyes. He knew he was going to receive an unthinkable punishment.

"NO SHIT SHERLOCK! " Gray roared, throwing his fist against Natsu's cheek. Obviously pissed to the brim with Natsu's fucked up antics.

"YOU WANNA GO WATSON?!" Natsu grasped his cheek in pure anger and kicked Gray in the stomach, sending him to the floor.

"YOU TWO BETTER NOT BE FIGHTING!" Erza yelled from her room. Both boys stopped, a sense of dread washing over their bodies, fearing for their lives, they simultaneously laughed.

"Of course not! We were just playing a game in here!"

"Aye!"

"Good." Erza replied just loud enough for them to hear from how far the two rooms were. It was surprising to hear how calm she was, yet they were so far away from her, they could barely fathom how they could understand her.

They both sighed in defeat and began rubbing their sore spots. Exchanging looks, they both nodded silently. Natsu held his hand out, grabbing Gray's and hoisting him back up, mumbling a soft apology while Gray sounded his own.

"So is that all you really have about them?" Gray sounded upset in a way, like he was actually hoping to hear something useful from Natsu once in a while.

"'Course not, whaddya take me for, a moron?" Natsu chuckled, plopping himself on the couch seated right by where he was standing.

"Well, actually, yes. I do." Gray smiled, seating himself right by Natsu.

"Oof, bullet to the heart." Natsu motioned that action, earning an eye roll and a shake of his head from Gray.

"Anyway, I have a whole sketchbook full of things. I don't draw in it, since I've never seen those bastards yet. It's just full of notes and things that I hear from other people who actually faced with them, and yet managed to escape. Pretty badass if you ask me."

"So what you're saying is, you went to the bar down the street and asked a couple drunkies about this? Are you even sure they're in their right mind? Not considering you may not even have a mind, sorry I even asked."

"Alright wise guy, you think you have better info than me? Check it!" Natsu proudly flipped his sketchbook over so Gray could scan over it. Neat, small handwriting filled the pages. Notes were scattered in a few places, enough to fill the whole page if not for the weird drawings placed here and there. Looked like Natsu's interpretation of those creatures. What a disgusting plague they were. Ridding himself of the thought, he nodded and looked back over to Natsu's beaming face, obviously proud of his findings. Gray didn't know whether to feel annoyed, thankful, or sad. Sad that he couldn't see Natsu's ass get beaten alive if he turned up to Erza empty-handed. Thankful they had something to refer to, even if on close inspection it was all shit. Annoyed with that smug smirk on his face, cocky bastard.

The wind began to pick up, the cheap glass windows they had rattled violently as if they were to shatter sometime soon. Cold air began to creep up in the house through the weathered down wood and door opening. A few minutes passed before Gray spoke up.

"Good not everything you said was a lie." Gray watched as Natsu slowly got back up to pick up the pencil that rolled off his desk earlier and set his sketchbook down. He then sat back by Gray and began to fiddle with a set of golden, fake claws he had on his fingers. With that man, his fashion sense was a lost cause. Not like Gray's was any better.

Natsu hmphed in response, too lazy to answer. He lounged back, the old sofa protesting over the weight. His fingers slid down the intricate details on his claw. The bottom was shaped like a deer's footprint, yet still came to a sharp point like a claw should be. Holes were put on the base of it, 5 to be exact, and the rest had a bumpy fixture to it, giving Natsu something to rub his other fingers on if bored.

Gray wasn't bothered with Natsu's lack of conversation. The silence was comforting too.

Breaking the silence, Natsu sighed long and hard, obviously upset with something. Gray didn't say anything, nor batted an eye. Natsu did it once again, even more long and hard than before. Gray now raised a brow. Natsu was about to do it again, but was stopped.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Can't get enough air to your brain?"

Natsu glared back, but only uttered out a single word.

"Backpfeifengesicht3."

"Excuse me? Wanna run me by that again, Smart Aleck?" Gray fumed, clutching the chain attached to his jeans.

Natsu just shrugged his shoulders, irritating Gray to the very brink.

"If you're gonna fucking say something, say it so I can hear."

"MAYBE if your ears weren't so CLOGGED with earwax you could hear me clear as day!"

"So you wanna be like that huh? Let's see who is DEAF when I'M THROUGH WITH YOU-" Gray quickly snatched the end of Natsu's scarf once again, getting ready to throw him down. Natsu had his hand on the rim of Gray's shirt and leg pulled up, ready to kick.

A dark shadow loomed from above, making the two boys jump out of their skin. They didn't have to turn around to know who it was. It was Satan getting ready to take them to Hell and back. So long world, you were shitty till the very end.

"It's 10PM. Gray. Natsu. Bed. Now." Erza growled, grabbing two tufts of their hair and slinging them towards the doorway. The males slowly glanced back to Erza, only to find her menacing glare staring right back at them. Goosebumps traveled along their arms and weirdly, their legs. Erza's glare suddenly grew, causing them to skitter down the hallways to their rooms, slamming the doors shut. Erza was left alone in dark silence. After a few moments she sighed. Walking over to the window, she opened the curtains just a tad to peek outside. Snow was still falling, coating the streets with a thin layer of white. The moon was huge, engulfing almost the whole window. Looking down the street was a red light. She instantly shut them again and rushed to her room, closing the door very slowly with only a mere click indicating it was fully shut.

Natsu took in the sight of his room when he walked in, letting the warmness that was trapped in there flow out of the door and onto him. Moonlight poured out of the window, falling down on his bed like it was showcased in a spotlight. Small knick-knacks couldn't be seen quickly, the shadows from his bookcase and dresser were easily found on the other hand. He scanned the compacted area, thinking beforehand on what to take and what to leave behind. He was known for hoarding a few things here and there, nothing major, it seemed this task may prove to be more difficult for him than the others. On the bright side a couple things had caught his eye. While walking up to them, the floor creaked with every step, protesting under his weight. Squinting and shoving a few things out of the way, he grabbed the essentials. Lighter, matches, pocket knife, pencil sharpener, pencils, erasers, a spare sketchbook, a few handfuls of candy, a picture, books, and his necklace. That would do for now he guessed. He packed those in his backpack and carefully placed the picture in the front pocket. Hoisting it up, he laid it in the corner of the room, giving one last look to everything else. He had time, but for now he closed the curtains and clipped them shut, all light diminishing into nothingness. Throwing back the covers, his bed creaked while he settled himself onto it. His body thanked him instantly, it was like the bed had swallowed him whole and wouldn't let go for shit. Looking up with glazed over, hazy eyes, he stared at the ceiling. He sketched out lines and shapes from it, following each dip and indentions it had. His eyes had traveled every line before closed his eyes again, only now was he greeted with the warm embrace of his covers, the sweet sensation lulling himself to sleep.

"I never understood why you take an interest in those dastardly beasts. Why don't you like something innocent like a house cat?"

"You're one to talk about "dastardly beasts,' Dad, and why not a lion instead of a house cat? They're so much cooler and bigger, perfect for cuddling." A little boy twirled a pencil in his fingers, sitting on the cold rock of the cave under him. He was drawing a big lion with feathers, graceful yet dangerous. He gave the biggest and most wholehearted smile to his not so likely father.

The dragon gave a displeased look to his son. He swiveled his head downwards, cautious of not hitting the human child with his snout. "I'm just trying to get you to value the small things in life. Even if it's extremely small. A sunny day, laughter, a smile from someone you care about. All those things mean a lot, but can be taken away very easily. Don't take them for granted. I want you to live a life worth living."

"I-is something bad going to happen Papa?" His voice shuddered, his arm shaking while trying to hold on to the dragon's nose. "Is e-everything okay?" Fear was laced within his voice. The pencil was long gone now, hiding in the dark cracks of the cave, forgotten from the young child.

"Don't worry about it. That's for older you to figure out. No ill will will come to you if you choose the right pathway. Now go on and get ready for bed."

The boy reluctantly got up and put his stuff away in his corner and warily crept up to his father's side. Warmth radiated off of his scales, enveloping his whole body.

"Night night, Neel." He cuddled up against his father, closing his eyes, the sweet sensation lulling him to sleep.

"Good night, Natsu." Igneel rested his head on his arm right by where Natsu was fast asleep, snoring away. The dragon gave a soft smile before he too, fell asleep.

Natsu was pulled away from his slumber by a dark figure, shaking him restlessly. He pressed his hands against their nose, not having enough strength to fight back.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Gray harshly whispered, only audible for Natsu and anyone else in the room. Not that anyone was, he didn't think. Testing that theory, he flicked his head left and right, only seeing Gray in his room. Gray pushed Natsu's hands off of his face.

"What are you doing? It's like.." Natsu's sentence trailed off while he leaned over to look at his alarm clock. "Gray its 2 in the fucking morning, the real question is what you're doing." He mimicked Gray's level of voice, already knowing Erza was asleep and they didn't want to wake her.

"I heard you sobbing like a baby and mumbling about cuddling? Sorry if I intruded on a wet dream."

Natsu shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. "No...No, it wasn't that. Honestly I can't remember what my dream was about." Natsu casually lied, letting out a yawn before placing his hands back in his lap.

"Well whatever it was it had you riled up. Just don't do it again, you might blow our cover." Gray sat on the edge of Natsu's bed, keeping him company, also to make sure he was okay before taking his leave.

"So uh…" Natsu started, pondering his choice of words. "Excited for our big escape tomorrow?" He inwardly cringed.

"Don't even start." Gray huffed, crossing his arms. "Can't believe we are leaving. There's nowhere else to go."

"You don't know that. There's always something. Don't be an acosmist4.I plan on making a map for wherever we go, we can learn things, y'know?" Natsu smiled, he was somewhat excited to leave. All he knew was this building. Correction, all they knew was this building.

"Since when did you want to learn things?" Gray gave a low scoff, impressed how everything was turning out. Never had Natsu wanted to learn, nor used big words that sometimes Gray never knew what he was talking about. Never had Erza liked to leave places she knew, out into the open where their coffin was placed in every corner. And yet, never had he been so careful or scared. The world changed and so did they. He decided he didn't like change either.

"I thought it would be a good idea to learn and know things about the creatures trying to kill us." He sarcastically replied like it was just a normal thing to say. It really wasn't.

"Fair enough." Gray sighed, pushing himself up off Natsu's bed. The two men nodded, signaling this was the end of their conversation. Gray stalked off to the door, looking at the full backpack in the corner. He hung his head low and opened the door.

"Good night, Gray. Sleep well."

"You too, buddy." Gray turned around and smiled, slowly closing the door. A soft click echoed through his room Natsu couldn't help but smile as well.

"A smile from someone you care about. "

1= Thundersnow. Sometimes when it snows, it thunders! Very rare to happen, ain't that somethin'?

2= Vexatious. Causing someone to feel annoyance, frustration, or worry.

3= Backpfeifengesicht. "A face that needs a fist in it."

4=Acosmist. A person who believes nothing exists.

Qwertys Notes: Woah! The first chapter of Desiderium is finally finished! Whaddya guys think? Yae or nae? Anyywayy~ heads up, future chapters will be very sad and gorey considering this is a dystopia! Also, if you couldn't already tell, i put numbers by words, just in case some of my readers don't know what they mean! In this story, Natsu is a bit OC, but I hate it when fans perceive Natsu to be stupid and not know anything. When those monsters came to life, he needed to get smarter to survive and save his friends. At least, that's what he thinks. Gray has given up all hope, as usual. I don't have an updating schedule, but reviews do help my process go faster! I have a lot planned for the future, hopefully you guys stick around for it! This is my first ever fanfiction, criticism is always welcome. Stay tuned for the next chapter!

[deathly-sick-flowers]

Sleeping in Ciudad de Sangre

the sun was setting in a dusty town of yore, birds flew into the violet-orange glow of the twilight sky above the wooden structures. drunks and whores prowled the dirt roads looking for a crutch to keep them going. horses cantered past bodies laying in the street, drunk or dead, no one could tell.

our story begins with a stranger riding into Ciudad de Sangre, a small town of sin and debauchery. a towering spire on the roof of a church stretched its crooked arm towards the sky to be seen for miles on approach to the town. it was here the desert landscape ended at the base of a mountain range, Ciudad de Sangre being the last resupply opportunity before trekking the mountain pass. 

nice spot for a drink, our stranger assessed. braving the ferocious teeth of the Loto desert alone, the stranger sat up straight in their saddle upon hearing the illuminating voices of others for the first time in weeks. “Come on, girl” they dug their spurs in their horse and sought off in a nervous trot for a taste of the devil himself. Darkness was creeping in from the east, swallowing the Loto in a slow march behind them. The stranger was in search of some warmth after a lonely ride, and their horse’s shoes caught better grip as the terrain switched from dunes to paved dirt.

“Ciudad de Sangre” the old sign seemed to moan in it’s desperate attempt to cling onto a rusted chain link from a wooden post. It practically dragged in the dirt, broken glass and the smell of piss surrounding it. Despite it’s degraded appearance the town was full of life; music came from all corners and with it, laughing and cursing, singing and dancing.

“Hey man can I bum a smoke? Get a silver?” a man with one arm called out from the deck of an unnamed building. He smiled weakly at the stranger through a gapped smile, mud and blood caked the man’s shirt.

“Fuck off” the stranger spat, and rode past. There were only small individual dwellings that surrounded this side of Ciudad de Sangre, leading into the epicenter where gas lamps lit up the streets in front of shops, vendors, and bars.

As they galloped deeper into the town center our stranger’s thirst grew, craving something bitter that bites back. Whiskey. Not long after roaming through the streets did our stranger come across a small saloon that seemed well enough for someone to collect their thoughts and plot another move. Our stranger pulled their horse up next to a water trough, swung their left leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. solid ground. A sigh of relief as the stranger secured their horse’s reigns to a hitching post, “Alright girl, I won’t be long.” The sounds of men cheering and women laughing came from inside as our stranger ascended to the deck. The floor groaned beneath them as they pushed open the saloon style doors, everyone’s focus noticeably now on the stranger. For what seemed like minutes people reacted to our stranger’s grim appearance. A few girls giggled in the laps of some unfriendly gentlemen, the band lost rhythm to ogle for a moment before resuming. Shit, when was the last time I looked at myself. Our stranger reflected.

After everyone had taken in the god awful sight of this stranger they went right back to ignoring them again. A spot opened up at the bar after a man collapsed from his seat, “Well alright” the stranger sighed. Without moving this poor soul the stranger stepped over him and leaned in to the bar. The bartender approached, a handsomely average-sized man with some ash in his beard, eyes of a jaded fox.

“My friend, you look damn terrible if you don’t mind me saying so. You need a poison?” he bellowed.

Our stranger gave a half chuckle, half sigh, “What you got that stings”

“House whiskey outta do you good, you got silver?” Our stranger nods and slaps two pieces onto the mahogany bar. The bartender makes his way to the sink and begins to clean a glass, the mirrors behind the shelved bottles now gave our stranger a sight for sore eyes. 

A sand stripped man with a dusty beard stared back at our stranger from the mirror. He looked at himself in disbelief, red bags under his eyes, his skin weathered from the desert’s harsh winds, and his black hat had turned brown from the glare of the sun. “You are one sorry looking son of a bitch” he muttered to himself. He could hardly see his pupils, almost forgotten what color his own eyes were, if he had ever really known before. By now it was hard to remember.

A glass was set in front of him and brought the stranger back to reality, a POP of the cork and a fine golden-brown river of whiskey flowed from the bottleneck to the glass. It was the most beautiful thing our stranger had seen in weeks, which was practically nothing since the days were filled with sandstorms or illusions as the sun made the dunes dance and roll like waves from the shore. “they call me Danny, friend, let me know if you need another.” Danny scooped up the silver pieces and began tending to the other thirsty patrons.

The stranger to this town lifted the glass to his mustache and took a deep whiff from his nostrils. The whiskey smelt of aged oak barrels as well as memories of stronger times with closer acquaintances. He swirled it around for a moment before bringing it to his lips, taking a swig too eagerly and coughing out some of the dust from his beard. The gentleman to his right scowled at him and covered his drink, “my apologies friend,” our stranger cleared his throat, “It’s been a long road.”

“No offense mister, but you look like you just came out of a grave deep in the Loto.”

“I’d be lying if I said that weren’t true” our stranger bantered. The gentleman scoffed and turned his shoulder to him, not wanting to engage with our stranger any further. The stranger exhaled and brought the glass to his lips once more, this time slowly tilting his head back and letting the whiskey linger a moment before burning his parched throat. “ahhh, that’s better.” the stranger felt warmer and more confident with each sip, finally relaxing after a grueling desert storm. 

It was a small bar with a banda on the opposite wall, tables between them. A plain oak staircase with a recently sanded railing shined under the gas lamps on the ceiling, patrons leaned over the rail from the second floor chatting and listening to the banda light up the whole room. 

“That’s a fine horse you rode in on, saw it’s coat shine from the window there.” Danny returned, “Another round?” 

“keep em coming, Danny, and thank you. Not often you see a coat like that, especially in the Loto. After a terrible mishap, seems like she came to help me out there.” As he spoke, Danny filled his glass with some more hooch, offering the stranger a lemon slice, which he refused.

“You don’t mean to tell me you just found that horse out there? er, it found YOU?”

“I reckon so, I’d be dead if it weren’t for Pumpkin.” 

a confused smile spread on Danny’s face. “bit of a queer name for a horse out here, harvest season isn’t for another several moon cycles. Not that we can grow fuck all in this desert. Might I ask why?”

“Maybe the sun had gotten to my brain, erm, I can’t really say. Had a nice ring to it, she seems to respond to it, and it stuck.” a touchy subject for the stranger, the name was more than just a crop, but the name of a showgirl he used to be sweet on. He bodied the rest of his drink, “listen friend, you must see a lot that goes on around these parts. You see, I’m looking for someone, got a gift for em.” The stranger reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a photograph. A man with blonde hair, a thin mustache, and a black ornate bolo tie. He had a strong unibrow, and a fine mexican woman under his arm, cigar in his other hand. He slid the picture over to Danny, who inspected it closely. 

“hmmm. I do not recognize this woman, though I will say she is very easy on the eyes. But the man I do know. A bit of a reputation he has in this town. Surely you do not mean to engage with him?” the bartender seemed a bit concerned. The stranger stared his glass down, his voice grew deep. 

“That woman was my wife, recently passed. That man is her brother. Blames me for her death. Left me to die in the desert. I intend to thank him.”

(Part 1 of 3)

[ecotone99]

[HR] Graves

Her eyes streamed hot tears down her soot blackened face, half on account of Maisie being dead, but half to do with the fires still burning up the city. All the cities. Always. Fires she had set, and fires she hadn’t.

Gusts of icy wind carried ashes on its breath like hellish snowflakes alighting on Cora’s face and shoulders. The perpetual smell of smoke and gasoline fumes had long since burned out the old woman’s olfactory sensitivity, but the noxious fog that had become her countryside atmosphere still stung her eyes like dish soap. Not to mention she had been coughing up bloody phlegm for two weeks now.

Still, failing lungs or not, she had to find the will to carry on. She had to dig.

She didn’t have to dig very deep, but the work was still tiring. Cora wasn’t the young woman that she had been 20 years earlier. And even back then she had been lying through her teeth about her age, feigning mid-20’s youth when she knew damn well that she was looking at the far side of 35. Eric would always smile knowingly whenever she gave her “age” and he'd even play along, basking in the fantasy of being married to a significantly younger woman. Eric had always made her feel stronger and more confident than she thought she really ought to be. He had that way about him. And now, with 60 staring her in the face, her lungs failing as her own cells turned against her, compliments of the fallout radiation wafting on the easterlies…. Cora didn’t feel so strong. Alone, without Eric to place a loving hand on her shoulder in comfort…. Alone, without Maisie to lick her palm affectionately, Cora felt weaker than she ever did.

Stupid goddam dog. Wonderful, stupid fucking dog.

Perhaps the tears weren’t strictly caused by the smoke lingering from the fires. Cora took time to brush the salty rivulets away with her grimy sleeve, blinking back a barrage of new ones before they could form. There was work to do. On the horizon, 50 miles to the east, a storm rumbled over Denver in a swirling black vortex of nuclear lightning. Cora shivered.

She knelt in the stale radioactive dirt and dug the rusty trowel’s blade into the earth. After nearly an hour’s worth of steady work Cora was sweaty and her arms and finger joints were sore. Finally sitting up to scrutinize her efforts, unbending her tired back, she felt satisfied that she had scooped out a hole big enough to bury Maisie in. A new pit opened up in the old woman’s stomach and rose to catch in her throat. Staring into the hole, she felt the hopelessness crash upon her like an icy wave. The entire world was a graveyard now.

Maisie’s grave rested at the feet of an acacia tree in Cora’s petite backyard. The branches of the tree had long since been stripped forever of their leaves, the heart of the once proud monolith poisoned to death by careless Men. It had happened so fast, too. The bombs hadn't fallen more than a month before the last leaf fell withered and brown. The sight of it always sent an immediate wave of overwhelming shame roiling through Cora's bloodstream, like the cancer that ate at her organs. The culpability she felt beat on her heart with guilty hammers. But Maisie had always loved the old acacia, lying happily, tongue wagging lazily out of her mouth beneath the bowed, sparse branches even after they’d been disfigured skeletal. The whole country was skeletal now, so maybe this was as good a place as any.

If it was good enough for Maisie, it was good enough for Cora. And it was certainly better than the grave of complete obliteration that her husband and children had received in Denver.

Cora had no coffin to bury her dead Labrador in. Instead, she had wrapped Maisie in an old crocheted blanket that had been passed down to her by her mother. It was the nicest consideration Cora could give the poor animal, owing to her extremely limited resources.

After digging the hole, the act of carrying the bundled up dog from the foyer of her home back out to the tree exerted nearly all of Cora’s remaining energy. Once Maisie had been interned in her grave, Cora felt so worn down that she considered laying down and dying right there with her dog, just as Quasimodo had with Esmerelda in Paris. There was a time when a more wistful version of herself might sigh at the idea of never seeing Paris, but that wistful version of her had died when the bombs fell. Now there wasn’t even a Paris to see.

Cora didn’t lay down and die, but she did sit with her back to the tree and her feet dangling slightly into Maisie’s grave, catching her breath as sweat ran from the nape of her neck, trickling down the back of her shirt. She fanned herself slightly out of habit, even though the air was far from warm, fires or not. July was already well underway but the sky boiled with overcast grey-black clouds blotting out the sun completely, lending the wind an arctic chill. She had read about such phenomena when she was younger. A nuclear winter was what it was called. There hadn’t been any snowfall yet, just ashes masquerading as sleet, but that dreaded weather couldn’t be far off. No doubt the snow would fall poisoned like the rest of everything else.

Pushing herself up off her palms, one knee in the dirt for balance, Cora unceremoniously began bulldozing the mound of loose earth she’d dug up back into the grave. Clods of mephitic soil caked onto the sleeves of her flannel shirt up to her elbows and another throbbing hum began to sound off at the base of her spine long before the work was finished. But eventually she stood and looked down at her handiwork, the grave once more filled.

“Well,” she said to Maisie, to the wind, to all of the ghosts of everyone who had once been, “I’ve done it. I’ve done my best.” Her voice caught in her throat so she swallowed hard and continued, committed to the eulogy. “I hope this is okay. I hope that this was enough.” The tears would not be denied now and her sleeves were too dirty to be used as Kleenex.

Absentmindedly, Cora smoothed the dirt on top of the grave with her left shoe. “I just want you to know how badly I’m going to miss you; how badly I miss you already. I never got to say goodbye to any of you. I said it when you left the house, but I didn’t know that this would happen. Nobody did…. But I wish to God that I could have known.” Her words were near gibberish amidst the sobbing. “It wasn’t supposed to be a real goodbye….”

Snot congested her nostrils. She sucked back on the phlegm and coughed a racking expectoration, spitting a gob of bloody mucus into the dusty earth. Even with no one to witness it, she still felt embarrassed by her spitting. And then she felt embarrassed at her own embarrassment.

After standing over the grave for a few minutes longer, half to pay respects to her dead dog, half to catch her breath, Cora walked back to what used to be the garden on the west side of her house to the shed that connected to the Atrium. Inside she found the old salvaged generator sitting as lifeless as Maisie. Not a naturally mechanically savvy individual, it had taken Cora quite some time to figure out how to operate the old piece of machinery. But necessity had turned her into an aficionado. She checked the fuel levels; enough to last the rest of the evening and partly into the night. Perfect. She flipped the fuel valve to On and moved the choke rod from right to left. Satisfied with her work Cora turned on the ignition and pulled the recoil cord four times until the genny thundered to life with an earthquake of noise that exploded through the eerie quiet of her uninhabited world. She set the choke to Run and when all was said and done she stood back, wheezing once more, coughing up another bout of blood. She had a thought that she might die right there in the shed and no one would ever find her. She was fairly certain that there was no one left.

The last living person Cora had seen had been Dawn, and eight year old girl who had outlived her parents only to die of radiation sickness two days later. That had been over a month ago. The girl’s throat was so ragged that right before she had passed her cries had become nothing more than lamb’s bleats muffled by her decaying esophagus. More than once, late at night when the screams kept Cora awake, she considered finding a gun and doing the merciful thing for the child. But no, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. As quickly as the urge developed, her cowardly nature bashed it back down within her.

Cora still felt guilty for not giving the girl a proper burial. The fear of contracting the same sickness that had killed everyone else in Grant had driven the spinelessness that controlled her and for the first month after the bombs had fallen she had refused to even leave her home. But then her food ran out.

She had found the girl crying on her stoop eating a pack of saltine crackers, the radiation already turning her into a gaunt caricature of what a healthy child should resemble, blotch sores oozing all over the spots of skin the girl's clothing didn't cover. She may as well have been a zombie the way that Cora had treated her, scrambling away up the hill back to her house, locking and barricading the doors and windows. Dawn, however, had not followed her. The little girl had been all skin and bones and lacked the strength to simply leave her parents property. And what would she do if she could? An empty world would be nightmarish for a child her age.

Cora knew that the girl had died the evening that the screaming stopped. She didn’t sleep that night either, though. Instead, she thought about Dawn dying alone in pain, surrounded by the bodies of her mother and father, confused and frightened. She thought about the radiation that had poisoned all of the families around her. She saw it as an airborne infection sliding into her own home through the cracks and eaves, irradiating her with the same time lapse slow death that had done away with every last one of her neighbors.

The next morning Cora burnt down Dawn’s house and every other house on her block except her own. She did not know that the radiation had already begun to corrupt her body. She did not realize that fire couldn’t kill away the Devil. All she knew was her own fear; the fear of becoming like them; cold, lifeless, rotten things, decaying in the darkness, coagulated black blood oozing from every orifice. The smell had been putrid.

Back inside of her home, the first thing Cora did was add several small logs to the coals still glowing red hot in the fireplace in the den. Soon a blaze crackled to life and began flooding the house with incandescent warmth, defrosting the chill that reminiscing had sent through Cora’s body. The old woman allowed herself time to stand before the fire, warming her bones for several minutes before the itchiness of the dirt and sweat on her body compelled her to get herself cleaned up.

The water still worked just as fine as it ever had, but Cora hadn’t trusted it for months now. It had been a difficult sacrifice at first, abstaining from baths and showers for fear that radiation had somehow poisoned the water mains; but in her mind it had been necessary. A dark part of her couldn’t help but imagine coming out of the tub, her body glowing radioactive green, the skin on her arms and legs and back boiling with blisters and sliding off her bones wet and sick the way meat slides off the bones of boiled chicken legs.

Instead of bathing she had taken to using baby wipes salvaged from the local supermarket. There wasn’t much food or water to be found there, but there was a stockpile of Wet Ones in the childcare isle that no one had thought to snatch up when everyone began looting in the beginning, a week or so before they realized that no amount of supplies could change the fact that they were all doomed. Cora had filled an entire shopping cart with as many wet wipes as could fit and in doing so was able to keep a moderate amount of her dignity intact.

Today, however, wasn’t a wet wipe day. Today was a day for funerals. Today was a special occasion.

With an acquiescent sigh, Cora turned both faucet knobs to full blast. The pipes rumbled, taking their sweet time to rush water through their months unused canals, but after a few seconds of reluctant groaning clear lukewarm water came blasting out the faucet into the polished porcelain tub. Cora engaged the drain stopper to allow the tub to fill and then poured in nearly an entire bottle of children’s Mr. Bubble that she had taken from the Value-Save specifically for this occasion. Rainbow sheened suds and the smell of bubblegum scented soap quickly filled the tub and air and brought a euphoric sense of nostalgia to Cora’s heart, warm and pleasant, but not without a heavy measure of sadness. The scent absentmindedly reminded her of her children when they were toddlers, splashing in the bathtub, using the bubbles to give themselves moustaches and beards and laughing at how old they’d made themselves look. Little did they know that they would never get the chance to see an age even close to what their imaginations helped feign.

When the tub had filled more than half-way, Cora stripped out of her dirty clothing and sighed as she slid into the bath. Instantly her muscles contracted and relaxed in a way that had become completely alien to her over the past few months. Removing a loofa that had hung unused over the mouth of the tub’s faucet for as long as Cora hadn’t used the tub, she began to methodically scrub her body down, erasing the grime that caked her arms and legs. The feeling of becoming clean was almost enjoyable. Dolloping a liberal amount of shampoo into the palm of her hand she massaged it into her scalp. Much more hair than she would have liked came out on her hands, compliments of the radiation poisoning, but Cora ignored it. The time for worrying about such things was over now. Now all that mattered were the terms of her comfort.

She drained the tub and held her head under the running faucet to rinse the shampoo out of her hair and thought twice about conditioning for old times sake. On second thought though, she went against it. She still had much more to do that evening and did not want to spend more time in the bathroom than she absolutely had to. Hair thoroughly rinsed, Cora turned off the faucet and stood up, reaching gingerly for a green fluffy towel hanging on a nearby rack, patting her body dry with it before wrapping it around her hair, twisting it at the top and stepping out of the tub onto the bathmat.

Despite the lukewarm temperature of the water, the cold of the house had caused the bathroom mirror to fog up a bit so Cora wiped it clear with her palm. The emaciated face of an old woman stared back at her, flushed from the bath. That wouldn’t do at all.

Padding softly down the hallway to her bedroom Cora found the black dress she had worn on her first date with Eric so long ago laying spread out on her bed waiting for her, the pearls she’d inherited from her mother when she was only a child laying next to the dress along with a pair of diamond earrings that Eric had given her on their 20 year anniversary. She had never really cared for the earrings much, believing that they were just too damn expensive to wear when she and Eric occasionally went out, but if ever there was a time to wear them, she thought, it was tonight.

Cora stepped into the dress and clasped the pearls around her neck and fastened the earrings to her ears then went to her vanity and opened a makeup pallet that she hadn’t used in so long that she was afraid the makeup might be dried up and unusable. To her delight it wasn’t.

She started with a primer, then worked her way to a foundation that brought out the glow in her cheeks and eyes. An outline with a mascara pencil made her baby blues pop vibrantly and a little bit of eye shadow gave her a rogue, smoky look that she couldn’t help but admit to herself was a bit ravishing. Cora opted to leave her eyelashes alone, but compromised by painting her lips a gorgeous bright red. There was not much to be done with her hair, but a few expertly placed bobby pins and a generous spray of MegaHold at least tamed the mess. Standing back to look at herself in the mirror, she felt a comforting sense of pleasure.

Downstairs the fire was burning greedily and the house smelled of earthy smoke. It had taken some time and more than a few breaks in which she doubled over to cough up blood, but the night before she had found her old record player and the trunk containing her teenage record collection in the attic and had lugged it all downstairs into the den. She might have cried if after setting it all up she had discovered that the player didn’t work, but there had been no need to cry because on a test run the old record player worked just as it had when she was sixteen. Her unlikely favorite singer had been Marty Robbins and she still had several of his vinyl records as a testament to that fact, and it was Marty Robbins that she chose.

“Tonight Carmen” crackled to life through the record player’s speakers and Cora sunk into the comfortable cushions of her couch. Standing on the coffee table in front of her were three pictures propped up in their frames: the photo from hers and Eric’s wedding, where they were mashing cake into each other’s faces, flanked by a picture of Sammy and James as children playing with Legos on the floor of their bedroom, Sammy staring into the camera smiling his goofy smile while James seized the opportunity to reach for the castle that his older brother had been constructing. The last photo on the far left was of Cora’s parents, June and Robert, her mother kissing her father’s surprised cheek at a barbecue before Cora had even been born.

Next to the pictures sat a large wine glass and an old bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon that Cora and Eric had been saving for after their children moved out of the house. That day would never come, or had come in a way that neither of them had expected, and so today was as good a day as any to drink the wine. Cora uncorked the old bottle and poured herself a full glass. Before she drank the wine she unscrewed the childproof cap from an orange prescription bottle of Valium spilling out about 27 pills into her palm. She tossed back about half of the handful at once, chasing it with a couple gulps of the wine, before finishing the handful on the second try, as well as draining her glass. She refilled the glass and sipped it, her heart racing with adrenaline from what she had just done. Half of her couldn’t believe that she’d done it, while the other half of her was glad she had.

Several minutes later the wine began to make her feel drowsy. Or at least she thought it was the wine. Surely the valium would take a bit longer than that, even at such a high dose? She did not really know. She did not really care. Tipping back her glass and abandoning it to instead drink directly from the bottle, spilling a little bit down her front in the process, Cora kicked her legs up onto the couch and lay on her side staring at the pictures of her dead family. I’ll see you soon….

In the background, as if coming from far down a tunnel she could hear the voice of Marty Robbins singing gently to her:

Have I told you lately when I’m sleeping

Every dream I dream is you somehow

Have I told you why the nights’re long

When you’re not with me, well darling I’m telling you now…

Cora’s eyelids felt heavy and the cold of her empty house sent a chill across her skin in pulsating waves of goosebumps. She pulled a blanket over her and tried to focus on the faces of her children and parents and of her husband. She felt as if she were sinking into the couch, falling away from her world with each second.

From down the tunnel of darkness that she found herself dissolving into she heard a knocking noise. At first a gentle rapping, then a more unsubtle pounding. At first she thought it was the sound of her own heartbeat, but then she recognized it for what it really was: someone knocking on the door to her home. Well, she thought to herself as she allowed her eyes to close, giving herself to the darkness, Maybe I’m not the last one after all.

⁕⁕⁕

The sound of music emanating from the house was what brought Quentin to Cora’s home. He had been traveling along back roads, avoiding the main highways and major cities for the past two months and hadn’t come across another living person. The only music he had heard during this time had been when he hummed songs he used to know to himself to calm his nerves in the heavy quiet of every night. Hearing music for the first time in so long was almost frightening, but it awoke in him a hopeless longing for normality and he found himself trekking with more deliberation than ever toward the direction of Cora’s cottage.

He was not a looter. Standing on Cora’s doorstep he had the manners to at least knock first. Plus, these days, you never knew who was waiting behind any door, possibly holding a rifle or a shotgun ready to kill you without hesitation. Quentin had not seen any such person, nor any person at all, but he was of the mind that he could not be too careful. After a minute of knocking to no response however, he tried the door handle to find it unlocked. He opened the door tentatively.

“Hello?” he called into the house. No answer. He tried again. “Hello? Is there anyone home? I heard the music…. If there’s anyone here, please, don’t be alarmed. I’m not going to hurt you.” Apart from the continuing music his calls were met with silence.

Moving cautiously through the house he finally made his way into the den where he found the old woman. At first he thought she was only sleeping, but then he saw what she was wearing, saw the bottle of wine and empty bottle of pills. It was then that he knew. The sight of her was saddening, but the pictures on the coffee table were what truly broke Quentin’s heart. Poor woman, he thought. At least there was a small smile on her face. At least she hadn’t died screaming like so many others. Still, he couldn’t leave her like that.

He found the shovel next to the dead acacia tree near what looked to be a freshly dug grave. Maybe she had buried her husband or child there, Quentin wasn’t sure. Whoever it was had been important enough for the old woman to make the effort to bury, so Quentin decided to dig the woman’s grave next to the tree as well. She would be in the company of her loved ones.

Quentin was young, only 21 years old and still very fit, but the work was tiring and the ground was nearly frozen. Digging the grave gave him a swollen respect for the old woman. The strenuous work involved in his own digging made it hard for him to believe that she had done it herself, but the earth did not lie.

Quentin wrapped the old woman in the blanket that he had found her curled up in and gently laid her down into the hole. He filled it in in a matter of minutes and patted it solid and smooth with the blade of the shovel. He had no words to say to the old woman’s body. He did not even know her name. Instead he just hoped in his heart that whoever she was, she had found peace.

Turning away from the grave Quentin headed back up to the house and stood on the lawn to survey it. He had traveled so far to find himself here and suddenly he felt very tired. He did not really know what he had been searching for that entire time, but perhaps he had found it finally.

This seems like as good a place as any…. He thought to himself.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Quentin wiped his nostrils with his sleeve. His nose had begun to bleed again.

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[ecotone99]

[SF] [Post-Apocalyptic] GRAVES

Her eyes streamed hot tears down her soot blackened face, half on account of Maisie being dead, but half to do with the fires still burning up the city. All the cities. Always. Fires she had set, and fires she hadn’t.

Gusts of icy wind carried ashes on its breath like hellish snowflakes alighting on Cora’s face and shoulders. The perpetual smell of smoke and gasoline fumes had long since burned out the old woman’s olfactory sensitivity, but the noxious fog that had become her countryside atmosphere still stung her eyes like dish soap. Not to mention she had been coughing up bloody phlegm for two weeks now.

Still, failing lungs or not, she had to find the will to carry on. She had to dig.

She didn’t have to dig very deep, but the work was still tiring. Cora wasn’t the young woman that she had been 20 years earlier. And even back then she had been lying through her teeth about her age, feigning mid-20’s youth when she knew damn well that she was looking at the far side of 35. Eric would always smile knowingly whenever she gave her “age” and he'd even play along, basking in the fantasy of being married to a significantly younger woman. Eric had always made her feel stronger and more confident than she thought she really ought to be. He had that way about him. And now, with 60 staring her in the face, her lungs failing as her own cells turned against her, compliments of the fallout radiation wafting on the easterlies…. Cora didn’t feel so strong. Alone, without Eric to place a loving hand on her shoulder in comfort…. Alone, without Maisie to lick her palm affectionately, Cora felt weaker than she ever did.

Stupid goddam dog. Wonderful, stupid fucking dog.

Perhaps the tears weren’t strictly caused by the smoke lingering from the fires. Cora took time to brush the salty rivulets away with her grimy sleeve, blinking back a barrage of new ones before they could form. There was work to do. On the horizon, 50 miles to the east, a storm rumbled over Denver in a swirling black vortex of nuclear lightning. Cora shivered.

She knelt in the stale radioactive dirt and dug the rusty trowel’s blade into the earth. After nearly an hour’s worth of steady work Cora was sweaty and her arms and finger joints were sore. Finally sitting up to scrutinize her efforts, unbending her tired back, she felt satisfied that she had scooped out a hole big enough to bury Maisie in. A new pit opened up in the old woman’s stomach and rose to catch in her throat. Staring into the hole, she felt the hopelessness crash upon her like an icy wave. The entire world was a graveyard now.

Maisie’s grave rested at the feet of an acacia tree in Cora’s petite backyard. The branches of the tree had long since been stripped forever of their leaves, the heart of the once proud monolith poisoned to death by careless Men. It had happened so fast, too. The bombs hadn't fallen more than a month before the last leaf fell withered and brown. The sight of it always sent an immediate wave of overwhelming shame roiling through Cora's bloodstream, like the cancer that ate at her organs. The culpability she felt beat on her heart with guilty hammers. But Maisie had always loved the old acacia, lying happily, tongue wagging lazily out of her mouth beneath the bowed, sparse branches even after they’d been disfigured skeletal. The whole country was skeletal now, so maybe this was as good a place as any.

If it was good enough for Maisie, it was good enough for Cora. And it was certainly better than the grave of complete obliteration that her husband and children had received in Denver.

Cora had no coffin to bury her dead Labrador in. Instead, she had wrapped Maisie in an old crocheted blanket that had been passed down to her by her mother. It was the nicest consideration Cora could give the poor animal, owing to her extremely limited resources.

After digging the hole, the act of carrying the bundled up dog from the foyer of her home back out to the tree exerted nearly all of Cora’s remaining energy. Once Maisie had been interned in her grave, Cora felt so worn down that she considered laying down and dying right there with her dog, just as Quasimodo had with Esmerelda in Paris. There was a time when a more wistful version of herself might sigh at the idea of never seeing Paris, but that wistful version of her had died when the bombs fell. Now there wasn’t even a Paris to see.

Cora didn’t lay down and die, but she did sit with her back to the tree and her feet dangling slightly into Maisie’s grave, catching her breath as sweat ran from the nape of her neck, trickling down the back of her shirt. She fanned herself slightly out of habit, even though the air was far from warm, fires or not. July was already well underway but the sky boiled with overcast grey-black clouds blotting out the sun completely, lending the wind an arctic chill. She had read about such phenomena when she was younger. A nuclear winter was what it was called. There hadn’t been any snowfall yet, just ashes masquerading as sleet, but that dreaded weather couldn’t be far off. No doubt the snow would fall poisoned like the rest of everything else.

Pushing herself up off her palms, one knee in the dirt for balance, Cora unceremoniously began bulldozing the mound of loose earth she’d dug up back into the grave. Clods of mephitic soil caked onto the sleeves of her flannel shirt up to her elbows and another throbbing hum began to sound off at the base of her spine long before the work was finished. But eventually she stood and looked down at her handiwork, the grave once more filled.

“Well,” she said to Maisie, to the wind, to all of the ghosts of everyone who had once been, “I’ve done it. I’ve done my best.” Her voice caught in her throat so she swallowed hard and continued, committed to the eulogy. “I hope this is okay. I hope that this was enough.” The tears would not be denied now and her sleeves were too dirty to be used as Kleenex.

Absentmindedly, Cora smoothed the dirt on top of the grave with her left shoe. “I just want you to know how badly I’m going to miss you; how badly I miss you already. I never got to say goodbye to any of you. I said it when you left the house, but I didn’t know that this would happen. Nobody did…. But I wish to God that I could have known.” Her words were near gibberish amidst the sobbing. “It wasn’t supposed to be a real goodbye….”

Snot congested her nostrils. She sucked back on the phlegm and coughed a racking expectoration, spitting a gob of bloody mucus into the dusty earth. Even with no one to witness it, she still felt embarrassed by her spitting. And then she felt embarrassed at her own embarrassment.

After standing over the grave for a few minutes longer, half to pay respects to her dead dog, half to catch her breath, Cora walked back to what used to be the garden on the west side of her house to the shed that connected to the Atrium. Inside she found the old salvaged generator sitting as lifeless as Maisie. Not a naturally mechanically savvy individual, it had taken Cora quite some time to figure out how to operate the old piece of machinery. But necessity had turned her into an aficionado. She checked the fuel levels; enough to last the rest of the evening and partly into the night. Perfect. She flipped the fuel valve to On and moved the choke rod from right to left. Satisfied with her work Cora turned on the ignition and pulled the recoil cord four times until the genny thundered to life with an earthquake of noise that exploded through the eerie quiet of her uninhabited world. She set the choke to Run and when all was said and done she stood back, wheezing once more, coughing up another bout of blood. She had a thought that she might die right there in the shed and no one would ever find her. She was fairly certain that there was no one left.

The last living person Cora had seen had been Dawn, and eight year old girl who had outlived her parents only to die of radiation sickness two days later. That had been over a month ago. The girl’s throat was so ragged that right before she had passed her cries had become nothing more than lamb’s bleats muffled by her decaying esophagus. More than once, late at night when the screams kept Cora awake, she considered finding a gun and doing the merciful thing for the child. But no, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. As quickly as the urge developed, her cowardly nature bashed it back down within her.

Cora still felt guilty for not giving the girl a proper burial. The fear of contracting the same sickness that had killed everyone else in Grant had driven the spinelessness that controlled her and for the first month after the bombs had fallen she had refused to even leave her home. But then her food ran out.

She had found the girl crying on her stoop eating a pack of saltine crackers, the radiation already turning her into a gaunt caricature of what a healthy child should resemble, blotch sores oozing all over the spots of skin the girl's clothing didn't cover. She may as well have been a zombie the way that Cora had treated her, scrambling away up the hill back to her house, locking and barricading the doors and windows. Dawn, however, had not followed her. The little girl had been all skin and bones and lacked the strength to simply leave her parents property. And what would she do if she could? An empty world would be nightmarish for a child her age.

Cora knew that the girl had died the evening that the screaming stopped. She didn’t sleep that night either, though. Instead, she thought about Dawn dying alone in pain, surrounded by the bodies of her mother and father, confused and frightened. She thought about the radiation that had poisoned all of the families around her. She saw it as an airborne infection sliding into her own home through the cracks and eaves, irradiating her with the same time lapse slow death that had done away with every last one of her neighbors.

The next morning Cora burnt down Dawn’s house and every other house on her block except her own. She did not know that the radiation had already begun to corrupt her body. She did not realize that fire couldn’t kill away the Devil. All she knew was her own fear; the fear of becoming like them; cold, lifeless, rotten things, decaying in the darkness, coagulated black blood oozing from every orifice. The smell had been putrid.

Back inside of her home, the first thing Cora did was add several small logs to the coals still glowing red hot in the fireplace in the den. Soon a blaze crackled to life and began flooding the house with incandescent warmth, defrosting the chill that reminiscing had sent through Cora’s body. The old woman allowed herself time to stand before the fire, warming her bones for several minutes before the itchiness of the dirt and sweat on her body compelled her to get herself cleaned up.

The water still worked just as fine as it ever had, but Cora hadn’t trusted it for months now. It had been a difficult sacrifice at first, abstaining from baths and showers for fear that radiation had somehow poisoned the water mains; but in her mind it had been necessary. A dark part of her couldn’t help but imagine coming out of the tub, her body glowing radioactive green, the skin on her arms and legs and back boiling with blisters and sliding off her bones wet and sick the way meat slides off the bones of boiled chicken legs.

Instead of bathing she had taken to using baby wipes salvaged from the local supermarket. There wasn’t much food or water to be found there, but there was a stockpile of Wet Ones in the childcare isle that no one had thought to snatch up when everyone began looting in the beginning, a week or so before they realized that no amount of supplies could change the fact that they were all doomed. Cora had filled an entire shopping cart with as many wet wipes as could fit and in doing so was able to keep a moderate amount of her dignity intact.

Today, however, wasn’t a wet wipe day. Today was a day for funerals. Today was a special occasion.

With an acquiescent sigh, Cora turned both faucet knobs to full blast. The pipes rumbled, taking their sweet time to rush water through their months unused canals, but after a few seconds of reluctant groaning clear lukewarm water came blasting out the faucet into the polished porcelain tub. Cora engaged the drain stopper to allow the tub to fill and then poured in nearly an entire bottle of children’s Mr. Bubble that she had taken from the Value-Save specifically for this occasion. Rainbow sheened suds and the smell of bubblegum scented soap quickly filled the tub and air and brought a euphoric sense of nostalgia to Cora’s heart, warm and pleasant, but not without a heavy measure of sadness. The scent absentmindedly reminded her of her children when they were toddlers, splashing in the bathtub, using the bubbles to give themselves moustaches and beards and laughing at how old they’d made themselves look. Little did they know that they would never get the chance to see an age even close to what their imaginations helped feign.

When the tub had filled more than half-way, Cora stripped out of her dirty clothing and sighed as she slid into the bath. Instantly her muscles contracted and relaxed in a way that had become completely alien to her over the past few months. Removing a loofa that had hung unused over the mouth of the tub’s faucet for as long as Cora hadn’t used the tub, she began to methodically scrub her body down, erasing the grime that caked her arms and legs. The feeling of becoming clean was almost enjoyable. Dolloping a liberal amount of shampoo into the palm of her hand she massaged it into her scalp. Much more hair than she would have liked came out on her hands, compliments of the radiation poisoning, but Cora ignored it. The time for worrying about such things was over now. Now all that mattered were the terms of her comfort.

She drained the tub and held her head under the running faucet to rinse the shampoo out of her hair and thought twice about conditioning for old times sake. On second thought though, she went against it. She still had much more to do that evening and did not want to spend more time in the bathroom than she absolutely had to. Hair thoroughly rinsed, Cora turned off the faucet and stood up, reaching gingerly for a green fluffy towel hanging on a nearby rack, patting her body dry with it before wrapping it around her hair, twisting it at the top and stepping out of the tub onto the bathmat.

Despite the lukewarm temperature of the water, the cold of the house had caused the bathroom mirror to fog up a bit so Cora wiped it clear with her palm. The emaciated face of an old woman stared back at her, flushed from the bath. That wouldn’t do at all.

Padding softly down the hallway to her bedroom Cora found the black dress she had worn on her first date with Eric so long ago laying spread out on her bed waiting for her, the pearls she’d inherited from her mother when she was only a child laying next to the dress along with a pair of diamond earrings that Eric had given her on their 20 year anniversary. She had never really cared for the earrings much, believing that they were just too damn expensive to wear when she and Eric occasionally went out, but if ever there was a time to wear them, she thought, it was tonight.

Cora stepped into the dress and clasped the pearls around her neck and fastened the earrings to her ears then went to her vanity and opened a makeup pallet that she hadn’t used in so long that she was afraid the makeup might be dried up and unusable. To her delight it wasn’t.

She started with a primer, then worked her way to a foundation that brought out the glow in her cheeks and eyes. An outline with a mascara pencil made her baby blues pop vibrantly and a little bit of eye shadow gave her a rogue, smoky look that she couldn’t help but admit to herself was a bit ravishing. Cora opted to leave her eyelashes alone, but compromised by painting her lips a gorgeous bright red. There was not much to be done with her hair, but a few expertly placed bobby pins and a generous spray of MegaHold at least tamed the mess. Standing back to look at herself in the mirror, she felt a comforting sense of pleasure.

Downstairs the fire was burning greedily and the house smelled of earthy smoke. It had taken some time and more than a few breaks in which she doubled over to cough up blood, but the night before she had found her old record player and the trunk containing her teenage record collection in the attic and had lugged it all downstairs into the den. She might have cried if after setting it all up she had discovered that the player didn’t work, but there had been no need to cry because on a test run the old record player worked just as it had when she was sixteen. Her unlikely favorite singer had been Marty Robbins and she still had several of his vinyl records as a testament to that fact, and it was Marty Robbins that she chose.

“Tonight Carmen” crackled to life through the record player’s speakers and Cora sunk into the comfortable cushions of her couch. Standing on the coffee table in front of her were three pictures propped up in their frames: the photo from hers and Eric’s wedding, where they were mashing cake into each other’s faces, flanked by a picture of Sammy and James as children playing with Legos on the floor of their bedroom, Sammy staring into the camera smiling his goofy smile while James seized the opportunity to reach for the castle that his older brother had been constructing. The last photo on the far left was of Cora’s parents, June and Robert, her mother kissing her father’s surprised cheek at a barbecue before Cora had even been born.

Next to the pictures sat a large wine glass and an old bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon that Cora and Eric had been saving for after their children moved out of the house. That day would never come, or had come in a way that neither of them had expected, and so today was as good a day as any to drink the wine. Cora uncorked the old bottle and poured herself a full glass. Before she drank the wine she unscrewed the childproof cap from an orange prescription bottle of Valium spilling out about 27 pills into her palm. She tossed back about half of the handful at once, chasing it with a couple gulps of the wine, before finishing the handful on the second try, as well as draining her glass. She refilled the glass and sipped it, her heart racing with adrenaline from what she had just done. Half of her couldn’t believe that she’d done it, while the other half of her was glad she had.

Several minutes later the wine began to make her feel drowsy. Or at least she thought it was the wine. Surely the valium would take a bit longer than that, even at such a high dose? She did not really know. She did not really care. Tipping back her glass and abandoning it to instead drink directly from the bottle, spilling a little bit down her front in the process, Cora kicked her legs up onto the couch and lay on her side staring at the pictures of her dead family. I’ll see you soon….

In the background, as if coming from far down a tunnel she could hear the voice of Marty Robbins singing gently to her:

Have I told you lately when I’m sleeping

Every dream I dream is you somehow

Have I told you why the nights’re long

When you’re not with me, well darling I’m telling you now…

Cora’s eyelids felt heavy and the cold of her empty house sent a chill across her skin in pulsating waves of goosebumps. She pulled a blanket over her and tried to focus on the faces of her children and parents and of her husband. She felt as if she were sinking into the couch, falling away from her world with each second.

From down the tunnel of darkness that she found herself dissolving into she heard a knocking noise. At first a gentle rapping, then a more unsubtle pounding. At first she thought it was the sound of her own heartbeat, but then she recognized it for what it really was: someone knocking on the door to her home. Well, she thought to herself as she allowed her eyes to close, giving herself to the darkness, Maybe I’m not the last one after all.

⁕⁕⁕

The sound of music emanating from the house was what brought Quentin to Cora’s home. He had been traveling along back roads, avoiding the main highways and major cities for the past two months and hadn’t come across another living person. The only music he had heard during this time had been when he hummed songs he used to know to himself to calm his nerves in the heavy quiet of every night. Hearing music for the first time in so long was almost frightening, but it awoke in him a hopeless longing for normality and he found himself trekking with more deliberation than ever toward the direction of Cora’s cottage.

He was not a looter. Standing on Cora’s doorstep he had the manners to at least knock first. Plus, these days, you never knew who was waiting behind any door, possibly holding a rifle or a shotgun ready to kill you without hesitation. Quentin had not seen any such person, nor any person at all, but he was of the mind that he could not be too careful. After a minute of knocking to no response however, he tried the door handle to find it unlocked. He opened the door tentatively.

“Hello?” he called into the house. No answer. He tried again. “Hello? Is there anyone home? I heard the music…. If there’s anyone here, please, don’t be alarmed. I’m not going to hurt you.” Apart from the continuing music his calls were met with silence.

Moving cautiously through the house he finally made his way into the den where he found the old woman. At first he thought she was only sleeping, but then he saw what she was wearing, saw the bottle of wine and empty bottle of pills. It was then that he knew. The sight of her was saddening, but the pictures on the coffee table were what truly broke Quentin’s heart. Poor woman, he thought. At least there was a small smile on her face. At least she hadn’t died screaming like so many others. Still, he couldn’t leave her like that.

He found the shovel next to the dead acacia tree near what looked to be a freshly dug grave. Maybe she had buried her husband or child there, Quentin wasn’t sure. Whoever it was had been important enough for the old woman to make the effort to bury, so Quentin decided to dig the woman’s grave next to the tree as well. She would be in the company of her loved ones.

Quentin was young, only 21 years old and still very fit, but the work was tiring and the ground was nearly frozen. Digging the grave gave him a swollen respect for the old woman. The strenuous work involved in his own digging made it hard for him to believe that she had done it herself, but the earth did not lie.

Quentin wrapped the old woman in the blanket that he had found her curled up in and gently laid her down into the hole. He filled it in in a matter of minutes and patted it solid and smooth with the blade of the shovel. He had no words to say to the old woman’s body. He did not even know her name. Instead he just hoped in his heart that whoever she was, she had found peace.

Turning away from the grave Quentin headed back up to the house and stood on the lawn to survey it. He had traveled so far to find himself here and suddenly he felt very tired. He did not really know what he had been searching for that entire time, but perhaps he had found it finally.

This seems like as good a place as any…. He thought to himself.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Quentin wiped his nostrils with his sleeve. His nose had begun to bleed again.

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