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please-buckme · 4 years ago

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A Broken Heart.

Lee Bodecker x fem!reader

Chapter 2

Chapter warnings: 18+ mentions of death, mentions of sex, cursing, Lee being an ass, angst, meninist behaviors

Chapter summary: You move back home after three years to find your heart still in shambles.

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1 // Chapter 3

3 Years Later

After moving a whole county away, Highland Ohio to be exact, you stayed for quite some time. Your aunt was amazing and the sweetest woman you’d ever known, and living with her was a breeze. She’d even gotten you a job at the auto shop her recently deceased husband left to her, which you loved. Life was good, for a while. You never had a reason to come home until your momma got sick.

For the past year you watched as your momma slowly faded away until the last week of April when she finally passed in her sleep. You were devastated, of course, but not only because of her death. She didn’t have much to her name besides a couple thousand in the bank and the house you’d left so long ago, which she left all to you.

The house was old. White paneling a faint tint of brown, grey shutters that were almost all off their hinges and rust anywhere you looked. It was a fixer upper and there’s no way you could sell it in its current condition. So, you decided to move back to Knockemstiff, just for the time being.

In all honesty, you’d grown to hate that town. Nothing but bad memories and any good memories you’d had were tarnished completely. So, once the house was decent enough to sell, you were out of there and back to the life you’d created in Highland.

Your aunt and you drove together in her pick up truck back to the house after your momma passed. She helped you unload your stuff and take things to the necessary rooms.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? I can make my famous pancakes. I know you love’em.” She grinned.

“As tempting as that sounds, I’m fine. Please, I insist you go now before it gets dark.” You pull your aunt into a hug, a tight hug.

“I’m gonna miss havin’ you around, kiddo.” She sighed, her breath fanning over your neck.

“It’s only for a few months. I’ll be back to annoying you in no time, oldie.”

“Hey, I’m not old.” She laughed and pointed her finger at you sternly but still in a lighthearted way.

“And I’m not a kid.”

She laughed a little more then sighed, “Well, I guess I’ll head out. Call me if you need anything and don’t forget to go down to Billy’s tomorrow. He’s excited to bring you in.”

You smiled, “How could I forget? I need some sort of income to fix this craphole up.”

You walked your aunt to her car and waved her goodbye as she drove way. Your eyes welled up but you made sure not to cry in front of her or she’d never leave.

Once you went back in, you immediately got to work. Starting in the kitchen, you didn’t have much but a few coffee cups. The house was still occupied with your momma’s things and you were already dreading having to go through it all.

Things started to come together room by room as you worked most of the day away. You cleaned and rearranged things to your liking now that it was your house. It felt almost empowering to do what you want. You’d never lived alone so, in a way, this was an adventure as well.

You took your old room instead of the master, since that’s where your momma passed. It gave you goosebumps just thinking about and you knew you’d never get any sleep if you stayed in there. Your room wasn’t big but it was good enough for now and much better than sleeping in your momma’s death bed, hard pass.

You’d taken a seat on the couch with some tea you’d brewed up earlier that morning. This was the first time you sat down since arriving, and of course there’s a knock at the door.

“Whatever you’re selling, I promise you, I ain’t interested.” You shout, too exhausted to even attempt getting up.

The knocking continued, “Oh, for fucks sake.” You groaned under your breath and stood on your aching feet to tell them to fuck off in person. You opened the door, “did you not hear me the first time. I said-“

“Hi, Y/n” Lee greeted as he removed his hat.

You scoffed, “Can I help you with somethin’, Sheriff?”

Lee stood there, fiddling with the bill of his hat. His belly had gotten a little bigger and his cheeks had gotten a little chubbier, but you couldn’t help the hitch in your throat when his wedding ring caught your eye. Just a basic silver band, nothing special. But it still left a hollow pit in your stomach.

“I-“ he cleared his suddenly dry throat. “I heard you was back in town. Thought I’d come see for ma self if the rumors were true.”

“Welp, here I am. You can go now.”

“Y/n, I-“

“No, Lee, please. I’ve had a long day and I honestly don’t feel like talking to you right now. No, I take that back. I don’t feel like talking to you at all.”

“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think, doll.” He grins.

“Goodbye, Sheriff.” You shut the door only to hear him holler at you from the other side.

“Still can’t say my name, huh, Doll? Boy, I really did a number on you, didn’t I?” Your heart sank at his words. It seemed your pain was a joke to him this whole time. You’d always pictured him crying alone like you were but clearly that was never the case. Y’all’s relationship didn’t seem one sided until you were the only one hurt by the fall out.

“Welcome home, Y/n.” He said before you heard his boots click against the porch as he left.

You took a deep breath as you backed away from the door. Tears rimmed your eyes and you scoffed aloud to yourself. After three years you still weren’t over him and you knew that. You didn’t know, however, that he’d still have such a hold on you. And by the way he reacted to how sensitive you were towards the situation still didn’t help the ever growing void that ran through your entire loveless body. The only man you ever loved looked at you as if you were a quick fuck and a punchline.

A tear burned against your cheek and you were quick to wipe it away. You swore to yourself that you’d never cry over that man again and you won’t, instead you decided it was time for a much needed bath.

The bath was scolding hot, just how you liked it, and you opened up a bottle of wine as a sort of reward for the work you’d done today. Once the water got cold and the wine ran out, you brushed your hand and teeth and went to bed.

The sun beamed down against your skin as you walked to the local auto shop where your aunt had set you up with another job. You were always good with numbers and they desperately needed someone on the books. Your job would be to look at their spending over the last few months and figure out some sort of budget. You did that for your aunt at her shop, so this didn’t worry you at all.

“Hi, you must be Billy.” You greet the owner, “I’m

y/n, Peggy’s niece.”

“Oh, yes. I’m glad you finally made it down.” He beamed, shaking your hand, “How long will you be here for?”

“I’m not sure, actually. Just until I get my house fixed up enough to sell.” You say, retracting your hand from his sweaty one.

“Ah, well as luck would have it, our secretary just quit on us last week, so there’s a position you’ll adjust to right fine.”

You scoffed, “Wait a minute. Did you say secretary?”

“Yeah. You need to get your hearing checked, Honey?” He grinned. What is it with the men in this town?!

“No, I heard you just fine. My problem is that I was supposed to be your Budget Holder, not a damn secretary.” Your face was turning a touch of pink as you became increasingly annoyed.

“That’s a man's job, sweetie. We don’t you blown a fuse tryin’ ta add up all them numbers, now do we?”

“You can’t be serious.” You say flatly.

“Look, it’s the only position we got. Take it or leave it.”

Everything in you wanted to March out of that shop and never go back again. A secretary's position is nothing to frown upon, but to only be offered it because you’re a woman was despicable. Sadly, you needed this job and it would only be for a few months. So, when you told him you’d take the job you swallowed every ounce of respect you had for yourself. Knockemstiff was truly the worst town in America.

“Sounds great. We’ll see you tomorrow for training. There’s no dress code but there are a few things you’ll need to know before starting. I’ll fill you in once we start your training tomorrow.” He shook your hand again, completely ignoring the furious grimace on your face.

“Great. See you tomorrow.” You mumbled, walking away so you didn’t ‘accidentally’ hit your new boss.

Before heading home you decided to stop and grab some things for the house. Being sick, your momma didn’t eat much besides soup, and there was an over abundance of vanilla flavored Ovaltine cans littering the kitchen counters, which you hated.

The second the doors opened, all eyes were on you. You even heard a faint gasp coming from the woman at the register. A smirk crept upon your face. These people's lives were so boring that they still aren’t over your breakup that happened so long ago. Rolling your eyes, you grabbed a cart and headed down the produce aisle.

Once you grabbed the vegetables you’d need for a stew, you headed towards the baking aisle. You need the ingredients for an upside down pineapple cake your momma used to make for you as a kid. Your aunt was coming into town on Saturday to lend a hand and celebrate her birthday. You told her to go have fun, but she insisted on spending her special day with you.

As you searched for the baking soda, you heard your name.

“Did you see Y/n’s back in town?” A lady with a high pitched voice whispered.

“I did. I just saw her. Poor thing. She’s probably still caught up on the sheriff. Prolly wish it was her that was on his arm instead of Laura-Jean.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I know it. Wouldn’t you, though? He’s so handsome.” The lady with the high patched voice giggled.

“Oh, hush! Don’t say things like that.” The other lady joined the high pitched one in whispered giggles. “Oh my goodness, here he comes.” She cleared her throat, “Afternoon, Sheriff.”

“Evenin’,Ladies. Y’all behavin’ yourselves?” You could hear the smirk in his voice.

They both giggled and in unison said, “Yes, Sheriff.”

“Oh give me a break.” You grimaced to yourself.

“Heard Y/n’s back in town.” The high pitched one spoke up. Your face burned. Why would they bring you up to him so bluntly like that? Everyone in this town was so unbelievably nosy.

“I- I heard. Actually just went to see her yesterday.” He said, clearing his throat.

“Uh-oh, the misses didn’t like that, I’m sure.” They giggled.

“Oh, no. She didn’t mind. I was just droppin’ by to give her my condolences about her momma dyin’. Then, she slammed the door in my face. I guess she’s still pretty upset with me.” He was pouting, trying to get some sort of sympathy. If you rolled your eyes any harder you thought they’d pop out of your head.

“Oh, you poor thing. Is there anything we can-“

Suddenly the baking soda slipped from your hand and scattered all other the floor in a puff of dust. “Shit, shit, shit.” You whispered to yourself.

“What was that?” One of the ladies asked.

“Excuse me, ladies.” Lee said. You could hear his boots clacking against the floor on there way over to you.

Shit.

You desperately wanted to run away but leaving this mess for someone to clean up wasn’t right, not even with the predicament you found yourself in. “Well, well, well,” Lee mocked as he rounded the corner. “Only here for less than a day and you’re already causin’ trouble.”

“Stay out of this, Bodecker.” You huff, trying to scoop the baking soda back into the card box it spilled from.

“Was you eavesdroppin’, girl?” He asked, kicking the soul of your shoe.

You scoffed, “Oh, please. I could give two shits what you say about me, Bodecker.”

He leaned in close, hovering over your left side. You heard him chuckle which startled you. He was so close. You could feel the familiar heat radiating from his body and smell that familiar cologne. His lips came down close to your ear. He licked them and then whispered, “If ya weren’t eavesdroppin’, how’d ya know I was talkin’ bout you, hm?”

Your eyes shuttered closed as he spoke, feeling his hot breath against your cheek. His deep southern drawl always made you weak. It took you back to those times in the back of the cruiser. He whispered such dirty praises in your ear when you would ride his cock. Those dirty words that could make you cum in seconds.

“You still with me, doll?” You felt him tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You flitched and stood up, “I- don’t touch me and stop calling me doll, alright? I really don’t have time for your games today, sheriff, and I’m not even really sure what you’re playin’ at in the first place.”

He smirked, running a thumb across his lip, “Darlin, I think the only thing I ever played was you..”

“I-“ your breath hitched in the back of your throat, “I have to go.” You turned to walk away, leaving the mess you’d made and your cart behind. Your eyes welled up with tears again. You didn’t know the man that stood in front of you. Lee was nothing but good to you when you dated and now he’s the most hateful man you’d ever met. The man you loved had disappeared and there’s nothing you could do to bring him back, no matter how bad you wanted to. A tear stained your cheek as you sped through the aisle. You could hear Lee hollering for you to stop but you wouldn’t this time.

All the heartbreak and sorrow that you’d left behind was creeping its way back in. The sooner you sold the house and got the hell out of there, the better.

Dividers by: @firefly-in-darkness

Taglist: @haydens-moles , @c00lkidvibes , @tcc-gizmachine , @buckysm3talarm , @gogolucky13 , @cryptidcasanova , @heavenlyseb , @writersbuck , @teddy-bearbaby , @bbmommy0902 , @sweetllamaparadise , @thereblogcrusader , @aleemendoza2425-blog , @frostbytebaby , @jessyballet , @emotionallyandphysicallydone , @sarge-barnes-sir , @generalbagelcookieslime , @lady-loki-ren , @dime-piece-xo , @greeneyedblondie44

(Dm me to be added to taglist)

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chaos-burst · 4 years ago

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Have some trans Enor Campaign NPCs for this TDoV!

Finnian

Drow Paladin (Oath of Redemption), brother of our party’s rogue, Finnian knew pretty early that he was not, in fact, a girl and was quietly supported by all of his family members. His mom might suck, but not in this particular direction. At the moment he’s busy beating up bullies twice his size during sparring sessions and picking up strays left and right.

Nika

My high wisdom dumbass pink tiefling druid who spends his days planning prison breaks, lounging on trees and flinging himself off of high places. If you would ask him his gender, he would just say yes. He loves poetry, the forest, justice, birds and flying. When he’s not trying to overthrow the government, he reads everything he can get his hands on.

Marik

Half-elven Cleric (Peace Domain), one of the smartest and most accomplished military leaders of the empire, she spends her days training recruits and finding the most promising soldiers. She has many nicknames which include Maiden of Mercy and The Golden Shield that inspire Finnian to follow her like a puppy. Her hobbies include showing the middle finger to elven nobility and being an overall badass.

Arek

A dwarven fighter I completely unironically based on Gimli when I first made him. He’s married to his lovely husband Vamir (high elven ranger aka Legolas) and they have two biological and one (freshly) adopted children. Just like his husband he left his family behind and spends his day gardening and bee keeping in the countryside.

Halvalin Lin

Halvalin is a high elven illusion wizard and has recently been adopted by Vamir and Arek after running away from her abusive home. She grew up in a very cisnormative and heteronormative society and doesn’t really know it yet, but she is some kind of nonbinary and started her journey by cutting her long hair into a buzzcut. Now she has all the time in the world to figure out how gender works and a trans dad to help her out with that.

Illifer

A grey tiefling ranger with a mysterious past who is now part of a poor tiefling community. They were recently abducted while trying to save some of their people from strange scientific experiments. Illifer was found starving by a goblin hermit living in the countryside and nursed back to health by them. They have been friends ever since.

Humming-of-the-bees

A yellow summer goblin living in a hollowed out hill in the countryside. Being a summer goblin Humming-of-the-bees hates the snow and the cold and they usually spend their winter days sort of hibernating in their hill home. They enjoy trying out different kinds of soups, long walks in the night and spending their time with animals rather than people.

Fan

An earth genasi (and... definitely something else...) Paladin (Oath of the Ancients) who is part of a freedom fighter group that lives in the forest. Fan has no concept of gender, being a 3m tall mountain of a person who’s, for big parts, made out of solid rock. Fan is the paladin of an illegal primal deity called Kol Yug Dan and they are the main reason that all of their reckless, angry friends are still alive.

Noa

Noa (??? bard/rogue) is a close friend of Finnian, genderfluid and very confused by the cisnormative society they found herself in. He doesn’t like being the center of attention, which is one of the reasons why they like being friends with Finnian who attracts people like a flame attracts moths. She enjoys people watching and studying them like some sort of other species, is very blunt and has been described as a “complete weirdo” by many people.

#enor campaign #ocs #text #d&d #dungeons and dragons #tdov #trans and nonbinary #screeching into the void

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fuckinuchihas · 4 years ago

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KONOHAMARU X READER

NOT RATED-WILL PROBABLY END UP EXPLICIT

PART ONE

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNINGS:

Injury to Reader, Embarrassed Reader, Uzumaki relation implied of Reader, more to be added later I’m sure.

If I’ve forgotten anything be sure to let me know!

You don’t want to use it, you haven’t in years...it’s hidden for a reason and only members of or around the Uzumaki clan have mastered it.

It will give too much away and yet…

You will die, Konohamaru will die if you don’t.

Giving your own life for a mission is one thing, but you won’t let his light fade out so quickly.

“Adamantine Sealing Chains!!” you shout, the last threads of your chakra sear out from your chest. You feel your heart pound in your ears, it’s so loud you can’t hear or focus on anything else. Not until it slows to a stuttering rhythm and you manage to lift your eyelids one more time.

You got the bastard. He made it clear that he was hell bent on bringing down the leaf and then moving on to the entire land of fire plus he had the power to back it up.

You feel faint but force your eyes to stay open until you’re really sure he’s no longer a threat and finally, the dark, cold chakra that you’re pulling from him ebbs out. You sigh in relief as your body starts to fall, you barely feel the soft landing before everything slips into the darkness.

~~~~~!!~~~~~

“Hey, don’t you think it’s time to get up now?” he says, though the normal playfulness is forced. You can tell even after only knowing him for a few days. The jonin apprentice to the hokage has actually been quite useful, much to your surprise.

You’d heard rumors that Lord Seventh had taken the kid under his wing back when he was a genin himself and you considered the possibility that maybe it was just a brotherly fondness for the boy. However their relationship must have matured alongside their incredible ninja powers because other than the one time you were lucky enough to catch the end of a battle starring Hatake Kakashi, the copy ninja; before he became the sixth hokage, you’d never seen anyone so...so...badass.

It was hot.

You didn’t wanna wake up from the nice dream you were having, reliving the moment your own badass skills saved the people of the village hidden in the leaves. They might not be your own clan, but with an Uzumaki in charge it felt more like home than anywhere else.

“Mmm home,” you say, mumbling in your sleep.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible just yet. You need to eat something so you can regain your strength,’ he says, though you’re not lucid enough to really process the words.

You float in that in between sleep and rest stage just a little longer before the pains of battle bring you crashing back to reality. You grunt as you attempt to sit up, but he puts a gentle hand on your shoulder and quickly keeps you from elevating too much.

“Easy, you’re still in pretty bad shape and I did a rush job on wrapping that leg, you need to be careful,” Konohamaru says, but he is a solid weight at your back and helps you sit up just enough to comfortably drink the soup broth he made for you.

You look skeptically at the dish, “I have some food pills in my pack…” you say, but he vetoes it quickly with a shake of his head.

“You need the protein, it’s not bad I promise,” he says, offering a spoonful.

“Not bad, how reassuring…” you answer sarcastically, but you sip the broth all the same. It has a weird salty taste like he showed absolutely no restraint to seasoning but you’ve certainly had worse so you keep quiet and let him feed you.

And here you were hoping to escape this with your dignity intact. So much for plans A-F for fuck my life.

Once you’ve eaten enough to suit him and your stomach, you do start to feel mildly better which really only makes you feel worse. The numbness and emotional distance from the fight have disappeared bringing your pain and injuries to the forefront of your mind.

“So can I ask you something?” he says, and you sigh. You expected this was coming.

“If I say no, will you give up?” you reply, clouding your eyes and flattening yourself back against the mat.

“If you don’t want to answer I’ll understand and try not to bother you but obviously after that...I can’t help but be curious.”

It’s fair, it definitely wasn’t something you wanted to reveal but now he’s seen more of you than anyone has in a long time and somehow that makes you feel like he deserves a few answers. You swallow and breathe out a long exhale. “You can have three questions, and if you tell anyone, you’re dead.”

You expect him to just come out with a bunch of nonsense because as much as he’s nurtured some damn fine jutsu, he’s kind of like an excitable puppy at the best of times. Instead he nods and starts to think on it. Fuck...it means his questions will be more pointed, but you made a deal so you resign yourself to whatever that might mean for your future.

He stays quiet a lot longer than you expect, you nearly drift back off to sleep before the smooth baritone of his voice filters back in the small space between you.

“Where did you come from? he asks carefully. You can tell he’s trying to make it more conversational than a tactical assault of questions, but you also can’t help but snort at the idea that it’s anything else.

“I grew up in a small village outside the land hidden in the waterfalls,” you answer, “Though my father said we came from Uzushiogakure but that one day the village hidden in the leaves would be my home and I never questioned it...still don’t.”

He mulls that over, seeming to take it in before speaking again.

“Are you-I mean does Naruto know?” Konohamaru asks, this time not nearly as confident when he speaks.

“Pretty sure he knows the leaf village is my home, yeah…” You try but he gives you a wry grin and you can’t just let it be no matter how much you might want to. “No, at least I don't think he does.”

He seems to understand the weight of what you said and those big deep grey eyes stare back at you with something that makes you feel a little queasy.

“That’s two, the other one can wait...I need to rest,” you lie, well it’s hardly a lie but it’s the best escape plan you can come up with so you’ll take it. Thankfully he lets it go and doesn’t push further.

It feels like a hollow victory.

~~~~~!!~~~~~

He wakes you up again a few hours later, the hottest part of the day has finally passed and you feel exhausted still but thankfully you’re not in quite as much pain. This time when you reluctantly start to stir, he’s there at your side in an instant but instead of pushing you back down he just supports your back as you try to sit up fully, or at least mostly upright.

“Here,” he says, pushing a bowl of soup with some actual meat in it and your stomach grumbles happily in return. You feel your face heat up just a bit at how loud it was, but you ignore it in favor of actually tasting the soup. It’s not any better the second time but the fish has been properly treated and cooked so when you get a bite of it past your lips you actually moan in pleasure.

“This is really good…the fish,” you specify, because the salt in the brine is even heavier with the added meat.

“Thank you, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to catch anything, I didn’t want to leave you alone too long… but I managed to get us a few catfish before I had to come back,” he says, and you feel a vicious flare of heat rising up in your belly at the mention of you being incapacitated, a burden...something you swore to yourself that you’d never be.

The fish doesn’t taste nearly as good for the consecutive bites but it will help rebuild your chakra so you eat it all the same, determined to pay back his efforts ten fold.

Once you’ve finished, you remind him that he has another question to ask but he waves you off and says there’s time for that later as he cleans up the campsite.

You feel the debt grow heavier on your shoulders.

You’ve been putting it off as long as possible because you are the master of your own body but eventually it rebels and you know you’re not going to be able to ignore it any longer. Enough of your chakra has replenished so that you don’t feel woozy at the thought of moving but the injury on your leg is still very much a hindrance and the last thing you want, is to ask for help.

You wait until his back is turned and using the tree behind you, you brace yourself against it and slowly pull the rest of your body up until you’re standing. You’re a little light headed and you can feel the bloody scratches on your back because your jonin vest wasn’t there to protect you, but you’re upright so...progress.

You stumble forward, feeling your dinner threaten to come back up as the leaves rustle around your feet.

Well shit.

“Fu-what do you think you’re doing?” Konohamaru says, rushing to your side so fast you can barely tell he wasn’t there the whole time.

“I’m getting some privacy!” you say, it comes out as more of a squeak than you’d like.

“I could have left if you’d just asked-”

“I can’t-ugh,” you say in frustration. Eventually you give up what little care for modesty you once had and bite the bullet. “I can’t take a piss where we camp!”

That turns the tables for a moment, Konohamaru blushes a bit and stutters away only to rush back when your balance starts to waiver. “Here just-just let me help you get there...then you can-do whatever you need to do,” he says, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, sure…” you say, because really you don’t have any options at the moment. Fuck your fucking leg, anyway.

He leaves you in a cluster of trees and you sigh in relief when your persistent bladder finally empties. As much as you hate to admit it, you do actually feel less grumpy once that’s dealt with. It’s not easy managing with your leg the way it is but you come out of it as clean as can be expected and only wistfully dreaming of hot springs.

When you’ve finally made it far enough away from the drop zone to call him back over he’s quickly at your side and helping you back to the camp as if it was his solemn duty.

You both love and hate it.

~~~~~!!~~~~~

You growl at him because you don’t like feeling weak but he just pats your head, laughs, and gently lays you back down on your bedroll that seems much fuller than usual.

It takes awhile for you to calm yourself back down but eventually you turn to him and say a soft, “Thank you, Konohamaru...I-y’know, I appreciate everything you’ve had to do.”

“It’s the least I could do, really…” he says, like he believes it, like he doesn’t see it as a burden. It’s pretty convincing but you know the truth and you won’t let yourself be swayed.

“I’ll pay you back...somehow,” you reply quietly but either he doesn’t hear you or he pretends not to because he doesn’t respond.

When it gets dark you can see him start to droop a little. He’s still alert, but you can tell he’s exhausted too, he probably hasn’t slept since the fight because it’s all you seemed to have done.

“I can stay up, keep watch...wake you if anything happens,” you say, but he waves you off.

“Look, I get the fact that I’m injured and not in top form but my vision hasn’t been affected and neither has my ability to speak or set barriers. I can keep an eye out on everything while you sleep for a little while,” you say, stubbornly humphing and crossing your arms over your chest.

You almost miss the way his gaze drops down for a second but he quickly brings it back to your eyes so you’re not entirely sure it was what you think it was.

Ugh men, even when they’re sleep deprived and probably half brain dead, they still have the time and ability to check out your rack.

“Alright, he says...but waits until you’ve put up a barrier seal before actually trying to sleep.

It doesn’t take him long to drift off.

Thankfully he doesn’t snore. He almost looks kind of peaceful, soft in his sleep. It’s...cute.

You hate that you think it but you can’t really stop yourself. He probably should have left you on your own and headed back to the leaf to give a report but he won’t, he’s stubborn and too much of the Nanadaime’s philosophy has seeped in over the years, you guess.

He absolutely refuses to leave you behind.

You had brought it up several times the first day in your short stages of lucidity.

He was pretty offended the first few times. He got over that quickly and just moved straight onto exasperation.

The firelight flickers down a bit as time passes, you keep your guard up though, even if you don’t think you’re in any danger of unexpected company.

The road you’d been on in the first place was nothing but dust and withered plants. You’re doubtful anyone has used it in quite some time. The only reason you were there was because of him. Mori Michi, of Takigakure; the place that was once your home too. The black beast tsunami, he’d been called. Even now, knowing he’s sealed away, you shiver at the memory of bloodlust held in his eyes.

You scoot a little closer to the fire but it’s slowly dying and you don’t really have the energy or will to sustain it. Konohamaru isn’t going to freeze to death and neither are you so you watch it die out, slowly.

He wakes up, a few different times. He’s restless, but you notice he doesn’t check to see if you’re still awake or if the wards are still intact, because he trusts you and that’s at least somewhat reassuring.

~~~~~!!~~~~~

When the sun starts to show over the horizon he wakes up again, this time he rolls out of his bedding and says a soft, sleep rough, “Morning.”

It’s almost impossible not to find it adorable.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” you say with a grin.

He blinks back at you for a minute as he tries to get his bearings. “Nothing bigger than a bunny rabbit got close to the barrier last night so we’re safe. After breakfast I’d like to go to the river and wash up-,” You start but his head snaps over to you as if he’s imagining having to help you with that, but you rush to finish your thoughts. “I should be able to manage that on my own, my leg is much better today.”

As if to prove your point you point toward the now roaring fire that is roasting a skinned rabbit and smile, “That one is yours,” you say, feeling quite happy with yourself when his eyes widen ever so slightly.

“Oh you didn’t have to-thanks,” he says, and it’s cute that he seems impressed by you. You like making him feel as rattled as you are when you’re around him.

“It’s not a problem, you say. “There’s some robin eggs a few paces south if you want to gather them I’ll cook them for you, but tree climbing isn’t really something I can do at the moment.”

“Nah this is fine, this should be more than enough actually,” he says, some of the roughness of sleep finally waning from his voice.

You kinda miss it, but you certainly don’t mention that aloud.

He digs in and before he gets through the first full bite he turns to you and grins, “This is really good!”

“It’s not too bad,” you agree, because you tasted your own rabbit and it was quite nice, especially when you didn’t have to choke down a bucket of Konohamaru’s salty sea brine with it.

He finishes his breakfast with gusto and you feel a little butterfly of warmth skirting around in your belly. It’s problematic at best but you push it away, you’re a kunoichi, a warrior, you don’t get stupid things like butterflies in your belly. Only chakra, memories of a home you’ve never seen, and the will of fire can exist there.

~~~~~!!~~~~~

The water feels cool against your skin as you dip into the lake. It’s refreshing and you let out a happy sigh when you get to a deeper part that will allow for your feet to graze the bottom while you float freely. You loosen the braid in your hair, letting it fall down before following with your head. The cool water around your ears is a bit of a rush as your skin adjusts to the temperature.

Everything is gorgeous, the lake, the warm sun that pops out behind a cloud every now and again. It’s hard to want to leave but you do so, reluctantly.

You swim back to the shore letting your feet touch down when you get closer, wincing when you feel weight on your injured leg again.

“Fuck,” you say, forgetting how that felt for awhile was nice. Now you weigh even more with the additional water and your leg is not enjoying it’s newfound responsibility either. You grit your teeth and move through the pain until you’re on land but before you can make it that far something in the water shifts, moves, and your foot is skidded backwards hard, fast, and into something that is sharp and metal.

You cry out in pain and before you can muffle the sound, Konohamaru comes running toward you.

You are still almost completely naked…

You sputter a bit but he lifts you up like he’s a romantic lead in a movie and you squawk indignantly.

He doesn’t seem to notice, it’s as if his instincts are overriding the most obvious things.

You’re never going to live this down, not in your own head at least.

Once your bleeding foot is treated, he begins to fall out of his ‘serious’ mode and back into normal Konohamaru. Of course, that also means he’s realized you’re half naked and then blushes like a ripe tomato before turning his head...is that blood on the ground beside him? Oh well, it’s probably from your foot. Though you’re not quite sure how it would have made it that far but you don’t question it further, mostly because you’re just struggling to grab clothes from your pack so you can redress.

It takes little thought to pull out the long yellow summer dress that was folded neatly at the bottom. It will allow for more movement than your uniform and it will make things much easier when it comes time to re-wrap your wounds. Not to mention it’s so much faster to put on than your gi.

“I’m um, I have clothes on…” you say, clearing your throat as you turn your head away. You don’t want to see him turn back around, it was embarrassing for you both. Not only did he see you at your most indecent, but it wasn’t even a good angle. You are proud of your muscle and you don’t mind the spare pounds for the most part, but what girl in their right mind wouldn’t be a little self conscious in your situation.

“I uh, I’m sorry...I shouldn’t have screamed and worried you,” you say, not really knowing how to get past the moment without addressing it. Even if it's uncomfortable you need to get it out of your system so you can get back to as close to normal as humanly possible.

“Oh no it’s okay...you were hurt. I uh, I’m sorry I uh touched you while you were…” he stops, and it seems like he’s remembering your naked body in his arms and you kind of want to scream at him but you just blush because now you’re thinking about his strong arms wrapped around you while you were naked, or mostly that way.

“It’s fine, it’s no different than a swimsuit really,” you say, and it’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told because while he was just being logical and carrying you back to camp so that he could tend to your wound, your thoughts during that moment were far from professionally distant.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says, chucking a bit as he rubs the back of his neck.

You’ve finally gathered the courage to look over at him and his cheeks are still a little red but he mostly looks unaffected.

For some reason you find yourself disappointed. You thought when his eyes drifted before...well it doesn’t matter what you thought. He’s clearly not feeling anything but camaraderie when it comes to you.

Sigh.

Oh well, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time and you doubt it will be the last.

‘Time to move on,’ you say to yourself, you’re a firm believer in not letting things linger. Cut out the parts of you that want him for more than a friend and you’ll be fine.

“Huh?” he asks.

“I said it’s time to move on, we need to get closer to Konoha and once my hair dries a bit, I’ll put it back up and we can be on our way. At my current pace it will still take us a few days to get back but staying here isn’t going to make my injuries heal any faster,” you respond, “And you refuse to leave without me so..”

He sighs, as if he’s told you this a million times. “You’re right, I won’t...we started this mission together and we’re going to return home together.”

“Whatever you say,” you answer, and then slowly start brushing your hair to allow the wind to blow through it more easily. You really need to get back to the leaf village; being out here, with him... it makes forgetting him much more difficult.

PART TWO

#Naruto #my fic #my hc #konohamaru #reader/konohamaru #reader insert fic #konohamaru sarutobi #adult konohamaru #my boy kona #part one

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mehenxe · 4 years ago

Note

“ i want to be in love. ” / “ can i be a little nasty?” / “ it wasn’t anyone’s fault. not really. ” / “ i’m losing my mind, losing control. ” / “ terrified of my love for you?” / “ your words felt like sharp knives. ” / “ how did you become like this?” / “ say something nice or don’t speak. ” / “ really? what did you dream about?” / “ we were both afraid, shut up. ” — dealer's choice, have fun.

“ i want to be in love. ” // the grey seer ◌ her best friend.

and the depiction of love upon the laptop screen in front of them, high-definition, remastered in soundtrack, unfolds. black-and-white creases and tears, static in the picture, what could i do if i didn’t have you? where will i go? and the embrace, the hands around the shoulders, the subtle squeezing of the appendages. she watches the scene, & then watches him, enraptured, wanting it. does he even realise he has remarked this aloud to her? spoken it into existence, wished so desperately for its occurrence? “i know,” she whispers. just in case he hadn’t. just in case this is a secret he wished for the walls to swallow. “i know you do. and maybe you already are. and it just hasn’t seen you yet.” perhaps she is thinking of herself. perhaps she is thinking of a woman with dark, short hair and gloss on her lips. perhaps she is thinking about all the things she said. or hadn’t. “it’ll happen. i promise. just be patient.”

“ can i be a little nasty? ” // the french serpent ◌ his beaded shark.

the inquiry interrupts the little song and dance he has happening in front of the stove. two pans on the burners, one sizzling, one being brought up to sizzling after being coated in olive oil. it is a surprise supper, which he framed as cooking for others but, in truth, he planned to cook for the two of them. he glances over his shoulder, arching his brow. breakfast for supper: the staple of french toast, of course, and then some spins on grilled cheese, quick little soup. something sweet bakes in the oven. he meets that little smirk, and realises he must be in a good mood. ( it pleases him greatly to see him smile. ) “a — little nast-ee?” he is dressed in a matching set of black silk pyjamas and bright blue shark slippers. his apron is blush-pink, with the princess is in the castle embroidered in the corner. he shakes his hips as if dancing. “now, i am intrigued? tell me at once what is on your mind, eh? nice kisses in, ah, naughty places?”

“ it wasn’t anyone’s fault. not really. ” // the god of death ◌ his god of life.

the city stretches out behind them, fog-riddled, dense, encrypted. a myriad of secrets he must discover within its recesses, all of them putrid, stinking of bile. he sits at the desk, crossed one ankle over one knee, elbow propping up his upper body and his neck, erect. his glasses do not disguise the repulsion in his gaze, and he does not bother to save face about it. a sneer, then; a bitter draught to drink from. it wasn’t anyone’s fault. then there is that pause, that label slapped on their foreheads: not really. judgement passed, recite the sign of the cross, depart the pews. the service is ending. the funeral is over. “not really, hm. is that your defence now?” he rises. he is rolling in his own steam, the own wrath of it. but he cannot bring himself to raise his voice. it is as though there are too many parties listening. “not really. that means it was someone’s fault. and we know exactly who’s fault it was, don’t we?”

“ i’m losing my mind, losing control. ” // the bejewelled dragon ◌ his skeleton beast.

“no, you’re not. you’re right here with me.” blood, dripping from the edge of the soul’s sword, and he stows it in his scabbard, the echoing veins of the throbbing hollow, deadening around them. the whole of the battle, muted. soot against their cheeks, and he swipes it off of his thin cheek and it drags, it stains further. “you’re not losing anything. okay? it’s different now.” and it remains to be seen, how much he would do, how much he could do, in order to make sure this pierced his hide and penned itself as the ultimate truth. the bones of their dragon-corpses, how they rise from the stream, water pouring from their nostrils. the errant roar of another from not too far away, the slipping and diving of their siblings. the star-magic pealing through the sky. his heart throbs as he stares at him, watches those eyes, staring, daring them almost to become as soulless as they both feel. “we’re almost done here. it’ll be over soon.”

“ terrified of my love for you? ” // the undying warlord ◌ his ridden battle.

it had been the one confession they both had silently agreed to avoid. what good would it do, for creatures of their respective natures to love? to be such beasts of the literal underworld, for love to be a price that neither of them can afford. what good would it do? and now, the bones revealing themselves, the flesh peeled away. they do not stand far from each other. there are no clothes to separate them. he feels so young, his breath stopping entirely, and how fortunate it is that he does not need it any longer to be alive. ( he is, after all, nothing worse off than dead. ) how can he hope to — what will he — “terrified? perhaps. terrified of what it means. terrified of you. what you mean. how we’re going to — how we’re going to carry on with this. because of what is happening out there, and waking up, discovering you feral in the forest —” he shakes his head. “you love me? even through this, you love me, and how?”

“ your words felt like sharp knives. ” // the god of chaos ◌ his oceanic song.

he keeps his back to him. the carton of cigarettes, a staple on the counter, perhaps even more so than home-cooked food, and this, this was the person that he had surrendered the remnants of his piss-poor life for. this was the glitter-bomb, the madness unravelling, the toxic and terrible idea that so readily laid itself bare across his lap. getting high together, and regaining feeling in their senses through slotting their hips and moaning into each other’s mouths, this had become his life. he is a sharp knife. left out where he can be touched, he slices, that is the end of it. this is what his lover knew, when he signed up to continue to be with him. when he ignored all of the warning signs, the red flags, the advice from others. the better choices. “the hell you want me to say? i already said sorry. i even meant it.” everything he says, awful, crooked, it has no general direction. as chaotic as he is. “you want me on my knees, princess?”

“ how did you become like this? ” // the final heir ◌ his grey seer.

frothing, flames licking at his arms, he embodied the arson, the tragedy. he could not escape it. he wept tears and all of them tasted like the grief he refused to acknowledge. himself, thorough in how embittered he had become against those he once called friends. and how difficult it made things, in attempting to connect with people of a different time. now, their conversation, hushed and secretive. all could see him, and yet it is as though he cannot exist freely. “i already told y’all the story of what went on. we’re tryna find out the truth of it, yeah? but — i guess that ain’t what you mean.” and he isn’t sure what else there is. what else he has been created from except for his wounds. how the witch managed to sew him together will remain a mystery for as long as he remains a tethered soul. “i became like this ‘cause — i dunno. nobody was around to make me become somethin’ different. that’s all i got, really.”

“ say something nice or don’t speak. ” // the fallen jedi ◌ his lilac princess.

“don’t speak? perish the thought.” he is cross again. look at him, with that pucker across his forehead and the crease in his brow. he’s become offended by something that was said, and to think, he hadn’t the slightest idea what had done it. leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and he pushes away from that surface to approach him. his boots softening each of his steps, and those, slower and deliberate. approaching, stalking perhaps. because he finds him to be stupidly interesting, and he himself is the worst idea, the worst decision that could be made for a princess of this calibre. still, the two of them, refraining from ever touching, and yet, continuing their orbit, their delicious desires licking at their insides. he would like to lick him. down that slim column of a throat. perhaps he should say that. perhaps that would be nice. “we can’t have it both ways. either you want me to speak my mind, or not.”

“ really? what did you dream about? ” // the ripest peach ◌ her stable mountain.

she had not dreamt in quite some time, and therefore, it frightened her. what does it mean, these successions of images, these pictures in frames? of children that she had known, and ones she did not remember, what significance could this have? she presses her back into his chest, his shoulders broad, his arms large; all of him, larger than life, than the world, strong and impermeable as rock, and she melts against it. her nakedness safe with him, her medical scars, her lack of fertility. her darkest secrets, which she has so long tucked beneath her tongue. and he brushes back her hair from her ears, as if coaxing the churning words from her mind. “i had a dream that — that we were all in paradise together. that the creatures had gone. that our family hadn’t separated. i had a dream that none of us had to die in order to find it. there were so many children there. running in the fields amok. all of them — ours.”

“ we were both afraid, shut up. ” // the underground racer ◌ his forsaken son.

“... y-yeah! we were both afraid, sure! or maybe we weren’t!” his lover, climbing over the middle console, grinding his hips down upon his own hips, and he bites back a moan. they’re going to forget about the fear; it doesn’t matter if it’s confessed to the walls of this car. the engine, how it purrs as it stalls, until he turns it off, and then, only their mingling breaths. the sound of a zipper, that hand, it finds him — “oh.” a gasp. “yeah — oh, jesus —” their clothes, sliding down enough to reach each other, to be bare where it matters, where they’re most needed. he clings to those hips, slides that tunic up his lover’s chest, bites down on the skin there. “you shut up.” halfway to teasing. he feels every part of him now, his irises so brown, mundane, attentive. “make me shut up.” he does. hips in tight circles, reducing him to whimpers, his own rocking, frantic, and passioned. “y-you shut up, i — oh, god, i love you — you’re so good, baby —”

#mr: mine #moonbeam tag #v: we are engraved in our hearts

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january3693 · 5 years ago

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Black Birthdays

I wrote another little ficlet scene featuring Sirius and Remus in an alternate universe where Sirius got a trial post-POA. I swear my next fic really will be some enormous, super dramatic trial fic. Until then, enjoy this angsty (but kind of hopeful) little scene about Sirius’s first birthday after Azkaban.

In all the years Sirius had been locked away in Azkaban, Remus had never once forgotten his birthday. He’d spent most of them getting drunk and trying to forget, only ever succeeding at the first. It was almost ironic that now, when he knew the truth and had Sirius back in his life, that this should be the year Remus almost forgot the importance of November Third.

He remembered while addressing a letter, and dropped his quill in guilty surprise, splattering ink all over the page. Quickly, he tossed the ruined parchment aside and put off his letter in favor of a quickly scrawled note to Harry, knowing that any reply would come at least a day too late. Remus winced as he tied the letter to their owl’s leg and encouraged the owl to hurry.

Sirius had always loved his birthday. The cakes, the presents, and the general air of celebration, all centered around him. He’d relished the parties they used to throw for him at Hogwarts, and even after they’d graduated and were off fighting a war, Sirius had thrown elaborate parties for himself, inviting the entire Order into his and Remus’s flat for music and dancing and a night of forgetting all the terrible things going on out in the world.

If there was ever a year to celebrate, this would have been it. Sirius’s first birthday as a free man. Remus should have been planning this for weeks, months, since the moment the “not guilty” verdict came down.

There was no time now, not to do things properly. Harry was stuck at school, and, well, most of the friend who used to fill their parties were dead. Maybe he could floo call Andromeda and get her and Ted over for dinner. I she could bring a few bottles of Sirius’s preferred wines, even better.

He hurried out of the study and down the stairs when he stopped so suddenly he nearly tripped and fell down the bottom half of the staircase.

Where was Sirius? It was his birthday and he hadn’t teased Remus once for birthday kisses or spankings. Remus hadn’t actually seen him since breakfast this morning. Taking the steps slowly, Remus replayed the morning in his head.

Sirius had been slow getting out of bed that morning, and at breakfast he’d barely eaten. Remus had been distracted by his own thoughts, and he’d brushed Sirius’s pensiveness off as concern for Harry after the debacle with the Goblet of Fire. They were both worried about the tournament and the looming first task.

Sirius had left the kitchen while Remus was busy with the washing up, and then…Remus hadn’t seen him since.

His first thought was that this sort of behavior wasn’t like Sirius at all. Following closely on that thought’s heels though was another, admonishing him for once again assuming Sirius was still the same as he’d been at twenty-one. Perhaps Azkaban had stolen the memories of his past birthdays as it had with so many of Sirius’s other happy memories.

Azkaban…

Remus froze. “Oh, I’m an idiot,” he said to himself. He had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to keep from crying. When the moment had passed, he went looking for Sirius.

He found him curled up on their bed in a nest of blankets, his nose tucked under his tail. Padfoot opened one grey eye as Remus sat down on the bed next to him, but he didn’t move and he didn’t change back.

“I’m sorry, Sirius,” Remus whispered, running his fingers through the dog’s soft fur. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize, I didn’t even think…”

The fur beneath his hand changed to bare skin, though Sirius remained curled up on his side, facing away from Remus. “Did the maths, did you?” Sirius asked, his voice hollow.

“I did,” Remus said quietly. “It was today, wasn’t it? Today of all days…” He hurt just thinking about it. Another thing that had been so cruelly stolen from Sirius.

“I can’t be certain,” Sirius replied. “Time…time got a little hard for me to track then, but yeah…the dates make sense as far as I can tell.”

Sirius was shivering, the phantom cold of Azkaban clawing at him again. Remus lay down and curled himself around Sirius, burying his face in the other man’s hair. He tugged the blankets over both of them before wrapping his arms around Sirius’s waist. Sharing what warmth he had.

Just like Sirius said, the maths sounded right. Lily and James had died on the Thirty-first of October. Sirius had confronted Peter the evening of the First of November. It seemed logical that the Ministry might have taken the rest of that night and the better part of the Second to sort things out and decide what to do with Sirius. Add in the time to get all the way up to that dreadful island, and yes…Sirius had almost certainly been thrown into Azkaban on his twenty-second birthday.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner,” Remus said.

Sirius shrugged, his shoulder almost hitting Remus in the jaw. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t say anything. I’d honestly hoped you’d just forget...”

Remus didn’t mention that he almost had. That wouldn’t help matters.

“We don’t have to celebrate,” Remus promised him. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you never want to celebrate again that’s just fine, Sirius. Whatever you want.”

“Just…stay here with me, please,” Sirius mumbled. “You’re warm, and I don’t want to be alone.”

Remus pressed a gentle kiss to the side of Sirius’s neck. “Of course I’ll stay, as long as you need.”

“And if I never stop needing you?” Sirius asked hesitantly.

“Then I’ll be here forever,” Remus promised. “Though I hope you’re speaking metaphorically rather than literally. Bed sores sound very unpleasant.” That startled a thin laugh out of Sirius and he relaxed against Remus’s chest.

“I did tell Harry,” Remus admitted hours later. He’d finally coaxed Sirius out of bed with the promise of hot soup. It was nothing fancy, straight from a can with a few slices of bread he toasted to hide the fact that it had started to go stale. “So, you’ll probably get a letter from him tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Sirius said. He sounded a little uncomfortable and dragged his spoon in circles through his bowl, but he seemed better than he had a few hours ago. Of course, Harry could do little wrong in his godfather’s eyes, so even if Sirius dreaded a letter full of birthday wishes, he would bear it and dutifully reply with thanks and all the cheer he could muster for his godson’s sake. “I suppose it’s best he knows. I mean, he probably would have asked about it at some point, and this way he won’t feel like we intentionally left him out of something.”

Remus smiled and reached across the table to entwine his fingers with those of Sirius’s free hand. “Is it all right if I say it? You can tell me no if it’s not.”

Sirius leaned back and seemed to give the matter some genuine consideration. Finally, he nodded.

Remus smiled and squeezed his hand, using it to pull Sirius closer across the table. He pressed a quick kiss to Sirius’s chapped lips, and when he pulled back he whispered, “Happy birthday, Sirius.”

#wolfstar ficlet #wolfstar #sirius black #remus lupin #sirius's birthday #light angst #azkaban angst #sirius is free though so that's happy #happy birthday sirius

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bad-puns-and-even-worse-magic · 6 years ago

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The Price of Power

this is dedicated to everyone having a shitty day and i want all of you to know that i love you <3

this started with a convo about cryptid!stephen with @ssironstrange but it grew and i liked it so much i had to write it

warnings: some gross ass shit tbh

The first time it happened, Stephen hadn’t meant to breach the fragile membrane of dimensions and land in the Avengers’ kitchen at cold and quiet 2 am. He landed on the hardwood floor with a soft gasp, feet barely touching the ground before the Cloak swooped in, bracing under his legs. It was the velvet, silk, and leather that kept him steady even as blood dripped from his forehead and soaked through tattered robes.

Black, oily sorcery dripped from Stephen’s nose and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Energy—cosmic energy—always demanded a price. Blood, soul, a pound of carved flesh. Each blink was a struggle, each movement was muscles screaming and tearing and consuming all that Stephen had left.

He leaned over the sink, bile rising in the back of his throat, fingers twitching and useless against the countertop.

Food. Consume calories to replace what was lost.

Stephen’s left leg seized sending crashing rock slides of cracking glass shards up his calf and thigh and only the Cloak stopped him from hitting the floor.

Instead, the relic lowered him gently, setting Stephen against the cabinets. It looked over the countertop, picked up a bag of bread, and dumped it on the hardwood. The Cloak pushed the loaf closer, inch by inch, until it pressed against a thigh that twitched beneath small spasms. With his eyes glazed like oil over a puddle of water, Stephen didn’t really see the food at first, his shoulders shaking so hard the cabinets rattled behind him.

The Cloak shoved the bag of bread up over the shaking leg and into the Sorcerer’s lap.

Stephen stared down at it, blinked once—too slowly—and tried to pick up the bread. His hands shook too hard and, with a hiss, he held the loaf between his palms, and ripped the tie off with his teeth.

The Cloak hovered, watching him eat, fluttering agitatedly in a non-existent breeze.

Halfway through the loaf, Stephen groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. There were crumbs in his robes, drying blood clotting along his face and arms and chest. He hugged the bag of food and accepted the Cloak’s assistance to get back to his feet.

At 3 am, Stephen opened a portal to the Sanctum and went home.

It was very rare for the Sanctum to be fully stocked with food and, after fighting a horde from the Twelfth Dimension, Stephen could barely see straight much less go shopping. He thought of food and safety, someplace he could go where he wouldn’t have to worry just for a bit—

And magic guided him to the soft glow of the Avengers Compound. Green numbers winked from the microwave—midnight—and Stephen used too much of his weight to wrench open the fridge. Too many colours assaulted his eyes and he shut the door, pawing at the handle of the freezer before he managed to get that open.

White boxes. TV dinners.

He grabbed three at random and spilled them over the stove, fumbling with paperboard before he just burned away the box with a spark of gold magic.

Prick the film on top, put it in the microwave.

Only when he was trying to figure out how long the food should be cooked for did Stephen pause. He ended up punching in four minutes (barely able to find the strength to get the stupid machine to register what he wanted and fuck, fuck, fuck he almost slammed his fist through the plastic but the Cloak wrapped around his wrist, strengthening and guiding) and settled in to wait.

By the time the third one was being cooked, Stephen could eat the first. His fork shook, dropping penne and splattering sauce down his front, but he managed.

He fucking managed.

Tony threw the racket ball at the wall, caught, and threw again. “It’s not that surprising,” he said, “with so many people with such high metabolisms we probably should have added more money to the food budget to begin with.”

Sprawled across the couch, Bruce shrugged half heartedly. His glasses sat low on his nose, a tablet in his hands. “That’s fine; maybe it’ll get whoever took my leftover curry to find someone else’s lunch to eat.”

“Still mad?”

Bruce looked up and his eyes were tinged green.

Stephen hit the counter, ripping open cans of soup with what was left of his sparking, sizzling magi,c and he drank and drank and drank, unable to taste the broth and cold noodles slipping down his throat.

Tony looked up at a knock, pushed up his black goggles, and turned off his torch. “Barnes,” he said, “What is it?”

Bucky was still a silent shadow that hovered around the compound—a raccoon that fled once the light came, sliding beneath cars and watching until everyone had passed. “Doctor Strange,” he sounded hesitant, “is in the kitchen.”

“Yeah?” Tony leaned back on his stool. “I know we haven’t given him a badge saying he’s an Avenger but—”

“He needs medical attention.”

Tony’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“And his...” Bucky waved his hands in some odd waving motion, “won’t let me near.”

The stool clattered to the floor before Tony’s mind had caught up with his legs. But he ran for the kitchen, Bucky a silent, jogging shadow behind him.

Strange was sitting on the floor, looking as if he had collapsed when his legs couldn’t hold him up any more. There was a shattered plate by him, spaghetti spilled in a mess of noodles and sauce. His head was bowed forward, face blocked from view by his hanging bangs and the Cloak that twisted back and forth, looking like a worried parent that wanted to do something but didn’t know what. It flared around when they approached, spreading out like a pissed off alley cat.

“Whoa!” Tony lifted his hands, “Hey! It’s just us! We’re friends!”

The Cloak froze in all its movement for one second and that was all Bucky needed to slip past and tug Strange’s arm over his shoulder. Red fabric turned on him and Tony took the chance of pressing the flat of his hand against velvet. He wrenched back as the relic spun and almost smacked him across the face in its fury.

“We’re going to help him,” Tony’s own voice had risen but he tried, tried, tried to keep from yelling. “I promise! We’re taking him to medical—you can come—”

The clock ticked, the Cloak hesitated, fluttering in thought.

Strange groaned.

Silk hissed as it snapped around, lunging like a noose towards Bucky. The super soldier had to drop his cargo, meeting enraged fabric with metal and flesh, stopping the Cloak from wrapping around his face as they both slammed into the table and broke it in half.

Tony froze, his eyes wide, staring down at Strange.

Even in the dim light of the kitchen he could see something thick oozing from beneath the man’s eyelids, dripping from his mouth, creating rivers from his nose. He couldn’t tell if it was blood or something else but it was leaving dark stains on the floor, smearing across the wood. Groaning, Strange pressed a hand against the ground and tried to push until his wrist gave out under his weight.

“Hey,” Tony kneeled by him and watched as blackened eyes opened, unmoving and blind.

“Stop,” Strange coughed and something thick and black slid out over his tongue and hit the floor with a sickening plop. “Stop, stop—” He reached out, brushed his fingers against the flailing Cloak and it tore from Bucky in an instant, wrapping like a safety blanket around Strange’s arm.

Hands hovering, having no idea where he could touch that wouldn’t hurt the Sorcerer, Tony swallowed. “What happened?” he snapped.

“Too—” Stephen gagged and his body lurched, almost flipping him over until a metal hand grabbed his shoulder, keeping the sorcerer from slamming his nose into the floor. “Too m-much magic I—”

“What do you need?” Bucky said and Tony swallowed down his lungs, grateful for the super soldier’s almost calming presence.

Strange groaned, hair and cheek dragging through the black liquid. “F-food,” he managed after a moment, voice chopped and slurring like a banana in a blender. “Jus’ food.”

“Alright,” Tony soothed, “alright.” He looked up at Bucky. “There’s a spare room close to the labs, I think it’s got a bed.”

“I know where it is,” Bucky said, hoisting the Sorcerer up as if he weighed no more than some hollowed out cat.

Tony stepped over the spaghetti on the floor and winced, making note of having Friday call someone to help clean it up.

Stephen groaned and rolled over. Bubbled cotton rubbed against his face, scratchy and slightly damp. He opened his eyes, prepared to shut them again in case there was too much light, but was greeted by the softened amber of a desk lamp in the corner. It wasn’t the Sanctum—the walls were too white and plain to be the Sanctum—and Stephen sat up.

A small fridge sat in one corner, a microwave on the table beside it. There was a grey tub with a printed label that said DISHES and, next to it, was a small box of silverware. His Cloak floated at the foot of the bed and guided closer to greet Stephen as he sat up.

Someone had placed a towel across the pillow—a white one that was now stained by black splotches—and, taped to the wall was a note.

Stephen let the Cloak fall around his shoulders as he unfolded the paper.

A room for the resident wizard, Tony had written in his classic chicken scratch and there was an arrow, pointing to the back of the paper.

Stephen laughed.

P.S. Bruce has forgiven you for eating his curry.

#Doctor Strange #Tony Stark #Bucky Barnes #Fabulist Tales #Long Post

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talesfromnatea · 6 years ago

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Just a Teaspoon of Luck

How Bluebell ended up at Roselle’s

Warnings: Suffering children, homelessness

The winds were cold. Cowering in the corner of a back-alley, Blair pressed his brother closer to his chest. The blanket was too thin, too chilly. His teeth chattered violently as another freezing wind caressed his cheeks. The sky above was grey. Lyall whimpered quietly, clinging to his older brother. The first snow would come soon. Blair hadn’t seen many winters, but he could remember his mother showing him the signs.

His throat felt thicker at the memory, a sob almost tearing itself from him. He missed her. He missed their father. But most of all he missed the security of home. Worry rose in him. Was he a bad person? Perhaps it was terrible to long more for safety than their parents?

Breathing onto his hands, he rubbed them together to keep warm. Then he did the same to his brother. Lyall’s sobs had calmed down into sniffles. Probably too exhausted to cry anymore. They hadn’t eaten in one and a half day. Additionally, Blair couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt warm. The cold penetrated his clothes, his skin, lying like a blanket over them. Lyall trembled in his arms, and Blair knew he too was shaking. Knew it, but couldn’t feel it. He was so tired, so hungry. His stomach felt hollow, screaming for food.

Eventually a sob escaped him. A tear slid down his stiff cheek. The damp water left on it quickly froze. It ached, but he was too exhausted to wipe it away. Clutching his brother closer, he pressed his face into Lyall’s coat. The fabric was frozen stiff, but it gave some relief once the ice had thawed.

Steps on stone. Blair froze before looking up. His heart raced as he stared toward the entrance of the alley. His eyes flickered to the sides, only to confirm what he already knew. There was no other way out. Swallowing, he held on tighter to his baby brother as he waited. Lyall whimpered quietly, but sat still. He’d learnt by now. Perhaps it was just someone seeking shelter? It didn’t have to be dangerous.

The words repeated in his mind as the steps came closer. Blair’s breathing grew shallow. It could be nothing. But it could also be one of the other urchins – or a grownup– who wouldn’t hesitate to steal what little they had. They wouldn’t survive the night if they lost this blanket too.

A gasp escaped him as two adults appeared in the dark. Neither of them was homeless, he understood that much. Both wore thick coats. Spears rested in their hands. Fear flashed through him. Guards. Blair’s arm felt heavy as stone, but he forced himself to wipe the tears of his cheeks. He swallowed again as their eyes found them. They exchanged a glance. Whimpering, he pressed his back against the rough stone wall.

One of them handed their weapon their partner before taking a step closer. They held up their hands before them as Blair squeaked. “Hey, lil’ bud,” they murmured. Their voice was gentle. “I’m not gonnae hurt ye. Promise.”

Staring, Blair found himself unable to move at all as they inched closer. He wanted to believe them. He wanted to believe them so badly. But could he take the risk?

It had been so long since he heard a kind word.

Still, he held his brother close, and Lyall stared up at him with wide eyes. They were clouded with hunger and exhaustion.

“Bro?” he mumbled, one of the few words he still used. He’d been so talkative before, but ever since ending up on the streets, he hardly spoke at all. Blair shushed him, and he immediately fell quiet.

The stranger knelt on the ground just a short distance away. “We’re from Roselle’s,” they said. “Have you heard of it?”

Blair nodded. Everyone had.

“Good.” They sounded encouraging. Blair’s body ached to get closer to them. To get closer to someone who seemed kind. To not be alone. He stayed where he was. “Do you want to come with us back? You’ll get food and shelter. Today for free, and then Madame Roselle will let you stay if you pay her back when you’re big. How does that sound, little one?”

Blair’s teeth where chattering so hard he hardly could reply, and his mind was too hazy to quite understand what they were saying. He did recognize two words though. Food and shelter. Without hesitating, he stuttered out, “Y-y-yes, pl-please.”

His breath stood like thick vapor in the air as he spoke. Despite his agreement, he couldn’t help but flinch as they stepped up to him. They stopped. “Can I touch ye, darlin’?”

Slowly, he nodded. Moving was stiff and uncomfortable. They reached out a hand to help him stand. But when he took it, however, his legs felt thick and heavy under him. Blair gasped in fear as they gave in beneath him. Clutching Lyall to his chest, he prepared himself for the collision with the hard ground. It never came. A soft arm caught him, and footing disappeared under him. He stared as he was tucked into their warm coat. Although his stomach still ached for food, he felt his eyelid drops. So warm. He could feel Lyall’s calm breaths against him. The younger had already fallen asleep. Oh, Blair was so tired-

…

He yawned, but didn’t open his eyes quite yet. Wherever he was, it was soft and comfortable, and he didn’t want it to end. Stretching his arms high over his head, he felt something touch his nose. Blinking, he found himself staring into Lyall’s flushed face. He seemed almost healthy, cheeks red with warmth and rest.

“Hungry,” Lyall said, making Blair aware of the heavenly scent. His stomach growled loudly, and he winced. Ouch. As he sat up, he realized they truly were inside, for the first time in months. On a couch, even. It was red and the fabric was shiny. A squeal came from behind.

Twisting around, Blair saw two human-looking people – one in a green dress and one in shirts and trousers. His heart skipped a beat. One was carrying a tray with two bowl on it as they hurried up to the couch. Before he had time to react, one was put in his hands. Wide-eyed, he watched the thick broth in which vegetables were floating around. It was warm in his hands, and the scent was the best thing he’d smelled in his life.

“For me?” he asked, voice full of disbelief. He remembered the guards saying that they would get food, but- this was so much. “Mx,” he quickly added on.

The person in the green dress sat down by Lyall’s side, holding out a spoon for him. “For ye, wee one. What’s ye’r name? Do ye know how old ye’r?”

“Blair,” he replied, staring into their green eyes. He fiddled with a long strand of his grey hair. It was actually pastel blue, but after so long without being washed you couldn’t see it. He almost couldn’t remember how it had looked before. The scent of the soup was tantalizing, but he didn’t dare eat it before he’d received permission. “An’ this is me brother, Lyall. I’m six an’ he’s three.”

Both sets of eyes widened in horror, but Green only smiled. “How brave ye’ve been. Now eat. Not too fast though or ye’ll get an achin’ belly.”

That was all he needed. Blair dug in. The soup was scolding hot on his tongue, but he didn’t care as he devoured it. He tried to obey and eat slowly, but it was so hard. Once the soup was finished, he held onto the bowl. He wasn’t full, but he was more satisfied than he’d been since spring, when their parents died. Leaning back into the couch, he smiled as he watched his brother happily eating what he got. Lyall was smiling. Blair wasn’t sure when he’d done that last.

“Ye’r done, darlin’?” Green asked. When he nodded, they took the cooling bowl from his hands. As on cue, a door he hadn’t noticed before slid open. Blair stared as a beautiful spider sprite stepped in. White skin, brown hair in an intricate bun, and the most gorgeous dress he had ever seen. The purple fabric shimmered in the light from the oil lamps. They smiled at them. Feeling nervous, Blair grabbed his brother’s hand.

“Hello, little ones,” they greeted them. “I am Madame Roselle, owner of the Parlour. How are you feeling? Better?”

Blair relaxed. Her voice was kind, soft. He smiled back, gratitude flooding him. “Good, Madame,” he replied shyly. Lyall had stopped eating, seemingly enchanted with the colour of her dress. “Thank ye.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, sweetheart. So, here’s how this works,” she chirped. “Today is free of charge for you both, so you can decide whether you’d like to stay or not. If you do stay, I will provide everything you need or even want. When you’re an adult you pay me back. Do you understand what that means, dearie? For you and your sibling?”

No, Blair didn’t. Not really. But he did understand that if they stayed they’d have safety, and if they left they’d die. It wasn’t a hard choice. “We’ll stay Madame.”

Madame Roselle smiled. “Wonderful. I’ll have two – one? – beds added to the nursery then! And what are your names?”

“Blair, Madame,” he said again. “He an’ him. My brother’s name’s Lyall.”

“Excellent. Welcome to Roselle’s Parlour then, Blair, Lyall. It’ll be a delight to have you here.”

#natéa #blair #lyall #roselle #roselle's #my writing #backstories

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kinkykinard · 7 years ago

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Getting Past Precedent

Fandom: Star Trek AOS/TOS. Pairing: Leonard McCoy X Reader. Prompt: Anon requested - Would you please consider writing about Bones helping the reader whose eating disorder severely flared up after she has been stable for years? He can’t be and doesn’t want to be her counsellor, but as her fiancé, he loves her and supports her emotionally. Regarding her physical health, he goes all CMO. He is protective and may seem uncompromising to keep her safe and to cope his own fears. Word Count: 2804. Warnings: description of an eating disorder (anorexia), depression, anxiety, minor medical procedures. Rating: Teen+. Summary: There’s not much that escapes Leonard’s notice, least of all when it’s slowly chipping away at the love of his life. Author’s Note: Another request that has taken me forever to get to, eek! Thank you to the anon who requested this for being so patient - you’re a rock star! Throughout my own life I’ve suffered from two distinct eating disorders at various stages, so some of what’s in this fic comes from my own experience, but it is not by any means a universal guide to EDs. As such, I haven’t included any particular details behind why reader’s ED has flared up. Finally, if you’re struggling, please seek professional help - you can absolutely beat this. If you need someone to talk to, my inbox is always open. I believe in you.

Getting Past Precedent

You don’t even realize that Leonard’s been watching you across the table until he reaches out for your free hand, stroking the back of it gently with his fingertips while you push the unfinished half of your salad around on your plate with a fork.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” Leonard asks over the din of the mess hall.

“Hmm?” You intone lightly, glancing up at him. “Oh, yeah, fine, just not feeling the salad today.”

“I can bring you something else,” Leonard offers. “Some soup, a bowl of ice cream? You need to eat, darlin’.”

You smile softly at him and shake your head.

“Really, I’m fine,” you assure him. “I had a big lunch earlier and I’m too distracted to eat. I’ve got a big project I need to present to the admiralty next week.”

Leonard doesn’t looked pleased with your response, but he leaves it alone for the time being. Still, you can feel him watching you like a hawk for the rest of your dinner break, and you’re glad to be able to make an exit to get back to your duties when the chron strikes eighteen hundred hours.

The rest of your shift passes by uneventfully, and after you’ve handed your work over to the next shift you make your way to your quarters feeling utterly exhausted. Shutting the door behind yourself as you step into your private space lets you take your first deep, relaxed breath of the day and you groan tiredly as you step into the kitchenette for a glass of water.

The smell of something rich and savory hits your nose and you glance around, rolling your eyes as you find a tray with some soup, saltine crackers, and fresh fruit slices on it on your countertop with a small, folded piece of paper. Picking it up, you skim through what’s written on the card with a sigh.

Eat this and then get some rest. Doctor’s orders. - Len

Setting the card back down on the tray, you turn back to the replicator and retrieve the glass of water you’d set it to pour, sipping from it slowly as you make your way to your bedroom to freshen up for the night.

The rest of the evening passes by without incident and the morning brings more of the same. Skipping breakfast, you fetch another glass of water and make your way to the couch to start making a dent in some of the reading you have backlogged. You’re not on active duty today, thankfully, but you still have things to do. At least you don’t have to change out of your pajamas for anything.

A few hours pass by and you don’t even realize that it’s well after noon. Your hunger pangs mean nothing to you these days - they’re almost constantly present, so their manifestation isn’t coincident with the fact that you’ve missed lunch any more than it is with any other event.

A knock on your door gets your attention and you curse inwardly as you look at the chron, realizing you’ve missed a lunch date you’d promised to have with Leonard. Standing swiftly, you throw a hand out to steady yourself against the arm of the couch as dizziness knocks you off kilter for a moment. You’re just about to attempt to make it to the door to open it when you hear your passcode being punched in and you know instinctively that it’s Leonard on the other side.

“Hey,” you say with a smile, straightening up in an attempt to look like nothing’s amiss. “I’m so sorry - I totally lost track of time.”

Leonard’s not fooled by your try at nonchalance. His expression is concerned as he crosses the room to stand beside you and puts a hand under your elbow to help steady you. He guides you back into a seated position and sits beside you, turning his body so he can face you better.

“What’s going on, Y/N?” He asks.

You furrow your eyebrows, feigning concern.

“What do you mean?” You ask by way of answer.

“I’m worried about you,” he elaborates. “For weeks now you’ve barely been eating. You’re drawn, tired all the time, losing your balance. I can tell you’re losing weight, and that you’ve been trying to avoid me.”

You sigh deeply and close your eyes, turning your head so you can avert your gaze when you open them again.

“Why haven’t you come down to med bay if you haven’t been feeling well?” Leonard asks. “I’m sure Geoff would be happy to take a look at you and get this sorted out.”

You shake your head.

“I’m fine,” you emphasize.

Leonard runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. Even out of the periphery of your gaze you can tell that he’s not fooled.

“I’m sorry, sugar,” he says quietly. “But I can’t sit by and watch you sabotage yourself anymore. I know you haven’t been eating, and with all the other signs, with your untouched soup from last night on the counter… I can’t pretend like I don’t know what’s going on anymore. I was hoping you’d come to me, but now that you’re putting yourself at physical risk and it’s becoming unsafe for you to do your job, I have to step in.”

You whip your head around to look at him as he mentions your duties and tears prickle at your eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the anorexia, sugar?” He asks, his voice defeated, his expression sad.

The tears building in your eyes finally spill over as the word rolls off of his lips. That dreadful word that you’ve heard so many times before from your parents, your doctors, your therapists. Biting your lip to keep from sobbing, you reach up and shakily wipe at the tears cascading down your cheeks and clinging to your dry, cracked lips.

“I thought you’d have seen it in my file,” you say, your voice hollow.

Leonard shakes his head, reaching out slowly to rest a hand on your knee.

“I respect your privacy,” he explains. “I’ve never had any reason to go into your files, so I never have.”

You grit your teeth together to hold back more sobs as you realize that his trust in you has been wildly misplaced throughout all the time you’ve been dating because you’d relied on him finding out about your condition without you having to have that hard conversation. Burying your face in your hands, you feel yourself trembling under the weight of your emotions.

“I’m sorry,” you whimper.

“No, sweetheart,” Leonard says, moving a little closer. “Don’t ever apologize for being sick.”

You’re expecting some sort of admonishment for not opening up sooner, but instead you’re met with a protective, comforting embrace. Leonard pulls you gently into his lap and winds his arms more tightly around you, stroking your back in soothing circles.

The two of you stay there for the next hour, with Leonard holding you through bouts of crying and despondency. You’re afraid to look up at him, to see any sort of disappointment or disproval in his eyes, but you know you can’t stay like this forever. After a few minutes of slow, measured breathing and steeling yourself, you finally find the strength to pull away from him and look up.

“Are you going to pull me from duty?” You ask quietly, stuttering a little for fear of the answer.

“Not yet,” Leonard says softly, reaching out to nudge your chin up to encourage you to keep looking at him as you make to avert your gaze. “I’m not saying it’s not a possibility down the road if you continue on this trajectory, but no one’s making any rash decisions right now.”

Silence passes between the two of you for a few beats as you consider his words.

“What will it take to keep me on the ship?” You query further. “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk to anyone about this…”

“I’m not going to force you to talk to anyone right now,” Leonard reassures you. “I will encourage you to see one of the ship’s counsellors very soon, but the first step is to make sure your physical health is taken care of.”

You nod, averting your gaze as you consider the implications of his words. Your heart sinks at the thought of having to rehash the story with Dr. M’Benga and you sigh.

“Can you do it?” You ask quietly. “I just don’t want anyone else to know.”

Leonard reaches out to take your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I think I can swing it,” he agrees. “With my experience in psychiatry I’m probably the best qualified on board to handle your case and I’m sure Starfleet could be persuaded if they have any issue with it.”

“Alright,” you say after a moment of letting his words resonate. “I’m guessing you want to do this now?”

“If this has been going on for as long as I think it has, the sooner the better,” Leonard offers.

You nod and sigh, gesturing toward the door.

“After you,” you say flatly.

You watch Leonard as he gets to his feet and reach up to take his hand as he offers it to help you up. As soon as you’re on your feet, the edges of your vision start to grey out a little bit and you sway, nearly toppling back onto the couch before Leonard catches you and pulls you in close to help support you.

“Easy, darlin’,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”

You lean into him, letting him take some of your weight until you feel a little steadier. He’s still got a hold of the hand he helped you up by and as you regain your balance, his other hand comes up as well, his fingertips finding the pulse point in your wrist easily. You still and allow him to measure your heart rate, leaning your head against his shoulder as he does.

“Your pulse is racing, sugar,” he says with a frown. “Come on, let’s get you looked after.”

He lets go of your hand and wraps an arm around your waist to support you as he leads you slowly out of your quarters. It takes less than three minutes for the two of you to reach medical and when you do Leonard leads you straight over to a private room. He gives you a hand up onto the bio bed and rests a palm gently on your shoulder.

“Lie back,” he instructs you.

You do as you’re told and close your eyes as the bio bed whirrs to life beneath you. Leonard works over you in silence for the next several minutes and you resign yourself to behaving. Eventually, when several more minutes pass by without incident, you open your eyes and glance over at him, finding him poring over what you assume to be your results on his PADD.

“What’s up, doc?” You ask as you sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, worried for the answer.

“Your results aren’t ideal,” he explains. “But they’re not as bad as I expected. Before I let you go I’m going to give you a shot of something that’ll bring your electrolytes back into balance and supplement some of the trace nutrients you’re deficient in. After that it’ll be up to you to start reintroducing food so you can get everything back to a healthy level.”

The mere thought of having to eat twists at your stomach and makes you feel sick, but you nod anyway knowing you have no choice if you want to stay on the Enterprise and carry on your research. Your thoughts are racing so much that you don’t even realize you’ve withdrawn into all sorts of worst case scenarios and dreadful outcomes until you suddenly feel a hand on your shoulder, jarring you back into the present.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He presses softly.

You take a slow, shuddering breath and nod as your lip trembles – a prelude to more tears.

“I’m scared,” you say between sobs. “I’m not good at talking to people and I hate talking about myself most of all and I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can eat anything now even if I try.”

Leonard steps as close to the bed as he can and leans closer to you, wrapping his arms around you. He pulls you into a tight hug and presses a kiss to your forehead as he murmurs soft reassurances and promises.

“You can do it,” Leonard assures you. “I promise. I know you, darlin’ – you’re more than strong enough to beat this. You beat it once, you can beat it again, and you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here for you. I’ll be with you every step of the way if you want me to be. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

You nod numbly, reassured but now also afraid of letting him down even more.

“What if I’m not strong enough?” You whisper.

“Then we pick you up, dust you off, and try again,” Leonard says softly. “It’s okay to get it wrong, to need more than one try, to fail and have to start over. All I ask is that you communicate with me. If you tell me that you’re spiraling, I can help you get back on track.”

“Okay,” you say weakly, reaching up with a shaky hand to wipe away your tears only to be foiled by Leonard’s hand coming up to do it for you.

“Besides,” he says as he carefully rubs away the thin rivulets of water on your cheeks. “Even failure is progress in a forward trajectory; it means you got out there and tried, and that’s all I can ask of you.”

His words are reassuring even though they don’t do much to quell the terror in your heart and you grip him just a little tighter, a little closer, as though to draw strength from him with which to steel your resolve. He keeps his arms wrapped around you for as long as you need them there and pulls away slowly even when you’re finally ready to let go and sit back.

You fold your hands in your lap as Leonard steps away a few moments later, watching him bustle around and prepare the hypo he’d mentioned. You obediently expose your neck when he returns to your side and close your eyes tightly as he injects you, relaxing when his thumb rubs gentle circles over the injection site to help soothe the prickling there.

“Let’s head up to my quarters,” Leonard suggests, dropping his hand away from your neck and stepping aside to dispose of the hypo cartridge. “I want you to have lunch with me. We’ll start small – I’ll make you a cup of herbal tea – and work our way up from there.”

“I hope you’re not expecting a miracle,” you murmur.

Leonard shakes his head, returning to your side and offering you a hand down from the bio bed.

“An attempt at a bowl of soup, that’s all I ask,” he assures you. “And if it’s too much, too soon, we’ll think of something else.”

“Okay,” you agree quietly. “Thank you, Len. Not just for this… For everything. For not being angry with me, for not being disappointed in me.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he says gently, his voice thick with heartache for you. “I can tell this hasn’t gone well for you in the past, and I’m the one who’s sorry. I wish I could have reassured you sooner.”

You smile weakly, your spirit buoyed by hope again, and you finally hop off of the bed. You lean in to embrace Leonard again briefly and reach out to entwine the fingers of one of your hands with one of his.

“I’m sure I’m going to need reassurance often over the next few months,” you say. “So hold that thought – there’ll be more than enough time for all of that.”

Leonard squeezes your hand and nods, turning to make his way out of the room with you at his side. As the two of you make your way out of sick bay and toward his quarters, you do your best to focus on the small flickering flame of hope you feel inside rather than the crippling amount of doubt and dread. A weight has been lifted off of your shoulders with Leonard finding out about your condition, and while you’re still reeling from the revelation, you also feel somewhat better prepared to face whatever comes your way.

You know that with Leonard by your side, you can handle anything the universe throws at you.

@starshiphufflebadger @star-trekkin-across-theuniverse @imamotherfuckingstar-lord @feelmyroarrrr @ababyinatrenchcoat @the-alpha-otter @alluramc @medicatemedrmccoy @arrowsshootyouforwards @wonders-of-the-multiverse @answer-the-sirens @devanshade @dolamrothianlady @startrekimagines @theonlyparadox @itsjaynebird @mccoymostly @goodnightwife @thevalesofanduin @distinguishedqueenofbooks @elsa-lost-in-translation @yourtropegirl @gryffindor9whovian @auduna-druitt @archangels-lollipop @bookcaseninja @supermoonpanda @bubblegum-star-trek @sergeantangel @pinkamour1588 @webhoard @the-space-goddess-16 @bkwrm523 @starmission @captain-amelia-bradley @startled-seastar @sassmasterqueen @shewolf-2013 @littlecarowrites @enterprisefeels @eyeofdionysus @nasanatmfers @galaxycharmed @emmkolenn @captainsili @mysteriously-lost-forever @battlebunnyteardropsinthesun @xanaphorax

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deborahcastellano · 7 years ago

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[The Rules of Exile] Rule No. 6 Nolite te Bastardes Carborundorum

My hair is currently in what could very graciously be called a Fraggle Updo currently. My bra is already off and I am wearing a long t shirt that says "Wild at Heart", grey sweat pants, two seasons ago Victoria Secret slippers. There is a trickle of menses between my thighs, my snout is encrusted in dry skin from the week long illness I still haven't shaken off. My hands smell of Gardenia because I spilled some essential oil on them while trying to fix a candle.

O my sister #QueensInExile. We are in the heart of the dark. Truly. This is where dreams are burned into the backs of our eyes. This is where we make our triumphant to court, crowned in glory and holly, cloven orange pomanders jauntily swinging at our waists, champagne is an endless fountain and marchpane cascading from the table with the possibilities of the new year bright in everyone's eyes. This year, we whisper to ourselves and each other, this year will be different.

It's also when we are at our lowest, our saddest, our most melancholy and the dark threatens to swallow us whole in our grief and our misery. We are hollow in our hungers, in our austerities, in our exile. Our homes are filled with the ghosts of what was and what never will be. The chests that we have brought with us into exile are tattered. Our money is low. Our spirits are lower.

Yank yourself up by the goddamn hair, sisters. We will not be ground down. Our spirits will not be broken. We will survive.

Start making tea correctly. You see how long it tells you to steep it? Yeah. Do that. Make it by the teapot and keep your insides warm. Where there is tea there is civility. Where there is civility there is survival. Put the juice of a whole lemon into the pot and then add the leaves and the water. Trader Joe's has a whole bag of Meyer lemons for $2.00. Get it done. Are you rolling around in the doldrums of your despair? Gross. Stop it. Get some of Amy's tea that's relevant to your situation and then put your intent into the leaves and then drink it.

Go on an adventure. Play the "Let's Get Lost Game", play Cemeteries and Cows, go someplace you've never been to and eat something there. It doesn't have to be far and it doesn't have to be expensive. But it can knock some of the cobwebs loose. Need a guide? Get Natalie's book.

Listen to some new music. Chris and Tara always have awesome music on their show. Looking for some Witch House-esque music that will make you cool like the youngs (or, in my case, like my much older magical auntie and uncle) and not inspire killer headaches because you are now boring? A Place Both Wonderful and Strange has a very cool six song spell cycle called "What I Speak I Create". If you let your life become completely predictable in everything including music, that's how your heart dies. So don't do that. Branch out.

Make some stock. Everyone is always extolling the virtues of homemade stock. I was less interested for a very long time because it never came out right. You need to be home and you need like six or seven hours if you want it to be worth anything. If you work from home or if you are in (in)voluntary exile, you now have time. So, the bones you use are important. A whole chicken carcass. Ham hocks. Beef marrow bones. You could do it without the bones, of course if you are vegetarian. Use more vegetables then. A whole onion cut in half, skin on. A stalk of celery. Two carrots. A palmful of mushrooms. A few whole cloves of garlic. Some booze helps - a dark beer, a chardonnay, a shiraz, cognac. A whole bay leaf. You will need a lot of salt. Go easy and add it. Don't get crazy with the pepper or it gets weird. Smoked paprika. A good spice blend that you like. Put it all in a big pot. Fill said pot with water. Put it on the lowest setting for three hours and then the second to lowest for three more hours. Take all the solids out and toss. Follow a recipe for your favorite soup or stew. If you don't know what that is, Pinterest is always there to save you. Here's my board that I use for much of my cooking. This winter I have learned that it is actually incredibly oppressive to make a different meal every goddamn night with our schedules. Making two different things and having some exciting bread is sufficient. Good stock makes you more hearty which you will need in exile.

Make sipping chocolate. Again, Trader Joe's has it. It's what gets me through the dark while on antibiotics, unable to drink St. Germain like a goddamn savage. You need: a quart mason jar (or your previous TJ's Sipping Chocolate tin because you do not have time to go to TJ five towns over): 2 teaspoons good smoked salt (Auntie Arwen's and Savory are my go to spice shops - good prices, small quantities and zomg fresh), 1 teaspoon good cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon vanilla powder, 2 tablespoons good mini chocolate chips, 1/4 cup good fine sugar, 1/3 cup good unsweetened cocoa powder. Put it all in the mason jar. Put the lid on. Shake it up. 3 tablespoons of the cocoa with 1/3 cup warm 2% milk. 130 calories if you need to feel justified about it. Good chocolate fixes your brain chemicals. You need your strength to fight.

Cultivate an attention span. Oh lordess. Mine is terrible. I used to be able to read a book in like two days. I'm checking my phone, texting, watching television while reading a book like a person who should be shamed. Reading before bed? A recipe for sleeps. I am trying to recultivate an attention span. You can work on puzzles or write or go for a walk or eat at the table and have a conversation or . . . meditate I guess? That's not my bag, but if it's yours and it sucks right now, you should fix it. It feels like liquid burning in your brain pan but that's how creation happens. Start with like 30 minutes and promise yourself your garbage animal treat of choice for completing it until you can take the training wheels off.

Little rituals are critical this time of year. You need to be sowing seeds in this womb of darkness. Get a close relationship with your honey pot. See what St. Martha is up to. Ring up your ancestors. Ask the Moirai what they've been up to. Tell Parvati about your day at work. Make offerings. Do magic. Start things, finish things. Do fancy dances. Yell at the moon. Let yourself dream and then execute. Most spells aren't one and don't, they require regular attention. Can you do that? It's easy on day three, less easy by day ten and much less easy by day 38.

Create wonder, pay things forward, buy your bestie a cup of Starbucks, donate to a charity you care about, make something beautiful with your own two little hands, be kind to your loved ones, breath life into your house plants, be extra attentive to your cat, make your lover a hot water bottle. Open your heart. Do it because it hurts. And we are not afraid of pain, sisters.

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tiaraofsapphires · 7 years ago

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Of Choices and Miracle-Chapter 9

Guess who’s back back back! It’s meeee! Man, we are getting close-ish to the end

Read here on Ao3!

Cassian’s dreams were hazy and unfocused at some points, vivid and sharp at others.

No more pain, at least for now. Thank the Force for small blessings. Or maybe he wasn’t capable of sensing it anymore. He had seen it happen before: a perfectly-placed hit robbing a man of all feeling. It was seen as a mercy when the man died days later. Cassian had agreed at the time, but now he wasn’t so sure.

He did feel cold, weightless. Like he was underwater. But not drowning. He had no experience with drowning, but he assumed his body would've been in more of a state of panic if he was drowning.

Slowly, barely, his eyes opened.

A blindingly bright expanse met him, shadows moving just outside of his field of vision.

No, too bright.

Was he dead? Injured?

His eyes shut again.

…

He dreamt of the Citadel. The memory was too new, shiny like freshly-spilt blood. He dreamt of climbing just below Jyn and he could see the record, the all-important record, clipped to her belt. She was going to be a hero and all he had to do was follow. Cassian had accepted that he was probably follow this woman to the very end.

His limbs were leadened, each movement delayed, every second she climbed higher and higher and he couldn’t keep up.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he had said, right before she jumped onto the records tower.

He wasn’t keeping his promise very well.

Then, a door hissed open and blasterfire screamed through the space, three figures in the shadows.

Cassian was too slow, couldn't get to his blaster in time, a cry of warning drying up on his mouth, unsaid.

A red bolt struck Jyn and she fell, absolutely silent. She plummeted past him, her hair streaming over her face, hiding her from him.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. He only watched and heard her hit the platform so far below them with a jarring thump.

The records tower evaporated to smoke beneath his hands.

…

Something wet was dripping on his face. He heard a soft sniffle.

He couldn’t move or open his eyes. No pain, just numbness.

A soft pressure on his forehead, something whispered, wordless like a breeze.

A hallucination, nothing more.

Unfeeling darkness swallowed him up.

…

The next he knew he was huddled in a forest.

He was lucky, then.

It was the middle of the summer months on Fest when his village was destroyed by the Empire. If it had been the winter and he had fled to the forest, he surely would have frozen to death before dawn.

Cassian had found a large divot in a tree, remembered how it was a good hide-and-seek spot, a game played by children who now burned in their homes. Just big enough for him to hide in. He pulled some brush over the hole for camouflage and curled into as small a ball as possible.

It was cold, still. His pajamas weren’t meant for being slept in outside. His mother would’ve wrapped him up in layers and a coat before even thinking of sending him outside.

His mother.

Grief clutched at his throat, but he was silent.

He wished he was dead, that he didn’t make it out of his burning house and just died with his parents. But the instinctual part of him wanted to live.

He waited in the cold until the sun rose, unmoving for fear of discovery, until the rays of light blinded him.

…

Cassian awoke to pain and movement.

Head on his chest, feet dragging along, nerves on fire.

Unaware, not moving under his own control.

He couldn’t speak to tell whoever was holding him to let go.

He was grateful when a pain like electricity wrapped around his chest and knocked him unconscious.

…

“Lay low, cut the fuel line, don’t get caught.”

Cassian was given that directive. Pretty easy instructions, simple enough for a child to understand.

He was eight, at least that’s what the Alliance told him. He was old enough to be useful, not just another mouth to be fed.

He snuck into the Imperial facility, blade tucked in his shirtsleeve, small and unnoticed.

His vibroblade cut through the tube, spilling fuel over his hands. It smelled foul, almost enough to choke him.

Cassian stayed quiet, reeking, as he left the way he came.

Later, a spark would light the fuel and explode, killing over a dozen Imperials. He didn’t see that report until years later. The Alliance let children kill, but didn’t tell them they were killers until they could understand.

After that success, more of the same followed: death after death of people he didn’t know but knew were bad. A poison pill here, a planted bomb there. Jobs for a child who could go unnoticed.

Each mission could’ve been his last.

Any moment, he would become a body in too small a coffin, if he was ever given a funeral.

…

He dreamt of the ground coming up in a wave of rock and sand and light.

Jedha, but different, still familiar. It was something that was and wasn’t, an unfulfilled prophecy.

Dying alone, burning to cinders.

…

The first sensation he felt was the stiff tightness around the trunk of his body, a hollow kind of pain. He still could breathe. That was obvious. Each push and pull of air into his lungs met some resistance but not enough to start an instinctive panic.

The next sensation, the next coherent thought, was that whatever he was lying on felt too coarse on his skin.

His eyes cracked open, muted light flooding in.

An unfamiliar room. Everything was still fuzzy and out of focus, but he knew this wasn’t his quarters or the med-bay on Yavin 4.

It was a dream, likely. Maybe a hallucination. Maybe he was dead.

A light touch startled him into focus.

Jyn was seated next to him, the mattress dipped under her weight. A patchwork of light and shadow, real and not real.

Her fingers lightly combed through his hair, pulling wayward strands away from his face. Damp hair. Why was his hair wet?

It felt real. He wanted it to be real. But it was a hallucination. Something he wanted but couldn’t have.

Cassian shifted a little, the movement taking much more effort than he predicted. A tiny grunt escaped his mouth.

Jyn’s hand left his hair almost instantly and Cassian almost wept at the loss.

Her mouth moved. He was staring at her lips and that was the only way he would’ve known she was talking to him. His name, maybe.

He wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

Cassian lifted his hand, somehow finding the strength to move.

Up, up, pointing at the woman at his side, ignoring the pain that stretched ribbon-like over his chest.

Jyn blinked, stiffened, the moment the tip of his finger touched her nose, just shy of missing. Skin-on-skin felt real, as real as the pain. He couldn’t be sure.

Hallucination or not, it meant they were both existing in the same sphere at the same time.

That could be enough.

…

Cassian woke up for good to a different room and a different bed with softer sheets.

And less pain, more coherence. More things to be grateful for.

He lifted his head as best he could and glanced around, feeling delightfully alive, for his eyes to find a brunette rummaging through a pack on the ground.

“Jyn?” Cassian rasped.

She jerked like someone jabbed her with an electric poker, her eyes turning to his eyes immediately.

Something undefined, great and terrible, seemed to drift across her face, but it was gone before Cassian could think to try to identify it.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” she said.

It should’ve been playful. Friendly, yet dry, banter between two comrades in a war. But it sounded too strained, too frayed, on her lips. They sounded exhausted and relieved in equal measures.

Instead of acknowledging the banta in the room, Cassian grunted, looking down at himself to make sure all of his limbs were still attached.

Then he looked around the rest of the room. It was small, one bed, a table and two chairs, what Cassian could only assume was the door to the ‘fresher.

“I don’t remember the drapes being that ugly.”

Jyn glanced at the green-grey drapes covering the windows and grinned.

“Uh, yeah. We were holed up in one motel for three days, then I moved us here. Management here’s a bit more of the ‘I see nothing if you pay’-type, but have terrible taste in décor.”

Cassian’s brain took a moment to understand what she was saying. “You moved me yourself?”

Jyn shrugged. “You’re not light, Cassian, but I managed.”

There was a half-eaten plate of food on the table and Cassian quickly realized he was starving. But barely had the energy to talk, much less eat.

“How long have I been out?” he asked.

It was something he should find out before he inevitably fell into a drug-induced fog.

Jyn’s expression shuttered almost instantly, a bright light suddenly snuffed out. Guilt, sorrow, exhaustion, all muddied into one.

“Jyn?” Cassian asked. He was unable to keep the note of concern from his voice, making it crack.

She seemed to shake herself. “Bacta tank, two days. You’ve been in and out five days after that.”

A week. That was definitely a record for Cassian. Months and years before that day he was concussed and unconscious for two days. He didn’t exactly remember what had happened to cause it, but Kay had rubbed in the fact he saved him for ages.

The thought of Kay was like a bolt through the heart.

“Has anyone made contact?”

He didn’t need to be specific for her to know what he was saying. Did the Rebel Alliance look for them? Did she try making contact?

Jyn shook her head.

“No. I was going to wait until you were strong enough.”

It made sense. He knew there wasn’t much Imperial presence, but there could be spies. It would’ve been foolish to potentially tip them off by sending a transmission with Cassian still bedridden.

“I am strong enough now.”

Both of them knew it was a lie.

…

After that, he could only sleep in snatches of a couple hours at a time. Sometimes he’d wake to his mouth tasting like soup and sometimes like cotton.

Sometimes (most times) Jyn was there, sometimes she wasn’t. He only caught her sleeping once. The rest of the time she was pacing, eating, taking care of him, and staring off into the distance.

It had been a day and a half. He felt stronger, and not all of it could be from the painkillers Jyn made very sure he took.

Cassian pushed his arms underneath his body in an attempt to sit up by himself. He managed to lift himself several inches without pain before Jyn noticed.

“What are you doing?”

The demand, sharp like broken glass, shocked him enough that he froze.

Cassian found words quickly. “I need to get up.”

It was a simple enough thing. He needed to stand, move around. He was injured, yes. When Jyn changed his bandages, he saw the mottled bruises and the stitches where the doctors inserted tubes into him.

But he could likely stand, able to feel his fingers and toes. He was doing fine so far.

Jyn shook her head. He could see the tendon of her jaw jump as she clenched her teeth.

“You almost died Cassian. We can’t be sure you won’t injure yourself more if you move.”

She was probably right. Of course, she was right. The smart thing for him to do was to obey and just lay back down. But, the obstinate and prideful part of him wanted to try to stand up.

Jyn dragged him around to keep him alive. He could at least pretend to not be weak.

“I’m pretty sure there’s little more I could do to myself.”

Propped himself up a little more, chest feeling the strain. His body pivoted a little, and he gently swung one leg over the side of the bed.

“Cassian!”

Jyn lunged forward, but clearly stopped herself when Cassian’s other leg joined the first and he hoisted himself up to a sitting position.

It took just about everything he had not to show the pain that rippled over his back and chest, almost knocking the wind out of his chest.

He was a spy and, therefore, good at hiding that sort of thing.

Okay, he was sitting up. And he had enough self-preservation to not actually stand. Either Jyn or his own body would knock him on his ass for trying.

Sweat beaded his temples and upper lip from the effort alone, despite whatever drugs Jyn injected in him a few hours earlier. Those would wear off eventually and he would definitely regret his pride.

Jyn looked like she was personally going to murder him. Maybe smother him with a pillow. Her jaw was tense, like she was trying to grind her teeth to powder. Her eyes were fiery anger, but too bright.

“I’m not picking you up if you fall on your face,” Jyn hissed.

Seeming to dismiss him, she turned to the likely-stolen datapad on the table, fingers tapping and swiping on the screen.

Cassian watched, in a sore daze, as the unnatural light shone over her profile. She had new clothes, a loose tunic and pants. And she seemed to be without pain. A week must have been enough time for her shoulder to heal.

He watched and watched, heart feeling too big for his chest.

Gods, he wanted to kiss her.

Jyn froze instantly and whipped around to stare at him like he just grew a second head.

Cassian felt the blood drain from his face before it rushed back to color his cheeks.

Shit. He said that out loud, didn’t he? Maybe he was on more drugs than he realized.

“I—um,” Cassian sputtered, looking to anywhere that wasn’t the woman across from him.

Well. If the gods or the Force or whatever wanted to strike him dead, there was no better time than that moment. Just let him sink into the mattress and disappear.

His ears felt too hot and his head too light as he stared down at himself and how his hands gripped the bedframe, white-knuckled.

Idiot. Drugged-out idiot who probably just ruined something that wasn’t even there yet.

Cassian started almost violently when her shoes came into view and a slender finger tapped him under the chin.

He looked up, heart in his throat, expecting to see an open palm or a fist coming for his face. Instead, Cassian was treated to the sight of Jyn leaning down.

He stayed still, shock-still, Jyn’s breath washing over his mouth for a moment before her lips touched his.

Cassian inhaled as softly as possible, afraid that if he breathed loud enough the illusion would break.

Jyn kissed him softly, like he would break into pieces if she pressed her mouth too hard. And really, she could have. He felt like he was dying in the best way on the inside.

Cassian tilted his head back a bit, letting Jyn deepen the kiss.

One of her hands cupped under his jaw and the other lightly rested on his shoulder. It seemed really restrained, but something told him that if he weren’t injured, he would’ve had a lapful of Jyn.

Her lips were chapped and soft and the inside of her mouth tasted like a fruit he couldn’t name. He reached up to run his fingers through the strands of hair that fell across her face.

It was perfect. It felt like the culmination of a thousand little things that finally fell into place, putting them both in that exact spot.

He had stars in his eyes. He felt lightheaded. He was…he was going to pass out.

Cassian broke the kiss with a pathetic-sounding gasp, fighting to get air back into his lungs.

“Jyn,” he whispered between gulps of air.

Figures that the first kiss they shared would almost knock him out.

Jyn’s eyes scanned his face, expression softer than he had ever seen it before. She was blushing and her green eyes were bright.

He wanted to kiss her again and he told her so when he could finally breathe again. He wanted to kiss her again and again.

She smiled, a tiny thing, a thing that spoke of both affection and exasperation.

“You’re a real idiot, Cassian Andor,” she said, punctuating the words with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Just so you know.”

He couldn’t be bothered to disagree with her.

#therebelcaptainnetwork #rebelcaptain #rebelcaptain fic #cassian andor #jyn erso #jyndor #cassijyn #rogue one #star wars #my fic #my fics

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believe-that-you-can-my-friend · 8 years ago

Text

Where The Wild Roses Grow

Summary: When Jughead becomes an active member of the Southside Serpents, him and Betty are starting to grow further and further apart, as the boiling volcano of Riverdale's Civil War is threatening to erupt in full force. Can a heart to heart with Alice Cooper and an old Serpent jacket give Betty and Jughead the hope they both need?

Read on AO3

(This is huge so grab snacks and drinks. The Bughead scene ruined me. I apologize for all of this. Warning: full angst and sin ahead! I’m not describing it as much anymore cause after the Jughead I saw in the finale that’s a given but still, after I post this, I’ll crawl under my covers in blushing embarassment.😂 Here you go, lovelies! I hope you enjoy this! ❤️)

"On the second day he came with a single red rose

He said, "Give me your loss and your sorrow?"

I nodded my head, as I lay on the bed

"If I show you the roses will you follow?"

The snow is slowly melting under the heaps of rain and so is her will to contribute to life these days. The icy scenery that adorns Riverdale gives out under the rays of sun that stubbornly peek through the pine trees and white oaks, ridding their leaves from the coldness of nature, only to become shiny droplets of clear water that hold the whole kaleidoscope of colors, just like tears and their colossal scale of emotions. He is the ice, she is the stubborn sun; that’s what he tells her through the sad darkness of each night that they lay together but further and further apart. He says it as a compliment, in the most sullen John Wheelwright fashion, but she accepts it gladly as her fingers form infinity signs over the crackling ice of his golden heart. Her hair is golden too under the dim moonlight, it’s a match made in heaven, and she vows that tomorrow she will try to burn hotter than the December sun over the patches of snow that are menacingly trying to turn him into a lifeless statue. And she does. But not today.

There are colors of blue and gold in the sky as the sun dips into the hills far, far away. There is The Register, forgotten and coffee-stained, over the floral plastic tablecloth, opened in page six and the magniloquent article about Riverdale’s corruption and subjection of justice signed by Elizabeth Cooper, Alice Smith-Cooper. There is her history book, her copy of To Kill A Mockingbird stashed on top of it littered with a million colorful sticky tabs and her laptop opened, cursor blinking warningly on the half-finished document about the reflection of Atticus Finch throughout the novel. But there are also Social Service papers and Southside High paperwork and his beanie left on top of his messenger bag, both thrown hastily on a creaky dining chair, and Betty can’t focus on anything important, like school, or the paper, or generally her life so she just cooks, unburies any pot and pan she can find, and cooks.

The limited Tupperware is filled with homemade lasagna, meatloaf with roasted potatoes – his favorite –, fried chicken, some vegetable soup that she knows he is not going to even touch but she just hopes for his sake. There is also apple pie in the fridge but that doesn’t count; she had brought that from home and she is sure it is going to be inhaled by him in a mere matter of seconds when he will notice it lurking behind his usual TV-dinners. Chocolate brownies are being baked in the slow oven and a pot filled with water is boiling, just like her temper that forms a lump in her throat, making her want to shed fat tears of worry and frustration over the pile of breakfast sandwiches she is storing into silicone zip up bags. She is glaring at the clock on the wall, once per nanosecond, the ticking making her more anxious and pushing her more to the verge of screaming, to wail like another Banshee at the premonition of something terrible. She doesn’t know where he is, she doesn’t know what he is doing but she does know that he is with them, as if the perpetual dreadful feeling in her chest needed any more confirmation from the open living room closet where his limited choices of jackets are hanging messily on mismatched hangers except for one.

Heavy, jogging footsteps up the tiny outdoor staircase shake the whole trailer under their squeaky force and Betty literally jumps, peanut butter filled knife dropping against the olive counter with sound, heart flattering with relief that for one more night he is safe and with her. Keys jiggle and the wooden door gives out under his drumming fingers, Betty’s rushing palms urgently coming to wipe the wetness that formed against her cheeks without her even noticing. She hears him halt for a moment and then turn to the kitchen, combat boots thudding against the hardware floor in coordination with her heart each time her antennas are sensing him close to her, either across the hall or glued to her chest, it didn’t matter.

“Hey!” Betty hears her voice greeting cheerfully, surprisingly steady enough to pass as her typical easy-going tone, even though the burden drilled to her chest leaves no room for cheerful. She gives him a quick smile over her shoulder, catching him sporting a sweet, dumbfounded smile while resting a forearm again the kitchen threshold, black leather contradicting on white wood, before her eyes are once again occupied with the task at hand.

“Something smells good in here.” Jughead comments with delight, eyes casting from the steam emitting pot to the alit kitchen and then her killer legs wrapped in skintight dark denim. He licks his lips and for the first time in his life he is not salivating at the sight of food.

“You think?” she continues the lighthearted chat, because that’s what he needs, that’s what they both need, a tiny piece of normality and everyday living mist their tragedy stained small town world. There’s shuffling behind her and the swoosh of leather being thrown carelessly away and she sighs with a small feeling of contentment at the action. He is well aware how much she hates that jacket and the promise behind it; so he makes sure to always shred it off his shoulders himself before stepping into her world of comfort and vanilla. It’s a silent deal between them, a religious habit of his, slipping back into his Jughead Jones shoes the nights shared with her before waking in the morning in an empty bed again as one of those Serpents.

“It’s the brownies.” Betty smiles around the word, knowing that his weakness for chocolate is only a tad smaller than his weak spot for her and her cheeks flush momentarily at his naughty suggestion of tasting both his vices some night, dark chocolate dipping in every hallow and hidden curve of her body as she writhes under his lustful tongue. And just like that, she wants him again, sore thighs be damned, still deliciously aching by his bite marks and their spread opened position all night yesterday.

She can feel him stride towards her and the drumming of her heart increases until there are large hands on her low abdomen, playing with the hem of her white fuzzy sweater, grazing skin, making her sigh and melt back against him.

“Yeah, that too.” Jughead hums, the tip of his nose running from the hollow of her collarbone up her neck and his lips settle against her pulse point, sucking wetly and tasting the salt on her skin, the sweetness of her perfume, the blood that pumps quicker because of him. Home. Her head falls back on his shoulder with a sigh, she offers him more skin to get lost into, bodies rolling sensually as her back collides with his hard chest and her firm behind finds him already half-hard and ready to ravish her. His bony fingers undo the button of her jeans and naughtily sneak inside, the soaking lace drawing a moan from both of them, the vibrations of her neck mingling with his trembling lips, teeth biting hard, and the effect is evident on her panties again, his long fingers stroking her like a fine harp or the world’s filthiest violin.

As fast as it appears the sensation is gone and Betty momentarily frowns before she is dropped on top of the kitchen counter, just like that first night the world came upside down for them. The very first night that, after a bitter confrontation and hateful claws shedding that bloodcurdling jacket from his shoulders, he had made her a woman on that creaky couch in the next room, with words like “mine” and “I need you, don’t leave me” against her open in wonder lips. It’s a desperate battle for dominance now once again, lips bruising lips, tongues twirling wetly in a hurricane of need, fingers creeping on cheekbones, digging on skin. He gasps against her opened lips and her tongue comes out for a lewd invasion, making him groan and fist her ponytail, pulling hair and changing the angle of their kiss to violate her mouth more, until there are scratches of blood against the soft pink of her bubblegum lipstick. Jughead demands her sweater off as he wrinkles it inside his tight fists and she complies, raising her arms and arching her chest towards him when the warm garment is just a useless white fluff on the tiled floor. He smirks in appreciation at the lacey pastel blue bra that greets him, full breasts rising and fall under his intense stare, and he follows her blush up until their eyes connect for a moment, pupils dilated and eyelashes blinking in a disorientated stare. And in that moment she can see all his true colors, the blues and the violets and the dark greys and the pastels behind his eyes, she can see him, her one and only. He feels it, the prying into his soul, and he softens his movements, hand cupping her scarlet cheek with excessive care and baby blues almost watery, pouring every ounce of love he has for her, the beautiful Helen of Riverdale’s civil war.

With a clasp of her ankles behind his knees and a slide of her hips to end up flat against his, the moment of tenderness is gone and he groans as he dives for her bee-stung lips again, inhaling inside the hotness of her sinfully sweet mouth, his thump caressing the corner of it, indicating that he wants it wider, and Betty leaves a low moan of delight at the gesture, complying of course and hungrily reciprocating his kiss, heads tilting from side to side in frenzy, wet sounds fueling the pushing and pulling of their hips. Her hands run down his muscular chest and bury under his black t-shirt, fingers slaying on his flexing abs and delivering a sensual caress up his pecs, bringing the cotton material with them and making him hiss under her touch before pulling back to user the shirt off his body, recklessly tossing it down to join her sweater with a wolfish smirk that makes her stomach flip in excitement before it gets lost against the crook of her neck. He is working to create a mark, just like the plethora of others that she finds in almost every inch of her skin when she showers, and she feels him biting hard on her collarbone, momentarily pulling her flesh harshly while groaning. She moans loudly and her legs slide up his sides in reflex as he reaches behind him and takes hold of her ankle, pushing it up until the heel of her fawn ankle boot is hooked over the waistband of his black ripped jeans.

“What took you so long today?” Betty sighs against his jawline, lips dropping messy pecks under it, on his tender neck, behind his ear. She doesn’t know where she finds the sanity to utter words, especially as her soft palms are roaming over his strong back, feeling his shoulder blades flexing manly with his hard pants, but she needs to make sure that he is still the guy that used to climb windows just to see her.

“I had some things to take care of.” Jughead murmurs uninterested in small talk and only paying attention to the love bite forming against her collarbone, pulling back to smirk momentarily at the sight of it before running his tongue across her heaving sternum, erotic wetness coaxing the base on the other side of her neck.

“Social worker?” her eyebrows knit in concern because their meetings are frequent now that his official move to the foster family is only some days away and she hugs his shoulders tighter without even noticing it, either for comfort or in a desperate attempt to never let him go or both, definitely both.

He shakes his head negatively against her neck, messy raven locks tickling her cheek and she can’t fight the urge to run her fingers through them, scratching his scalp and tugging lightly, opening her mouth to speak again but the only sound that comes out is a strained low sigh as his large palms run up the sides of her jean clad legs, her hipbones, his ribs, until they grasp her breasts firmly, squeezing them heavily over their pastel blue prison.

“Them?” Her stone-cold voice and accusatory tone can be hardly missed and Jughead gets tense for a moment but his lips never stop devouring her porcelain skin, his fingers never stop digging roughly at the swell of her breasts as he gropes them urgently, pads slipping into the lace and nails grazing against their peaks that are already hard and desperate for his attention. Betty is moaning, low and deep, besides the temper that starts once again to rise inside her chest or maybe because of it, she doesn’t know. She just feels ready to explode and that’s surely because of him, because of his heavenly touch and his current un-heavenly transactions with criminals. It’s a strange feeling, for somebody to cause such diverse emotions to her, that someone never being the one to agitate the turbulent waters of her heart only to calm them, and it is confusing and frustrating and so damn mind-blowing intense.

Jughead pulls back with a big exhale, raven locks pocking his pitch black from passion eyes, hips jerking against her heat once, almost violently. “I’m not doing any drugs, if that’s what you’re asking.” He reassures her with his typical smart-ass tone and goes to resume the actions of his hands that still lay casually on her breasts, ready to be done with this troublesome conversation, but she stops him, his head bouncing back as she tugs at his hair, a little more harshly and painfully than intended. Her green eyes are cold and hide a hint of disappointment that Jughead loathes with every fiber of his body so he adopts his usual defensive stare as he waits for her to mention once again the elephant in the room.

“Are you selling them then?” The bomb is dropped; Jughead knows that a new round of fighting is going to begin in a matter of seconds and he wishes he could stop it, he wishes there was a thing in the history of the world that he could say and make them shiny and new again, but there isn’t and he is tired of fighting and tired of trying to prove constantly himself to her and he can feel his tongue slip and not for it to bring her pleasure this time but pain.

“It never crossed my mind that you of all people would think that low of me.” His voice is venomous, just like the snakes he is thrown into, and his eyes narrow in disbelief, actually hurt that she, the person that knows his heart like the back of her moon-scared palm, believed even for a second that he would be responsible of condoning any kind of addiction, let alone that of teenage kids like them.

“Can you blame me?” she grows defensive too, ominous green shade on her doe eyes. “Ever since—” she begins but he is faster than her, always faster, and a hurricane of words emit from the depths of his slowly closing in a suffocating choke throat.

“Ever since what?” Jughead snaps, challenging her to go on if she dared. “I found a family? I found people that want me in their life and they are not ready to flee with the first chance they get?” he shoots question after question unceremoniously, angry that she doesn’t understand his need to finally be accepted by a community that doesn’t treat him a parasite. She scoffs at his words, he glares at her. “What, Betty, you wanted truth, I’m stating the truth!”

The volume of his voice takes her aback and she replies with the same hostile tone and glare. “The truth is that I don’t like the person you’re becoming.” Second bomb.

“The person I’m becoming?” Jughead exhales the words and his eyes are smaller than buttons as disbelief and anger creeps around them. “What about the person you’re becoming?!” He is infuriated now, pacing up and down in front of her, hand gestures intense and erratic. “You defended my dad, Betty, in front of the whole fucking town. You defended them in that stupid article” he points menacingly at the newspaper on the stinky kitchen table “that now seems to be nothing but lies and a popularity façade. What are you trying to prove this time, huh? Tell me.” He holds his ground and demands, chest heaving once again but not from the heat of her body but the heat of anger at her behavior, at his own behavior.

“Are you being serious right now, Jughead?” Betty’s hands come to grip the edge of the counter she is still sitting on, knuckles turning white, and her fingertips itch to just slip and pierce her skin instead of the cheap linoleum and she is sure she will later tonight when she crying in bed but not now, not in front of his towering posture and his furious eyes. She is not going to appear weak now. “Are you really doubting my intentions after everything that I went through this whole month defending you and that clan of criminals?” she doesn’t believe him, she doesn’t believe the words that are coming out of his mouth and her heart sinks to her stomach at the revelation that maybe this is actually his true self and all those time she was just holding on her own personal version of purity and illusions.

“Could have fooled me.” He states in a low casual voice but his eyes are lifeless and his tone of apathy bites more deadly than the cobra on his jacket.

She shakes her head and huffs and, unlike his eyes, hers are filled with emotion, with fat, angry, painful tears so she casts her gaze down on the denim of her knees, not wanting to give him the pleasure of breaking right before his eyes, even though she has done it a million times before. “Brilliant.” She chokes. “Just brilliant.” She decides to face him again, catching a frown of concern or maybe regret painting the middle of his eyebrows. “Just because you chose to crawl back into your shell and stop communicating with me, don’t try to turn this whole thing against me.” She spits with much deserved venom and she hopes he sees the salty water in her eyes.

“Well, you might be confused cause you are the one turning distant and so damn cold here.” He groans at the end of his accusation, watching as something goes off at the back of her mind while she straightens her back to face him fearless and shameless, like she always faces all her demons.

“Yeah, of course, my only use anymore is to be hot and ready to be fucked, right Juggie?”

The water in the still boiling pot overflows. It pours viciously on the hot stove with a chilling sound. It gets burnt.

They both jump and he rushes to turn off the appliance before he throws the pot inside the sink with a loud thud, fingers colliding with the torrid iron and getting burnt just like his heart some seconds ago under the deadly sparkles of her words. He hisses a curse and groans in frustration, his palms slamming against the counter, making her jump again, and his shoulders hunch over the sink in despair, Jughead closing his eyes to control his temper. But her look of total emptiness and the rancorous way she said his nickname that always held a fondness and sweetness he had never experienced before from any woman in his life are replaying in his mind again and again like a movie in which everyone dies and there’s no happy ending.

Behind him Betty doesn’t dare to utter any further word. She struck a cord, she knows by the way his bare shoulder blades stay tense and his breaths come out sharp and fuming, and she thought she would feel good inside her skin if she paid him back with a painful dagger of words through his heart but she doesn’t; in fact, she fills more awful than before.

“Hey, Jug, you’re up for some night paroling?” the voice of a boy cuts through the tension, barging in the trailer like he owns the place while continuing his carefree monologue, Jughead straightening up his posture immediately to turn to look at her, topless and seated on the counter, and Betty scoffs incredulously at his new buddies and their lack of manners. “Hunter fixed that motorbike you wanted – oh” he stops mid-stride and scans her up and down before he lets a wolf-whistle in appreciation along with a smirk. “Nice game, man.” He compliments the both of them and Betty narrows her eyes at him in annoyance in coordination with Jughead’s loud clearing of his throat in warming, as she hops to the ground and curls her arms over her chest protectively. She has seen him before, he is the guy responsible for the cute dirty ball of fluff that lurks on Jughead’s doorstep every day, but she doesn’t pay him any more attention as she turns to the boy that makes her see red once more.

“Motorbike?” she raises her eyebrows in a you-gotta-be-kidding-me grimace. “Seriously now?”

Jughead hesitates, voice becoming tentative and low. “It was a gift…” he offers vaguely.

“Like the jacket, I know.” Betty sighs in disappointment. “You can’t really say no to such full of gratitude gestures right?” she spits to his face and chuckles with no humor at all when she sees him drop his head to the ground, not even trying to justify himself.

“Whatever, I’m out of here.” She reaches for her sweater on the floor, her school stuff long forgotten on the table. She just needs to get out, to leave that suffocating trailer, to breathe.

“Betts…” Jughead tries in the usual soft voice Betty still hears in her dreams, assuring her that everything is going to be okay, and he goes to grab her wrist but she squirms out of his touch.

“Don’t.” she snaps coldly at the nickname and his pleading eyes. “And you did well picking friends that they don’t even have the decency to knock” she sends a glare to the Serpent boy that looks from her to Jughead sheepishly “because you’re not having any of my booty call company ever again. We’re done.”

The thin trailer walls shake under the force of the closing door behind her. And then it’s just darkness.

Not all Serpents are bad.

It’s the third evening in a row after their fight that Betty doesn’t go to Pop’s but instead curls Caramel on her chest and lays in her floral bed, drowning in heartbreak. Her green eyes are watery but there are no more tears in her to shed, the waterfalls of that night that she was inconsolable drained, but her head is filled with a million thoughts that don’t seem to take a rest even at the wee hours of morning. Betty needs an intervention.

She finds it from Alice Cooper, as she sits next to her on the bed, sweet smile intact and ready to offer some feministic speech about the importance of independence and the absurd habit of women crying over ungrateful men. Or that’s what Betty expects. Because the only thing that echoes in her pastel room is the only phrase that the younger Cooper never expected to roll off the tip of her mother’s snobbish tongue.

Not all Serpents are bad.

“I don’t care about them, I only care about Jughead.” Betty stubbornly responds at the cliché her mom is trying to convince her of. “He is changing because of them.”

“Change is not always bad.” Alice contradicts in simplicity, her daughter sending her a fed up glare over her shoulder.

“You’re not helping, mom.” She replies sarcastically, a tad annoyed at her now too and her lack of any of her usual authoritative statements. Betty never thought that a day would come when she would crave her mother’s ultimatums.

“I’m just saying that change is bound to happen.” The older woman explains lovingly, a hand rubbing her daughter’s arm. “You’re teenagers, Elizabeth; you’re shaping your personalities, shredding some aspects of them, gaining some others.”

Betty turns to lay on her back with a huff, picking aimlessly at the fur of her beloved stuffed cat. “Yes, but we are not supposed to lose ourselves.”

“Is he really losing himself?” Alice challenges with a raised eyebrow, sure of the answer, because she knows Jughead Jones, she used to be him many, many years ago. Betty opens her mouth to reply, then closes it in a loss. Deep down, she knows too that this isn’t the case.

“He doesn’t belong there, mom.” Green eyes reach their replica pair as Betty shakes her head vigorously, stubborn and stupidly spiteful and just a teen. “He belongs here in Riverdale High and at Pop’s and with—” her lips are running and her tone is the usual Betty Cooper one when she is extremely passionate about something but Alice cuts her off with a knowing look.

“You?” she completes her daughter’s sentence with a years-of-experience smile, the girl on the bed across her sighing a “yeah” in exasperation. “And why not the opposite? Why don’t you belong there with him?” the woman fires back with one of her overconfident expressions and Betty is at a loss again, eyebrows knitting in confusion as to what on earth her mother was suddenly talking about.

Alice laughs lightly at her clueless expression, a hand patting her hip in affection as she stands up. “Come on; I have something to show you.”

Their attic is the same as Betty remembers it, dusty and filled with a lifetime of memories. Everything is organized; newspaper documents, old house décor, Polly’s section, Betty’s section, their parents’ past. It holds her mom’s wedding dress, her dad’s tuxedo, a carton box titled College, another one titled High school. Betty knows this corner like the back of her palm, she and Polly always used to snoop around there, looking at pictures, taking turns wearing Alice’s long wedding veil or her vintage silver pumps. She is utterly confused as to why they are here and unless her mom unburies a yearbook with some inspirational quote from FP that indicates that Jughead has still hope of being saved, Betty finds it completely bizarre.

Her head actually bounces backwards in surprise and her eyes widen when her mom pulls some loose planks off the hardware floor and brings to surface a black box she’s never seen before with the initials A.S. in the middle, a snake forming a circle around them. Alice drops it against an old coffee table and smiles warmly at a bewildered Betty as it opens it to reveal a whole other world, a world that all those years she kept secret in her heart.

There’s a pair of baby shoes, some toys, a rug doll, some elementary school drawings. And then there are fishnets and black leather pants and concert tickets and an empty pack of red Marlboro autographed by Slash and three stacks of photographs and other memorabilia that she doesn’t understand but what she immediately sees and understands is the black leather jacket at the bottom, folded with excessive care so the logo on its back to be untouched by time; Southside Serpents.

“Mom…?” Betty’s head snaps to look at her, shock painted all over her stunning features.

“Yes, I was born in the Southside.” Alice confirms without a hint of shame in her voice. “Yes I was a Serpent; and a damn feisty one.”

Story time begins and Betty learns about her mom’s parents for the first time – not the vague “they died pretty young” she knew all those years – two hippies with a lifestyle based on freedom and free love and utopian socialism. With a free spirited nomad as a father and a rebellious biker gang member as a mother, Alice grew up to be fearless and strong, with a sharp tongue and a red-hot attitude. Her father left for a roadtrip to India when she was ten and never came back and her mother was just a background silhouette on a speeding bike, never becoming a proper mother, never knowing how to become one. The Serpents took her in, raised her, loved her, they became her family. The jacket she wore back then was never a burden or a suffocating knot around her neck; it was a badge of honor, something that she was proud of wearing, something that gave her confidence and unique Alice Smith back then attitude. And because she was confident and because she knew her potential and her ability to succeed she fought for a better quality life. And she got it.

“I’m not the person I was back then, Elizabeth.” She concludes with a sigh, taking an old picture of herself from a stack and examining it with a nostalgic smile. “But I’m still me, here” she presents her the photo “and here.” She pokes her chest and Betty’s eyes go from her preppy looking mother back to the girl on the photo that laughs carelessly with a beer bottle in hand on top of a Harley, waist-long hair messy and leather jacket draped over her shoulders. They look deferent but they are the same; it’s in the eyes.

“Mom” Betty huffs still looking at the picture “I…I don’t know what to say.” A breathy chuckle leaves her lips at the hurricane of new information, her mind still not grasping the idea of uptight Alice Cooper being part of a notorious centuries old biker gang.

“Southside, Northside, we are all Riverdale.” Alice states matter-of-factly and that holds Betty’s attention. “And Riverdale should be unified; you said so in your article. So don’t waste any more time discriminating and setting labels. You were always better than that.” She reminds her with a sweet smile, unfolding the jacket and handling it over to her, like a former queen passing the precious crown to her heir.

“Life’s too short to hide behind meaningless words or pride or ego, honey.” Alice hugs her shoulders from behind, Betty running her thumps over the printed back of the jacket in thought. “If you love this boy and you wanna be with him, then go get him. Deal with the mess together, help each other find your ways.” She encourages her firmly and Betty feels her heart flutter at her words, the reality of how stupidly immature they are both acting settling in her chest. “He is a good boy, baby. And he makes you happy. Go, be braver than me.” Alice nudges her cheek in affection and then she is gone as Betty stands there alone, face to face with the piece of clothing he hates the most.

But not tonight. Tonight will be her own badge of honor.

Jughead pushes the door open, the rusty hinges letting an icky sound under the weight of his palm, as the newly recruited Serpent walks into his dad’s trailer, head hung low and a heavy burden of problems and responsibilities on his shoulders.

He expects to find the place dark, empty and cold. He isn’t naïve enough to believe that after their latest fight Betty would come crawling back to him. His million texts and phone calls were unanswered, his two drives to Riverdale High fruitless, her refusing to even acknowledge him in the parking lot as she walked away hand in hand with Veronica, the brunette girl giving him a sympathetic smile over her shoulder that he only reciprocated with a nod. She is right; the fights are a few too many now, his last words were stupid and harsh for no reason. Things are bad, maybe he is bad too, bad for her. Snakes curling around porcelain necks can only lead to tragedy. So maybe she is better off.

He expects to find the place dark, empty and cold. But it is only dark, neither empty nor cold. It’s filled with that unique feminine scent that can make his toes curl and his breath quicken in a nanosecond and it’s warm, hot, inflamed by the erotic image she is offering, spread out and ready for him and only him.

“Betty…” it isn’t a question, just a confirmation, a sullen relief and deep longing, her name spilling off his lips in a low sigh of ultimate wanton. Blue eyes, shining under the dim fluorescent light that invades the room through the small window, roguish and intrigued, roam over her slender figure on the ugly, floral couch, like another French girl posing lasciviously for the hungry eyes of her biggest admirer.

She isn’t completely naked but that is the madness of it all. Three tiny items on her sinfully promiscuous body are fogging any of his logical thoughts, bringing to the surface only his darkest ones, the ones that all those years he tried to suppress, labeling them fantasies or abnormalities of his brain. A pair of heels, black and deadly stiletto, with tiny straps holding her ankles captive just like his fingers did the first time he got lost between the abyss of her thighs, and all the other lewd filled times that followed, keeping her open and immobile with legs thrown over his board shoulders, feeling even the tiny bones there, at her delicate ankles, spasming under the treatment of his hungry tongue against the place that he only had the privilege to French kiss for hours until, spent and with no other oxygen left in her heaving lungs, she is always begging him to stop before her mind would paralyze under his dirty pleasure spell. A pair of red lace panties, barely there, barely visible doing little to none to hide her heated center, the center of gravity for his male primal needs, sitting low against her prominent hipbones that still hold the shape of his kisses in color purple, some small, some big, some paired with nail scratches from yesterday and the day before and all those days he pushed her roughly against his pistoling member or anchored himself while he was teasing them both, tip getting soaking wet from her need to have him always inside her. And what he sends him spiraling, in the verge of losing his mind and any ability to proceed further and brush his fingertips against the sharp edges of the goddess of his dreams; the black leather jacket – the same snake-decorated leather jacket he is now sporting as a symbol of unity and acceptance – worn over the ultimate weapons of her sexuality, no preppy sweater, no good-girl bra, just the two mounds of swollen flesh that bring pleasure to him in a way he never imagined, bare and stretching the hard leather.

His keys slip from his finger and collide with the ground with a jiggle. His lips part in a silent gasp and his stomach coils with raw excitement, a deliciously strong gut-wrecking feeling. Betty Cooper is a vision to behold wrapped in the black leather of the most infamous jacket in the history of Riverdale.

“Are you just gonna sit there and stare?” she challenges him and the wild sea of his blue eyes gets disrupted by her voice, bewildered orbs running from the valley between her breasts where they are practically gawking, to land on her lips, full, luscious, dark red like the lace against the apex of her thighs. He can’t decide which pair of lips is sweeter so he always ravishes both with equal tremendous passion, like a man feasting on his last meal or an exile coming home, kissing the land that holds his identity in utter gratitude.

She swings lightly against her elbows, the ends of her golden locks caressing the biblical symbol of sin behind her, her leg that is bended by the knee on the couch nudging closer to her long and outstretched other. She is clenching them together to ease some of the fire in the place that longs even a brush of his hot, manly breath but not making the first move because she loves it when he is in charge of it all, when he is in control of her body and mind, even if, in reality, she is the one holding him hostage in her erotic webs. She knows what she is doing to him and he knows what he is doing to her and together they push each other limits, tangled up together with a promise of forever.

“I thought you weren’t talking to me.” Jughead tries to get his mind to work, a truly impossible task with the way she is offered in front of him. He bites the inside of his cheek at that, wanting to hold back a choke at the repetition of her hurtful words that plays in his mind, at his desire to have her despite them. There’s a porcelain plate still laying on the kitchen floor behind him, useless and in pieces, symbolizing the constant breaking of both their hearts when they battled with harsh insults and not their inflamed bodies two days ago and a week ago and that very night that he had accepted the jacket of the damned and forgotten as his bulletproof armor against their mad, hostile world.

Betty rises to her feet, cat walking slowly to the man that holds her entire being on his now greased and calloused palms. “And I thought that you would always fight for us.” Click, click, click, heels fall in coordination with his breathing, sharp and quick, as the distance between them shortens and her perfume of arousal and sin invades his senses, calling for him, luring him in. Come, ignite my body, he can hear the echoes breach from her chest, the curves of her breasts against the metallic zipper of the jacket two Sirens enchanting him to a sensuous death and he can’t do anything but close his eyes and take a sharp intake of breath, knowing that he will always be a lost cause at the sight of his own celestial Venus.

“I would.” He confirms curtly, eyes open to show the determination behind their now dark color, a full man now, not a beanie boy holding on his fair share of innocence. She misses the beanie boy but she loves the towering man before her more, because now she can read him, because now, even with blindfolded eyes, she can pinpoint every scar on his hard body, every nervous twitch of muscle, every feverish beat of his iron soul. “I still do. This will never change.” He promises her his life, because what is his living without her in it, but she doesn’t want his sacrifice, she just wants him and the comfort of his arms and his words of delirious wanton against her sweaty skin.

“Then why are you just staring at me still?” with her chin up, Betty faces him fearless and shameless, green orbs piercing through his soul and draining it from the hardly any blood that is still there and not in the delicious bulge between them.

They don’t speak anymore, he doesn’t need any more encouragement. His lips are on her scarlet ones, smudging their color, opening them up, poking them with his wet and demanding tongue. They don’t say “I’m sorry” to each other, they don’t need to anymore, because they have nothing to be sorry for just their fate and their involuntary involvement in tragedies, like two Shakespearean heroes in a world full of Macbeths. They’d rather show it as their bodies curve against each other and their breaths mingle and there’s a music of desperate gasps and heavy panting as he cradles both sides of her face and angles her head in frenzy, messing her hair and pushing her lips more and more against his thirsty ones, wanting to consume her whole, to inhale her and hold her captive forever in his bloodstream.

His hands fist the jacket and his mind is filled with million questions about how and why but she bops her lips sensually up and down his tongue and he loses it, almost loses his footing, because that action is pleasantly recognized by his cock that twitches painfully against the metallic prison of his zipper and he forgets each and every word he ever learned. He goes to push the jacket off her shoulders but she grabs his wrists to stop him, unwrapping her swollen lips from his. Jughead blinks rapidly against the darkness of the room, mind not really registering surroundings or the reason why the warmth of her mouth disappeared.

“This stays on.” The blonde angel lowers his arms to his sides, rolling her chest over his sensually as the tip of her tongue comes out to lick the corner of his mouth. “I want the full Serpent experience tonight.” She whispers filthily against his open lips and sends him a provocative look under innocently flattering eyelashes and Jughead can’t hold back anymore, he grunts almost painfully and regains control of that sinful mouth, twirling his skillful tongue in a way that has her putty in his arms.

Betty’s back collides with the wall; there is a hiss of pain that turns into a weak gasp as Jughead’s teeth bite hard on her lower lip and then disappear, Betty leaning forward in a desperate attempt to follow the anchor of her desire. He pushes her back against the wall, a large hand splaying on the top of her sternum, fingers parallel with her collarbones, and she pants heavily, hands raised up in surrender against the wall, mouth open, eyelashes flickering over lust filled eyes. She surrenders under the intensity of his stare, the pad of his middle finger drawing a straight line down the middle of her breasts, making her arch against the utter simplicity of pleasure that it offers.

“Where did you get the jacket?” his voice comes raspy and authoritative because he needs to know now, intrigued by the change of heart in that particular item of clothing. His eyes cast at the hint of pink that now the misplaced garment offers, Adam’s apple bopping as his fingers trail skin until they are caressing it and then they move under the leather to twitch the already hard nipple, gaining a low moan from the girl captured between the cold wall and his heated body.

“Long story. Not now.” She is not gonna discuss Alice Cooper and her rebellious past while there are bony fingers abusing the sensitive peak of her breast so she vaguely answers around pants and hissing breaths. And then she feels the wet heat of his lips enveloping the tensing nerve-ending and she immediately loses every train of thought as her head falls back with a bang. The sensation lasts only for a minute, then his attention is on the neglected nipple and next she can’t feel him anywhere again, just hears the sexy pop of his lips freeing her reddened skin before she groans and snaps her eyes open. Upon catching his glistering with passion eyes watching her again, or rather her soaked dark nipples stretching against the zipper of the jacket, she smirks, words coming out of her lips to tease him and fuel his fiery, dominating side more that make her legs jelly and her panties soaking wet since day one.

“What?” Betty has his attention, head snapping up, pitch dark eyes peaking behind raven messy waves. “You lost your ways, Serpent King?” it’s simultaneously a title of honor and shame as it rolls off her tongue and he can feel his blood boiling and pumping in his veins, the fingers of the hand that is still firmly on her sternum, turning to dig lightly against her flesh.

Jughead leans to her ear. “You shouldn’t have said that.” It’s a low whisper, a sexual threat, and she shivers against his chest, at his words and his teeth that graze her earlobe as a follow up. “If that’s the case, then a king should always bow down to his queen.” And with that he is lowering himself to the ground, sexy smirk intact as one knee meets the floor and the other stays bended against her calf.

His large palms caress from her breasts to her ribs, the front of her thighs, the back of her calves as his lips sloppily trail open mouthed kisses against her stomach and to her navel, licking a path across the elastic of her underwear before taking it in his teeth and pulling momentarily, then letting it snap back against her skin, making her arch against his mouth and bring her legs together to ease some of the fire he is causing her. Those blue eyes look up to catch her forest green ones and the smirk never leaves his lips as he closes the red lace between his teeth again but this time he rolls them down, spreading her wetness on her thighs on the way, before they are just an accessory around her right ankle. The action turns her on even more as she searches for his hair and tugs forward, bringing his cocky face against the middle of her thighs.

Jughead licks a trail from the inside of her knee up her thigh and then he’s opening her up, nails scratching down the back of her thigh before his hand curls at the crook of her knee and he hoists it up his shoulder, stiletto heel and red panties gridding against the tongue of the snake behind his back while her hips are mimicking their action against his own marvelous tongue. He is fully clothed and she is fully naked, apart from the jacket that now rubs deliciously against her perky nipples, Betty moaning at the combined sensation and scraping his scalp, fingers fisting his hair for dear life. There are heavy licks and audible sucks and she can feel herself falling, falling into the depths of numbness and wholeness, mewling through her smudged lipstick and withering against the cheap wall, the wall that receives a hard slap from her palm as she feels his lips directly on her most sensitive nerves, sucking hard and moaning from the taste of her nectar.

It doesn’t take long, Betty can already feel her legs trembling, and when she feels his fingers joining the feast against her heat she strongly believes that her heart is going to jump right out of her exposed chest. He pushes two fingers inside of her, to the hilt and with no warming, the fallen angel on top of him delivering a deep moan that makes his painful erection twitch against his unbelievably tight jeans and he groans as more wetness runs down his fingers, making her silk and ready for him and the rest of the plans he has for them for tonight. Her hips are staring to spasm, her feminine scent is filling his nostrils making him dizzy and demanding, reaching for the leg on his shoulder and curling a hand behind her knee, rising it a tad and opening her up more as the pad of his fingers dwell on the spot inside her that makes her produce the filthiest of sounds, something that happens again like clockwork and has him smirking and groaning against her tensing muscles.

“Oh God, Jug, please…” his name falls from her lips in a common Betty Cooper erotic sigh and her eyes snap open in wonder as he moans in response and quickens the action of his fingers, his tongue on her clit drawing heart-stopping figure eights that has her grinding her hips against his face in frenzy. She is practically riding his mouth and he loves it, the red lace against her ankle swaying vigorously like a red flag in the face of a bull threatening to escape. What does escape is a long, deep moan from her chest when she looks down to the amazing man between her legs and she catches him with eyes closed, enjoying it as much as her. She violently grabs a fistful of his hair, the action drawing a hiss from him against her dripping wetness and his eyes snap up to take her in, in her most vulnerable and utterly breathtaking form. Her body stiffens and her legs start to tremble, not bearing more of the intensity of his treatment and she is falling, falling into the depths of the universe, with his long fingers pistoling in and out of her and his teeth grazing the bundle of nerves at the center of her existence.

She isn’t able to even form a moan or one of the high-pitched sighs he loves, her lips just open in heavenly agony and utter pleasure and she is spasming relentlessly while he works her more and more, wanting to taste every drop of her release and prolong the flattering of her muscles for as long as possible, as hard as possible. Betty has to stop him at some point, hypersensitive and afraid that her body is going to melt into a useless puddle on the floor if he keeps going, using her hold on his hair to drag him up her body and kiss him senseless, tongue twirling around his soaked lips and throat letting a lustful moan at the taste of herself on him. Her hands run from his hair to his neck and then the lapels of the identical with hers leather jacket but it’s his time to grab her wrists and break their heated make out.

“Turn around.” Jughead’s voice is barely a whisper against her opened in heavy panting lips but its tone is still a command and Betty bites her lip at the feeling of more wetness that rushes to her center just by the implication of his words and his dominating stare. She complies, turning to face the wall, excitement and electrifying desire invading her senses as he helps her hands slide up over and on either side of her head for leverage and taps the inside of her thigh to widen the gap between her legs.

He takes off his clothes as he watches her; the black leather contradicting her golden locks, her porcelain white skin, her sun kissed personality. He lets his own jacket drop, then grabs the back of his dark grey sweater to pull it off, shaking his head from side to side in a manly fashion to get the stray locks of his black mane away from his eyes. He bends for his combat boots and his eyes land on the valley of her legs, thighs glistering under the pure moonlight from his tongue work and her arousal and his member twitches again, demanding attention at this point. He unbuckles his belt and he swears there is a tiny wiggle in anticipation from the glorious hips in front of him and, with a bite on his lower lip, a manly moan and without any more self-control, he yanks his black jeans and boxers down his legs, kicking them off completely. His little minx of a girlfriend offers him a sly smirk over her shoulder and a lick over her upper lip and he loses it right there, snatching a condom from his jacket and quickly rolling it over his impossibly hard member with a hiss of anticipation, before dropping against her back and lining himself to her entrance.

She mewls and pushes back against him and he doesn’t want any more encouragement as he grabs her hip and enters her in one swift movement, his other hand slamming the wall next to hers as he closes his eyes and drops her forehead against the back of her neck, him letting a deep manly moan and her gasping loudly at how firm and hot he feels inside her. He begins a slow, lascivious rhythm, hips rolling in delicious waves and it’s such a slow burn that Betty feels like drowning, like she doesn’t have control of her body anymore, like her fate is handled wholeheartedly over to his amazing hands. There are low moans and sharp intakes of breath and Jughead is murmuring apologies and filthy compliments against the back of her neck, bruising the skin there and making her drop her forehead against the wall, offering him more skin, offering him everything he wanted from her.

Soon, Betty gets frustrated and starts to push back with vigor, wanting for him to speed his pace and have her hard and fast, the way both of them love, but Jughead refuses with a halt of his movements and a painful nail scratch on the side of her thigh that makes her shiver and curse under her breath as he smirks cockily against the snake of her jacket. She knows how to play dirty too though and when he starts moving again, painfully slow and teasingly, she clenches her muscles around his throbbing member and he actually has to anchor himself with both hands from her hips as his hips jerk forward, too wound up for her to play such games on him. There’s a low grunt out his lips and Betty smirks in victory but it doesn’t last long because she suddenly feels empty, the wonderful fullness between her thighs gone and she growls in frustration as he turns her around and picks her up by the back of her thighs, her gasp getting tangled up with his groan. They kiss with fever licks, demanding teeth and roaming hands on her behind, his tip soaking wet from her body’s reaction towards him all the nights spent in this trailer, as he walks them to the bedroom, kicking the door with his foot and dropping her on the mattress that creaks under their weight. There is a devilish smirk on his red lips and Betty clenches her legs together at the sensation a simple facial expression of his is causing to her overly sensitive body.

“Ass up, hands on the headboard, baby.” Soft tone but commanding dark blue eyes and Betty is sure she can come right here and there by that look alone and the view of his hard, naked body. He drops a playful but loud slap on the side of her hip when he sees her not moving but instead eyeing his hard on with lustful eyes and she offers him a foxy smile before going on with his request, resting on her knees, her ass in the air and slender fingers wrapping around the mahogany bars of the vintage double bed. A trembling sigh leaves her lips as the cold air of the room contradicts with the hotness of her skin and the tingling sensation against her center, the position she is in adding a thrilling naughtiness in her already way too turned on mood and she wiggles her hips against him once again, asking for something, anything to feed the hunger between her legs.

“You don’t even know how exquisitely delicious you look right now.” Jughead whispers in awe, eyes capturing the image and storing it at the back of his mind, knowing that this is surely going to be his wet dream from now on, every night she isn’t lying next to him. And what a spectacular wet dream that is.

His fingernails are scratching lightly up and down the back of her thighs as he starts teasing her with his tip, making her shiver and writhe under him, his hands going to settle around her waist, bending it more and pushing the leather material up to trace the adorably sexy dimples against her skin there. His knees push her knees further apart and without warming he is inside her to the hilt one again, Betty snapping her head back with a surprised moan and him dropping over her back with a baritone gasp.

Slow and languid isn’t an option anymore; they’ve missed each other those days that they were stubbornly pushing each other away and now they are way too wound up and ready to chase their pleasurable union down that road of intense sexual magnetism that their bodies seemed to have since the time they shared their first kiss. He is thrusting behind her in a steady rhythm, skin colliding with skin and the sound mingling with the operatic moans that fall out of her voluminous lips, fueling the tightness low on Jughead’s stomach and causing his movements to become curt, sharp, deeper and deeper. He feels on fire, literally catching in flames and burning down in ashes as she pushes back against him with vigor, meeting his thrusts and clenching him more and more in the pouring lava of her feminine abyss.

“Pull my hair.” Betty sighs breathlessly, too lost in the sensation of his hard cock hitting places inside her that makes her legs spasm against his and he groans deep in his chest as he does what he is told, taking hold of her blonde curls and twirling them in a makeshift ponytail, tugging her head lightly towards him. Her eyes roll back to the inside of her skull in pleasure and her sigh is a full on sultry one as he drops his lips on the side on her neck and starts sucking on her thudding pulse point, hard.

Jughead’s hips push and pull quicker, her legs almost give out but he curls a strong arm around her belly and holds her against him, completely at his mercy. The world spins way too crazily, the headboard is banging loudly against the wall, her heels are digging painfully on his calves, his lips are everywhere on her neck, sucking and marking, and his hot raspy breaths echo between her sultry moans and high pitched sighs. They are on the verge, shimmery sweat coaxing both their tense bodies and the leather sticks awkwardly on her skin but she loves every second of it, just as much as he does. Jughead abandons her neck and her hair fall like a waterfall of gold at the side of her face as he straightens his back and takes hold of her hips fiercely, nails scratching against her hipbones in sweet pain, pulling her more ferociously against his thick length, Betty biting the pillow under her and letting a muffled scream as her knuckles turn white around the wooden bars of the bed.

He commands himself not to close his eyes because his need to watch her is desperate right now, the snake in her jacket staring him right in the eyes before his lust-filled orbs drop further down to the skin on her waist that reddens under the iron hold of his fingertips, her frim ass smacking against his hipbones, him getting lost inside her. She feels heavenly, soaking wet, burning hot and tight like a vice and he can’t help but groan loudly as her muscles start to flutter around him and her legs start to shake uncontrollably, the telltale signs of intense orgasm he has imprinted in his mind.

His fingers sneak down where they are connected and once the pad of her middle finger comes in contact with her sensitive clit, her whole body jolts from electricity and an almost painful moan rips her chest as she falls forward, hands sliding down the bars of the bed with a squeaky sound due to her sweaty palms, Jughead’s free hand gripping her breast under the jacket, pinching the hard nipple and rolling it in circles that coordinate with the circles between her thighs.

“Jug, I’m going to co– ah!” her orgasm strikes before she gets the chance to say it, lips falling open in a perfect O and body going rigid as pleasure runs through her bloodstream like a drug. Her head falls back on the shoulder of the arm that is flexing to draw out every ounce of white pleasure from her body and she squeezes him, soaked walls demanding his release and of course he complies, joining her in the crescendo of her erotic loud sighs mingled with his name, thrusts messy and uncalculated as he comes undone inside her body. His hand yanks the hem of the jacket down her shoulder violently, as severe spasms run down his spine, and Jughead drops against her with no control of his body to bite hard the soft skin around a deep primal growl of Betty’s name.

They are all trembling limps and a mess of sweat as they try to calm their raging breaths, him pulling out of her with a tender kiss against the redness on her shoulder, her offering him a lightheaded smirk at the action and a trembling sigh of contentment. He drops back carelessly with a cooing exhale vertical on the messy sheets, too exhausted to actually plop himself up properly on the bed and he takes hold of her ankle to slide her gently down and to his side, Betty throwing an arm carelessly over his stomach and hitching a leg between his, jacket still on but wrinkled and on one side low on her shoulder. Some minutes of blissful silence pass before he speaks up, voice hoarse and deep, still affected by his previous intense high.

“Betty, I love you.” Jughead states, because he has a feeling he is not saying it much these days, and Betty nudges her nose at the crook of his neck, tightening the hold of her arm around his torso, dropping a soft kiss against his collarbone. “What you said the other night, about this, between us, being just sex now… You know that’s not true, right?” he tilts his head to look down at her with concerned knitted eyebrows, her final words in their latest fight still stinking like a flaming iron on his chest.

She rolls practically on top of him, elbows resting on his chest, damp curls tickling his left pec. “I was being petty because I was angry. There’s pressure from everything and everyone around us, it was bound for us to crack under it. Of course I know it and of course I didn’t mean it.” She assures him and he sighs, relieved. “I love you, Juggie, and it’s real. I can feel it in my fingers when I touch your cheeks, I can feel it in my heart when I see your face in the crowd, I can feel it in your eyes when you look at me like that, as if love is a word you only learnt from my lips.” Betty whispers lovingly, fingers tracing the handsome features on his face, illuminated by the moonlight.

“It is.” His own whisper is barely audible and his eyes seem to water, Betty leaning up to press a soft kiss of love and affection against his temple, over untamed waves and droplets of sweat.

“I don’t want to keep pushing you away anymore. I love you too much to do that.” She says in a soft, vulnerable voice. “It’s just, we are changing—”

“Betty, we’re not—” he tries to cut her off with a fierce shake of his head but she has more to say.

“Yes, we are, Juggie. And it’s fine.” She points the word with a slow nod to show him that she is perfectly okay with this reality. “It’s part of this crazy scary thing that’s called growing up. And it’s not fair for me to constantly keep beating you up for the choices you decide to make about your life.” She says apologetically, hating herself for making him choose between her and his need for acceptance, even though she knows how bad he is seeking it.

“Maybe I don’t have a clue about what the hell I’m doing.” Jughead sighs in despair, his eyes focused on his fingers playing with her hair. “Maybe all of this is a giant, disastrous mistake.” He is puzzled, trapped in his own head and the world around him and he fears for the worst, messing everything up, betraying his dad, ruining them. His mind is literally in the verge of exploding and he needs her to be his anchor to sanity.

“Then so be it.” Betty doesn’t miss a heartbeat. “We’re going to face the consequences together. I’m with you, Jug.” He hears those three little words and his heart flutters almost as if she said “I love you” or “come in me”. “You could destroy the world and I’d still be by your side.” Her eyes are sincere and loving, with a hint of determination in their green shade and Jughead is falling in love again, more than he already is, harder, faster with no chance to second guess or to secure his heart.

“You, Betty Cooper, are growing into an amazing woman.” He whispers in awe, hand coming up to caress her cheek, like he is touching a goddess or the world’s finest art work. In his mind, she is both.

“That needs you, Jughead Jones, the most brilliant and terribly handsome man on the planet by her side.” She leans forward to connect their foreheads and a thump caresses the corner of his lips, him tilting his head to peck lightly the pad of her finger.

“Your excessive compliments are slipping far away from the truth but I’m way too exhausted to argue right now.” He breathes in his usual snarky tone and Betty giggles lightly, messing his hair against his forehead. “Seriously Betts, this outfit,” he trails his eyes down her silk body, licking his lips at the sexy heels that are still on her feet and the way her breasts are pushed up against his side “damn, I swear my eyes nearly fell off their sockets when I first saw you on the couch, baby.” He lets a tiny groan at the image and bites his lip, as a hand sneaks at the back of her head and pushes her forward for a lazy, wet kiss.

“Yeah, you kinda demonstrated how much you liked it.” Betty sighs when they pull apart, eyes closed dreamingly and lower lip between her teeth, as her hips roll involuntarily against the side of his thigh, him groaning again as he feels her still wet for him. “And it was mind-blowing.” She whispers against his lips in sultry delight, his chest falling with a deep exhale as he captures her lips again in languid passion.

“When am I learning the story behind this jacket?” he murmurs curiously when they pull back for air, still a tad exhausted to engage in a full make out.

Betty settles back against his shoulder with a small smile. “It’s a gift from an old Serpent. Very long story; you’ll be surprised.” Her lips move in coordination with the pad of her index finger against his pec. “Let’s save that for later, I just wanna be with you close right now.” She purrs and clings to him in a cute girly fashion, his own arm closing tighter over the leather on her back, lips leaving a loving kiss on top of her hair.

The stay in silence for a while, him blinking up at the ceiling in peace now that his angel is again in his arms and her enjoying the heat and scent of his body with closed eyes, the gentle rain creating a soothing background to their deep breathing and delicious aching of bones.

“Hey, Betts?” Jughead whispers abruptly, as low as he can, not sure if she is asleep and not wanting to wake her if that’s the case.

“Hm?” she hums, nudging her cheek against his chest.

“You wanna know what my favorite thing here is?” The question is out of the blue but she doesn’t stop him because of course she wants to know, she always wants to know any big or tiny thing about him. “Every Friday night there’s this movie gathering where they set up this big screen and play retro movies. There are families there, kids our age, couples…” a tiny smile forms on his lips aimed at the abstract shapes of moon dust on the ceiling. “It’s a very nice sight to see amongst all the black leather and gas smoke.”

“Like the Drive-in?” Betty smiles too, even though she can’t see him do so. She can feel it.

“More like an outdoors cinema.” Jughead explains, fingers tracing the skin of her shoulder aimlessly. “They lay down blankets or tablecloths or worn out car sheets and just enjoy.”

She sits up against his chest again, eyebrows rising in pleasant surprise. “And Serpents actually turn up to such thing?”

“Of course.” He scoffs like it’s the obvious because it is. “There are people, Betts, just like us. A jacket doesn’t make a difference.” He states matter-of-factly and her mother’s previous words echo in her head.

Southside, Northside, we are all Riverdale. And Riverdale should be unified; you said so in your article.

“What are they playing this Friday?” she catches herself asking without even noticing.

“Tarantino, Pulp Fiction.” His baby blues shine with a hint of boyish excitement, that light that goes off when he is passionate about something and Betty utterly adores, and she doesn’t think twice before she goes to reply with a dashing grin.

“Then we should go.”

“What?” He almost jumps off the bed, head jerking up and his eyes now big round balls of shock.

“Yeah, we should.” She repeats, seeing him frown, while examining her face in the darkness in confusion. “We haven’t had a date since ages, Juggie. Plus, I really do wanna know your world. I wanna be here for you, for real this time.” Her tone is serious now, she is with him through every step of the way. “Maybe I can meet the guys you hang out with at school there too? If you want to, of course.” Betty’s sweet smile never fazes and Jughead is at a loss once again, mind blank and shut down by the sudden change of events.

“I do but… you, I mean, you don’t have to—” He stutters pathetically because he loves her for what she is trying to do and he will feel the happiest person on the planet if she wants to hold his hand while he dives in this new world that terrifies him but excites him at the same time. But he’s always putting her first and pressuring her or putting her in danger are some things he never did and will never do, so he is ready to refuse, to keep her out of trouble, to keep her pure and untouched, away from this muddy swamp he made his home.

She is stubborn like usual, fingers running to his lips to shush him. “I want to.” She declares, not leaving room for further discussion. “I told you before, Jug, if we’re gonna be together I wanna know everything about you.” She reminds him with a lovesick smile, taking his hand, like she had done back then at Polly’s baby shower, the Serpents being again the cause of conflict between them, and this time she brings her lips to his knuckles, kissing softly. He melts at the tender gesture and his eyes shine with love and devotion at the miracle of a girl that gets to call his.

“Fine, we’ll go.” Jughead can’t really refuse her anything; she has already conquered the most important parts of his identity, his soul and his muse. She squeals in delight and she kisses him with smiley lips and he can’t help but chuckle at her genuine enthusiasm, before raising his eyebrows in warning. “But now don’t go full on worried mode about first impressions and whatnot. After you slammed that door in my face the other night, Ryker practically worships you. He thinks you are so cool.” He drops his voice to mimic the other boy’s tone and then scoffs in exasperation, rolling his eyes too as Betty laughs loudly and smooches his cheek lovingly. He can’t stay broody after that though and he sighs in content as he gets lost in her eyes, his lovely boyish smile curling his lips and reaching his eyes, Betty’s heart thudding deliciously against her ribcage, as she feels an equal smile appear on her lips, her face the definition of a woman madly in love.

Yes, not all Serpents are bad. And her Serpent is definitely the purest soul of them all.

#bughead #jetty #bughead fanfiction #bughead prompts #betty x jughead #riverdale #riverdale fanfiction #bughead fic #riverdaleships #otp:sundaes & plaids #mywriting

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thefourofcups · 8 years ago

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SAMPLE: MOSS AND APPLES

Just quickly popping back to fantasy with this fourth sample - a piece of writing I put together for my LARP character Jaromierz, and his introduction to the world of Polish festival LARP ‘Rovnarog’!

MOSS AND APPLES

Daylight had just begun to fall on Aenthil, as the forest came to life, waking anew. The sounds of tweeting birds and howling wolves. The smell of wet grass and animal dung. The sharp chill that hung in the air, its harsh bite coupling with the insistent tug of the wind. Most would have thought it serene – would have, were the landscape not invaded by all things human. A man had lived here. And with the man came people. And with the people came conflict. And with conflict came retaliation. Until here, they were, standing bitter at the foot of a burning lodge, lips twisted in false triumph. A hundred feet away, Jaromierz did the only thing he knew. He hid, and he ran. Singed boots beat against soggy ground, the man’s feet leaving inch-deep hovels in the mud behind him. He was not concerned with leaving a trail. The coming rain would solve that well enough. Besides, he knew, people were a fickle sort – especially those of bluer blood. It wouldn’t be long before they gave up this little hunt and chose an ignorant victory over a conscious defeat. It was somewhere in the middle of that though that Jaromierz counted his five-hundredth step, and came to a halt. It hadn’t taken long – maybe a minute or two at most. So now he stood panting at the foot of a monstrous tree, its body hollowed out by some act of the gods. You’ve bought yourself a rest, he told himself, squeezing past bark and wet moss, and into his dank little haven. His hand darted out right and found the bag with ease. He let out a sigh of relief, sinking down to the ground and resting a hand on his knee. He couldn’t see himself in the light, but he didn’t have to. Jaromierz was a myriad of green and brown, wrapped up in a shroud of black when the day grew cold. Though right now, he imagined brown would be all the eye could see. Brown boots, brown trousers and brown hair, all painted over with a coat of dirt and crimson, courtesy of this morning jog. He brought the fingers of his left hand up to his face. It came away bloody, and soon he found himself thinking of home. It was an odd thing, knowing that not an hour ago, he was stood in a lodge, fire crackling as he skinned a freshly killed deer. What came next… he could only remember that as one might remember a dream. He could only recall the end – stood there, bastard sword in hand, blood falling from the steel and soaking into the floorboards. And before him, two corpses – a man and a woman – the blacks and purples of their garb now entirely dark with open wounds. The man’s throat had been cut clean, catching only the tip of the blade. The woman was tall – taller than the man, even – with calloused fingers typical of her profession. Snares and hunting knives hung from her belt, and continued up to her neck. He hadn’t seen her head. At least, not for very long. She had been blonde, maybe. Or was she brunette, like himself? He didn’t remember, or care. He’d buried them behind the lodge, a good thousand paces or so into the wild. He’d said a prayer. Yes, he remembered trying, at least. He’d never been one for ceremony, even in the company of druids, but he’d imagined the effort was enough. It hadn’t been until today – four days later – that the second group had arrived. Twenty men, or thereabouts, fire in their hands and death in their heads, making their way to the lodge. He’d escaped – barely – and run into the wild, toward his contingency. And now, here he was. The next few hours went like any other. Jaromierz even slept for a moment, visited by dreams of old friends. When he woke, he opened his mouth to speak. “Sora,” he said. It shut quickly. Wiping himself down, he pushed himself to his feet, and into the light. It didn’t take him long to discern it was noon. The sun hid behind grey clouds, but Jaromierz knew it was at its zenith. The rain remained, like an uninvited guest outstaying their welcome, making ripples in a small pond a few paces away. He made his way to the body of water, dunking his hands beneath the surface and scrubbing them clean. He brought them back up to his face, rubbing until he felt the layer of shit and blood peel and melt from his skin. His gaze went downwards just as the ripples settled; meeting the cold green eyes of a young man of… twenty-four? Twenty-five? It had to be the latter. It had been at least four years since… he had to be twenty-five. A beard clung to his jaw – not too long, not like before. Merely thick enough to keep out the bite of winter. His hair fell to the back of his neck, matted with dirt. He ran his hands through it, before scrubbing at his head with animalistic fervour. Flakes of dried mud fell from out of sight, and into the water below. Jaromierz laughed – more of a sharp breath than anything. No matter how many years passed, there was always a boy looking back at him. He washed for what felt like years, before finally standing from the pool. His sword hand rested on the hilt of his weapon, his right carrying the bag. And with that, he set off. West, he decided. Couldn’t hurt to be even further from Laro. From father. That word felt odd to say, even for the voice in his head. Father. It had never had any meaning for him – at least none that mattered. The man who held that title was little more than another old man to Jaromierz. A bitter scribe, designing the life of his son every chance he could get. That was how he remembered him – that was his legacy. A tactician of life, who couldn’t even stop a thirteen year old boy from running into the woods. He hiked for an hour, maybe two, before his thoughts turned to his adolescence. The first three years or so had been difficult. Building a home from nothing, living off of the dregs that the world offered him, all the while making sure that the gods didn’t just kick him off into whichever next life they fancied for him; or worse – Laro. If he closed his eyes and really tried, Jaromierz could see that boy of fourteen, crying himself to sleep in the ruins of an old cabin, wrapped in the shoddily removed skin of a slaughtered dog as the snows slowly buried him. He shrugged to himself. This time will be different, he said. You are not that child any longer. You will recover from this. A squirrel darted down a tree alongside him. His hatchet was through its neck before it made another step. You will survive. He took a bite. The texture made him gag, but he ate regardless. Survive.

The sun was setting when he finally stopped. He sat at the edge of the woods, tent set up, soup boiling, running a whetstone along his blade as it rested in his lap. For a moment, he turned his head right, as though to speak to someone. He stopped halfway through, cursing himself. Why do you think of her? He asked, his mind’s voice growling. Even now? “Sora,” he said, to no-one in particular. He smiled. “Sora.” The name felt bitter on his tongue, like a bad taste that never went away. Suddenly he had a hunger. He peered over the soup as it boiled, filled with roots and a sprinkling of meat. Done, he decided. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out two bowls. He stopped. He put one back. It was then that the wind gave its bellowing reply. Soooooorrrraaaaaaaaa, it howled, its words sending hot coals and embers drifting from the fire, catching the tent before Jaromierz even thought to move. Flames began to grow, licking their way up the canvas as he stomped with what little strength he had left. The blaze was lessened, but persistent, as he pulled his cloak from his back and flung it over the tent, stomping all the while. Slowly, fighting its demise, the light dimmed in the camp, returning to its former warm glow. Alas, it was too late. What was to be his home for the year had just been reduced to black cinders and a couple of twigs, leaving a blanket of canvas laid in the ruin. Jaromierz could feel himself sinking. Slowly, he went to one knee, then two, and then his face found its way down to his hands. His fists clenched, and nails scratched the forehead. He began to bleed. He knelt there for what felt like hours, thinking, trying to summon something, anything; any way out of this disaster. And there she came, invading his mind like a demon. “Jaromierz.” Her voice had been soft that day – more than usual. No formality. No aura of unsettlement. Not even that lilt to her words that made the simplest phrase sound like a threat. There was Sora, and only Sora. She’d carried on, unhindered by his silence. “I… I know… you’ll probably never leave this place… but…” There had been a breath after that – a long one. Jaromierz paused. He didn’t know why he remembered that. “…if you… if you ever find yourself needing to find me, I… I promise you, you will always have a place in my home.” This is your home, he’d wanted to say. But he didn’t. Instead, he did the same as any hunter. He watched. Watched, and waited, as she disappeared into the trees. Rubbing at his eyes, Jaromierz rolled up his things. The soup was emptied, the fire put out, the mug put away. He sheathed his blade and pocketed the whetstone. Peering out for a few hundred metres, he could see the edge. He could see the world. Taking a breath, he stepped forward, and into the open sky.

Seeing the world he’d once been a part of seemed to jog his memory, if only slightly. Setting out on foot, he watched the sun circle him overhead, and continue on to noon. He passed a village, crossed two rivers and a third, before following it north to Askaron. It was there he stopped, yet only for a moment, marvelling at the absurdity of civilisation. Houses alongside one another, with floors one above the other. And the people. Gods, he hadn’t thought he’d see so many in his lifetime, let alone at once. He allowed himself a smile, before he caught himself yawning and moved onward. For such a prolific town for trade, Jaromierz was disappointed to learn that a bundle of squirrels was not ample payment for seemingly any tavern owner. However, one such owner had the kindness to direct him to Dorugh-Dur, telling him of the river to cross, and the trek northwards through the mountains. He gave him a squirrel for his trouble, and went on his way. With each hour that passed him by, he felt his steps grow fainter, felt his eyelids grow heavier. Every second of darkness, sleep beckoned to him, and every second he refused. He didn’t stop walking for two days, where, exhausted, bruised and filthy, the ranger stood at the open gates of Dorugh-Dur. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. He moved forward. He could see the keep, mere minutes away. He breathed, and shook, and gritted his teeth. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. He moved forward. Step, step, step, step. He staggered down the road like a dying man, hitting the foot of the hill and nearly falling. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. He moved forward. The guards saw him long before he reached them. They were saying something he could not hear, but he understood well enough. He was likely quite the sight. He heard one laugh – or choke perhaps. The noise was similar enough. Jaromierz took a deep breath, extending his hand in offering, and called out her name… But they did not listen to his words. They stared at his bare arm, bruised and bloody from travel, with runes tattooed into the digits of his dirty fingers. Without another word, they took him by the arm – soft, like a child – and he was moving. It wasn’t long before they stopped, and one of them spoke out. “Lady Sora,” he began, and Jaromierz took a step, near blind with tiredness. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. He moved forward. A figure stood before him, saying something or another that he wasn’t hearing. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. He moved forward. He could see and hear more of her now. His gaze went upward. Dark boots. Brown trousers. Red tunic. Leather waistcoat- He stopped. Blonde hair… He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. And there she was. Taller than before, was the first thing he noticed. Then came her green eyes, more piercing, more cold than before. Her face, bearing a new, large scar, running from her nose to beneath her neckline. And then, last of all, his mind’s voice spoke, and with it came the largest change of all. He smiled. She’s a woman. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. She moved forward. “Jaromierz…” He swayed, and smiled. “Doe.” He shut his eyes.

#thefourofcups #thearchive #writing #commissions #samples #fantasy #LARP #Poland #roleplay

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zayzaycom · 7 years ago

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VERTICAL ENTERTAINMENT Presents A Forrest Films and ESX Entertainment Production Film by Alex Ranarivelo

Theatrical Release Date: June 16, 2017 (DVD July 18) Running Time: 92 minutes Rating: “PG-13” by the MPAA Facebook: www.facebook.com/prayforrainfilm Twitter: www.twitter.com/PrayforRainFilm Instagram: www.instagram.com/prayforrainfilm

SYNOPSIS A young New York journalist returns to the idyllic Central California farming community where she was raised only to find it has been ravaged by drought and has become a place ruled by gangs, violent threats and greed. She is forced to investigate the suspicious circumstances of her father’s death even though it puts her in great danger

Q&A WITH DIRECTOR ALEX RANARIVELO

Q) You’ve made multiple films with ESX Entertainment. What is the process like for you when you decide which projects you want to direct? When deciding on what project I’d like to direct next, it all starts with the story. Does it have an interesting hook and does it have heart? Like the main character in PRAY FOR RAIN, I knew very little about the water crisis in the Central Valley when I first read the script. I had no idea how important this area was for the country and it made me want to find out more about what’s going on there. That is how I hope audiences will respond to the film.

Q) Did much change between the script and the production while on set? There weren’t many changes between the script and what ended up on screen; mostly some dialogue and adjustments for location changes.

Q) How did the communities in Northern and Central California react to the production? The communities we filmed in – Petaluma and Coalinga – were very receptive to us. John Harris of Harris Ranch was a tremendous supporter and gave us unlimited access to his properties.

Q) What was it like working with the main cast, including Jane Seymour, Annabelle Stephenson, and Nicholas Gonzalez? I had a dream cast on PRAY FOR RAIN. Everyone was perfect in their role. Jane Seymour and Annabelle Stephenson got so in sync as mother and daughter that at one point I stopped needing to give any direction. Maybe just small adjustment here or there. Nicholas Gonzalez was a total team player and brought strength and vulnerability to his role of Sheriff Nico.

Q) How do the themes in the film reflect our current environment following the election? President Trump said last year that the water problem is “insane” and “we are going to solve your water problem.” I hope he sticks to that promise.

Q) What should audiences know most about the film before seeing it? Audiences should know that we are not proposing a solution for the water problem. We want to present the argument and we want to raise awareness for what’s going on. Do your own research and come to your own conclusions, but in the meantime, just enjoy watching this story.

ABOUT THE CAST

JANE SEYMOUR (“Olivia Gardner”) A multiple Emmy and Golden Globe winner, recipient of the Officer of the British Empire (OBE) in the year 2000, which was bestowed upon her by Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace, Jane Seymour has proven her talents in virtually all media, the Broadway stage, motion pictures and television. Her love of art and color has led to her great success as a painter in watercolors and oils and as a designer.

Seymour currently stars opposite Adam Sandler in the Netflix original feature film “Sandy Wexler” and co-stars with Malcolm McDowell in the stirring independent film “Bereave Me Not”, a film which she also produced. She also made a stunning return to series television in the Sky TV drama “Hooten and the Lady” which debuted in the UK in September of 2016.

Most importantly, Seymour continues to raise much needed funds and gives through donations of her artwork to numerous local and national charities which help children in need, raising awareness for women’s heart health and various other important issues dear to her heart. Seymour resides in Malibu, is mother to six adult children and a grandmother of six.

ANNABELLE STEPHENSON (“Emma Gardner”) Annabelle Stephenson was born in London, England. Her family emigrated to the Gold Coast, Australia when she was an infant. Her breakout role was in 2006, when she landed the role of ‘Miriam Kent’ in the hit children’s TV show “H20: Just Add Water”.

After graduating high school, Annabelle was one of the select few accepted into the prestigious school NIDA (National Institute of Dramatic Art) in Sydney. She joined the alumni of successful Australian actors, such as Cate Blanchett, Baz Luhrmann and Sam Worthington, and graduated with a B.A. in Acting. Since graduating NIDA, Annabelle has had a stellar career in TV, film, theatre and radio in Australia.

She is now based in Los Angeles. Since moving to LA her credits include Series Regular on ABC’s “Revenge”. Starring in Amazon pilot “Point of Honor”, working with Randall Wallace (Braveheart) and Carlton Cuse (Lost); Lead actress in MTV’s “Hot Mess” pilot. Annabelle also has another film “Escape Room” (Voltage Pictures) soon to be released.

NICHOLAS GONZALEZ (“Nico Reynoso”) Nicholas Gonzalez continues to impress with a substantial list of current and upcoming projects. On television, he’s presently starring on Freeform’s smash hit PRETTY LITTLE LIARS as Detective Marco Furey, Netflix’s hit show NARCOS, and the new CW series FREQUENCY. He is recurring on Amazon’s critically acclaimed series BOSCH as Detective Ignacio Ferris, CW’s THE FLASH as Cisco’s brother Dante Ramon, and BET’s BEING MARY JANE. He can also next be seen on ABC’s HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER.

A graduate of Stanford University with a BA in English, Nicholas first burst onto the scene in the critically acclaimed Showtime series RESSURECTION BLVD. where he played boxer/medical student Alex Santiago. He followed that with a steady stream of roles, most notably as Detective Mike Sandoval in NBC’s LAW & ORDER: SVU and as Detective Luke Morales in Fox’s hit SLEEPY HOLLOW. Additional television roles include appearances on JANE THE VIRGIN, MODERN FAMILY, BOJACK HORSEMAN, BONES, BORDERTOWN, TRUE BLOOD, and GREY’S ANATOMY. On the big screen, he has been seen in THE PURGE: ANARCHY, ANACONDAS, DIRTY, SWAT: FIREFIGHT, and BEHIND ENEMY LINES II. He will next be seen in PRAY FOR RAIN, opposite Jane Seymour. He also can be seen as the lead in BATTLEFIELD: HARDLINE, the fifth installment of the celebrated video game series BATTLEFIELD from Electronic Arts (EA).

Gonzalez is originally from San Antonio, Texas, and currently resides in L.A. with his wife, actress Kelsey Crane. Charities dear to him include Friends of El Faro and Children’s Hospital LA.

PAUL RODRIGUEZ (“Francisco Reynoso”) Longtime comedian Paul Rodriguez has been making audiences laugh all over the world (in Spanish and English) for three decades with his unique brand of humor that is a perfect blend of his Latin heritage, the American dream and his undeniable universal appeal. As an actor and comedian, Paul Rodriguez’s multi-faceted career includes starring roles and featured appearances in over 45 films and countless television series and comedy specials.

Voted one of the most influential Hispanics in America and awarded the Ruben Salazar Award by The National Council of La Raza (NCLR), the largest national Hispanic civil rights and advocacy organization in the United States, Rodriguez has remained a constant force in his community and the world of comedy throughout his career.

Rodriguez’s film credits include “If” with Ryan Guzman, William Fichtner, and Columbus Short, “Mission Air” with Tom Arnold and Jamie Kennedy, “Without Men” with Eva Longoria and Christian Slater, “Cats & Dogs: The Revenge of Kitty Galore,” “The Deported,” “I’m Not Like That No More” with comedian Felipe Esparza (2010 “Last Comic Standing” winner), Disney’s blockbuster hit “Beverly Hills Chihuahua,” “The World’s Fastest Indian,” “A Cinderella Story,” “How to Get the Man’s Foot Outta Your Ass,” “Ali,” “Tortilla Soup,” “Crocodile Dundee in LA,” “Rat Race,” “Bloodwork,” “Chasing Papi” and “D.C. Cab,” among others.

JOHN DUCEY (“Adam Campbell”) John Ducey arrived in Los Angeles in 1991 with a Chevy Corsica and a dream. That dream was to one day own a better car than a Chevy Corsica. Since that day, John has had starring TV roles in NBC’s Bad Judge, WB’s Sabrina the Teenage Witch, ABC’s Oh Grow Up!, and Disney Channel’s JONAS. He has also guest-starred on many of your favorite shows, including Will & Grace, Bones, Castle, iCarly, How I Met Your Mother, Scrubs, Desperate Housewives, Ally McBeal, Frasier, and even Matlock. (He’s been doing this a long time, people.) His movie roles include Running Wild, Deep Impact, Space Jam, and the Christmas classic, The Search for Santa Paws (Spoiler alert: they find him). John has also dabbled in writing, including this bio, and Dirt, starring Kevin Dillon and the beautiful Christina Moore. John now drives a Toyota Corolla. The dream continues.

JAMES MORRISON (“Patrick Waring”) Best known as the honest and stalwart head of CTU, Bill Buchanan, in four seasons FOX’s Emmy Award-winning series, 24. He will soon be appearing in the much anticipated TWIN PEAKS reboot on Showtime.

James started his acting career as a clown and wire walker for the Carson and Barnes Wild Animal Circus in the mid-1970’s and served his theatrical apprenticeship with the Alaska Repertory Theatre during its 1977-79 seasons. Since then, he’s done about a hundred plays at theatres like Princeton’s McCarter Theatre, the La Jolla Playhouse, the Mark Taper Forum, the LA Stage Company, The Jupiter Theatre, The Salt Lake Acting Company, The Old Globe, and The Pasadena Playhouse with such wonderful directors as Emily Mann, Don Amendolia, Des McAnuff, Jack O’Brien, Charles Nelson Reilly, Jose Quintero and Harry Mastrogeorge, his acting teacher since 1982. He also has appeared in the films The Meanest Man in Texas, The Jazz Funeral, Catch Me If You Can, The One, Falling Down, Raspberry Magic, Jarhead, and I Am I.

James and his wife and son are actively involved in charity work, raising money for Children’s Hospital Los Angeles, the Pediatric Brain Tumor Foundation and Foundation ThinkAgain, which helps children who are cancer and brain tumor survivor.

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ABOUT THE FILMMAKERS

ALEX RANARIVELO, Director A prolific, visual, and collaborative storyteller, Alex Ranarivelo has directed six feature films for ESX Entertainment since June 2014 (“The Dog Lover”, “American Wrestler”, “Running Wild”, “Pray for Rain”, “Dirt” & “Ride”). He graduated at the top of his class with a B.F.A in film production from Art Center College of Design. His thesis film was a 35mm short film about street racing called “The Last Race”, based on his experiences as a street-racer.

He made his feature debut with a rough-and-tumble romantic comedy from a guy’s perspective: “Alpha Males Experiment” (aka “Knuckle Draggers”). It played at multiple festivals and placed in Best of Fest’s top 10 Comedies of the year. In 2010, Alex’s script “The Girl With No Name” won the GRAND PRIZE at the Slamdance Film Festival Screenwriting Competition and was subsequently optioned by Co-Op Entertainment.

Alex went back to his street-racing roots for his second feature “Born To Race”, a teen action film centered around a father/son story. He co-wrote the script and was hired to direct it. Born To Race was a hit domestically and internationally in the home video market. A rip of the movie showed up on YouTube and got over 7 MILLION VIEWS before being taken down. Alex also directed the sequel, “Born To Race: Fast Track”, starring Brett Davern and Beau Mirchoff of MTV’s “Awkward.”

When producer Ali Afshar first teamed up with executive producer Forrest Lucas to create ESX Entertainment, Alex was brought on to direct their first film, the suspenseful, character-driven “The Dog Lover” (starring James Remar and Lea Thompson). Next came “American Wrestler: The Wizard” which follows a 17-year-old Iranian refugee who becomes the high school wrestling champion against adversity during the Iran hostage crisis of 1980. In this period piece, Alex directed Jon Voight, William Fichtner and discovered newcomers George Kosturos and Lia Marie Johnson. The film won multiple awards on the festival circuit including “Best Picture” and “Best Ensemble” at the Boston Film Festival, the audience award at the Austin Film Festival and the audience award at the Napa Film Festival.

Next came “Running Wild”, where Alex was at the helm of a picturesque, dramatic piece about a California Ranch Socialite poised to lose everything who creates a Prison Rehabilitation Equine Program after finding starving wild horses on her property. Dorian Brown and Jason Lewis go head to head with animal lover Sharon Stone. Tommy Flanagan also stars.

Alex directed Jane Seymour and Paul Rodriguez in “Pray for Rain,” a murder mystery set against the backdrop of the Central California drought. A young girl begins to investigate the suspicious circumstances surrounding her father’s death and discovers that the idyllic farm community of her youth has been replaced by crime and desperation. Newcomer Annabelle Stephenson leads the cast. Nicholas Gonzalez also stars.

He went back to the motorsports world for “Dirt”, his 5th movie with ESX Entertainment. “Dirt” is about a weathered race team owner (Kevin Dillon) who can’t quite get his team to gel when he is asked to take on a kid (newcomer DeRon Horton) from the hood that needs a work furlough to avoid jail time. He reluctantly agrees and the unlikely pair create quite a stir in the redneck sport of short course off road truck racing.

Alex just wrapped production on “Ride”, about a troubled boy from a Neo-Nazi family who is sent to a juvenile detention center after stabbing his dad who ends up being fostered by an interracial couple. Based on the true story of John Buultgens, the young boy overcomes his past and soars into his future on a BMX bicycle. The film stars Chris Bridges (Ludacris), Sasha Alexander, and newcomer Shane Graham.

FORREST LUCAS, Executive Producer By any measure Forrest Lucas is an extraordinary presence in U.S. entrepreneurial success stories. Born in Jackson County and raised in Brown and Bartholomew counties in Indiana, Forrest purchased his first truck, a 1948 Ford dump truck powered by a ’55 Thunderbird engine, at the age of 18. Three years later he bought a new 1963 Chevrolet, C-60 series with a 327-cubic-inch gas engine and signed on with Mayflower Moving and Storage, serving as the youngest owner-operator in the fleet.

For the next few years his life consisted of building up his fleet and manhandling his trucks from coast to coast carrying freight one way and furniture the other. But, his maintenance problems caused by the poor quality of available commercial truck lubricants nearly forced him out of business until he began to mix and match and then market his own formulas.

Today Lucas Oil Products, Inc is the world leader of High Performance Lubricants and Problem Solving Additives and produces and markets more than 100 unique products in more than 34 countries around the world, and is growing market by market every year. Today you can purchase Lucas Products in Asia including China, Mongolia, the Philippines, Indonesia and Vietnam; Western Europe including the UK, Ireland, France and Poland; as far south as Australia, Tasmania and New Zealand; throughout Central, North and South America including Mexico, Colombia and Brazil and are currently opening new markets in Africa.

ALI AFSHAR, Producer Raised in Northern California, Ali Afshar grew up in the green Sonoma Mountains of Petaluma but relocated to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career. He learned from some of the most talented teachers available in Los Angeles and quickly booked principle roles in commercials and movies (credits include Three Kings, He’s Just Not that Into You), which enabled him to pay for tuition at California State University Northridge, from which he graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Environmental Biology.

While pursuing his acting career, Ali also founded Easy Street Motorsports (also known as ESX), an automotive performance and race facility that eventually lead him to race for Subaru of America for over seven years and achieve a certain celebrity racing status. Ali also created the exclusive and highly anticipated “Ali Afshar Signature Series” line of Aston Martin and Subaru vehicles that are sold directly through Subaru and Aston Martin dealerships across the nation. Ali also built the one of a kind, carbon fiber, full tube chassis, 1400HP, all-wheel drive Subaru. This Subaru set the record for the Worlds Quickest and Fastest All Wheel Drive car and the Worlds Fastest Subaru! This Subaru thunders down the 1/4 mile in 7 seconds at over 175 MPH!

In 2014, Ali partnered with Forrest Lucas of the Lucas Oil empire, including the Indianapolis Colts Super Bowl Stadium “Lucas Oil Stadium”, Lucas Cattle and MAV TV, to create a slate of four social issue drama feature films. This slate included: “The Wrong Side of Right”, filmed in late summer 2014; and “The Wizard”, starring Oscar winner Jon Voight in a story best described “The Karate Kid meets Remember the Titans with a touch of Rocky, which is a heartfelt coming of age story of perseverance in the face of adversity that filmed Summer 2015; “Running Wild” starring Sharon Stone; and “Pray for Rain” starring Jane Seymour.

In 2016 Ali produced “Dirt”, a high-speed action car racing film with heart, and in 2016 he also produced “Ride”, a true story of an underdog and abused young man who became a BMX bicycle world champion.

Ali currently resides in the Hollywood Hills of Los Angeles and is splitting his time between acting, producing, and racing. Stay tuned in for the most updated information from Ali by regularly visiting the following websites: www.aliafshar.com and www.esxproductions.com

CHRISTINA MOORE, Writer/Producer Christina Moore, known for her success as an actress (HBO “True Blood”, The CW “90210”, The Disney Channel “Jessie”), has recently added writing and producing to her long resume.

“Running Wild” starring Sharon Stone and Tommy Flanagan was released in select theaters and VOD in February 2017. The film is a picturesque, dramatic piece about a Ranch Socialite who after finding wild horses on her property, risks everything to create a Prison Rehabilitation Equine Program. Moore co-penned the movie, produced it and stars as Stone’s evil sister, Jennifer Hutchins.

Moore also co-wrote and co-produced “Pray for Rain” starring Jane Seymour and Paul Rodriguez. The film is a gritty murder mystery set in Central California as it has been ravaged by drought.

Moore has another ESX Entertainment production under her belt called “Dirt.” She produced the film and plays the female lead as wife to Kevin Dillon. “Dirt” is a fun, action film set in the world of off road dirt track racing. It will be released late 2017.

PRAY FOR RAIN – Available on DVD July 18 VERTICAL ENTERTAINMENT Presents A Forrest Films and ESX Entertainment Production Film by Alex Ranarivelo Theatrical Release Date: …

#Annabelle Stephenson #James Morrison #Jane Seymour #John Ducey #Nicholas Gonzalez #Paul Rodriguez #PRAY FOR RAIN

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captivesrp · 7 years ago

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"Good morning, Ffrewgí."

The person sitting across from Ffrewgí is not who he had expected. Pulled from the pit still reeling with sleep, he had been led to a large, box-shaped tent in the center of the brigand's encampment.

"Best answer all their questions truthfully," had said the woman who had escorted him as he ducked into the tent's dim interior.

He had expected an interrogator, someone who would threaten him to reveal some sort of secret---the reason for his capture . . . though he had had no idea what it might be. What faces him is Fuldryn, smiling languidly behind a veil of incense, its thin stream dispersing into haze about the brigand's head.

"It's time to give you a bit more information," says Fuldryn. "I did promise you that---right, Ffrewgí?"

Ffrewgí just nods, unsure whether to be relieved that torture is off the table or to be anxious about facing the catalyst of his latest crushing shame and the reason for his imprisonment.

"I told you you were captured for a reason," says Fuldryn, "but to see that purpose realized there are a few paths to travel down, and I want to be sure I am placing you on the right one---the one you are most suited to. Does that make sense, Ffrewgí?"

"Maybe your words," starts Ffrewgí after taking a moment to sort his thoughts, "but their content doesn't . . . I still don't know why I am here---why any of us are here. It's . . . it's not just Archora and me, is it?" Ffrewgí had passed another escorted child on his way to the tent, clearly another captive.

Fuldryn shakes their head. "No. There are ten of you, all with different skills. I have been learning these aptitudes from them this morning in little interviews." Ffrewgí looks down at the lush fur of the various hides strewn about the floor.

"You already know how little talent I have."

"Ffrewgí, Ffrewgí," stresses Fuldryn, drawing Ffrewgí's eyes to their own. They glint in the gloom. "I would not have taken you all the way here if I thought that. You weren't the only child in your village, after all."

Ffrewgí shivers despite the humid warmth in the tent and looks back down at the ground, the image of Fuldryn's red eyes, dark in the shadows, lingering in his sight.

"No one sent you into the forest for that nighttime hunt, right? And when I presented you with an opportunity, you took it. You take initiative. You don't balk at responsibility."

Ffrewgí clenches his jaw as confusion burns in his chest.

"Presented the chance," continues Fuldryn, leaning forward, "I think you'd make a capable leader."

Ffrewgí's instinct is to reject the brigand's words---they are a kidnapper, a liar, an enemy---but against that instinct fights his longing for worth and to reclaim his shattered pride. He feels his cheeks grow hot.

"You will do well where I've placed you, Ffrewgí, but you will need to allow yourself to do so."

Ffrewgí jerks his head up and glares at the brigand through blossoming tears. "Who are you?" he cries. "Why are you doing this?" He stands, his legs trembling, and wipes a sniffle away from his nose with his forearm. "You can't just tell me who I am and what I'm worth---you can't!"

"Then show me, child." Fuldryn stands and moves to the door flap of the tent. They pull it back, introducing a shocking bar of golden light into the dimness of the tent's interior. "You will have your chance to do so tomorrow."

Ffrewgí blinks futiley to clear his eyes and is led back to his pit in an encompassing blur of vision and feeling.

The shock of his impact with the floor of the pit jolts tears loose from his eyes. He turns away from Archora too late---they make eye contact, Archora's own eyes large and wondering---but she does not approach him. He is left to curl up against the pit wall, where now broken the floodgates of his tears cannot hold back his emotions.

* * *

Ffrewgí looks up as the sounds of approach herald Archora's return to the pit. She had been taken shortly after Ffrewgí's return.

"You people really need to build a ladder or two," grumbles Archora from out of view.

Ffrewgí watches as her legs swing over the edge, and then she drops in. She staggers upon landing, then sits heavily against the wall by the bucket.

Ffrewgí watches her for a moment before returning to his own isolated silence. His tears have passed, but in their absence a nausea has flourished in the rich, ready soil of his permanent hunger, filling a hollowness that feels larger than he is. He curls up and feels his heart beat upon his eardrums.

The day passes in a silence filled with this pounding rhythm.

* * *

Fog within fog surrounds Ffrewgí in the morning. In a cloud of buzzing thought and an environment of grey moisture with no sign of the sun Ffrewgí is pulled from his pit and pushed through ghosts and haze until his escort clamps a hand on his shoulder and stops him dead. The hand lifts, and a few words become Ffrewgí's only companions in a sea of dense fog: "The first of yours, Asgell."

Silence falls and Ffrewgí is alone.

"Good morning, child." These words precede the entrance of a muscled brigand, her hair knotted behind her head in a tight bun. Moist air coils around her as she comes to a stop a few paces from Ffrewgí. "I'm Asgell."

"I'm---" starts Ffrewgí, but he is interrupted.

"Introductions can wait until all are present." Asgell’s voice is strict but not altogether without warmth.

"This is where you stay," calls a disembodied voice, and a boy appears from the fog and stumbles to a stop beside Ffrewgí.

"Just Wyddryr left, then," mumbles Asgell.

Wanting something to connect himself back to reality, the fog threatening to send him spinning into absent consciousness, Ffrewgí focuses on the new arrival. Bright green eyes regard him without expression, framed by a weatherworn face and swept-back dark hair. He looks of an age with Ffrewgí, but stands shorter.

Ffrewgí manages, "I'm---" before again being cut off.

"Here's the runt," growls a voice and a third child is shoved into view, a small boy so pale as to be almost invisible in the grey fog world.

"That's---!" starts Asgell with some heat, in response to the voice, but she stops herself and turns to the three boys.

"I’m Asgell," she says. "Today is your first day of training. You three have been chosen, for your intelligence and promise, to become guides---pathfinders. Over the next fortnight you will learn to read the stars, the trees, and the messages of the earth."

Ffrewgí looks to either side and wonders if his peers feel like they were chosen on real merit. He wonders if they have already started to judge him. The pale boy glances at him with icy blue eyes. Ffrewgí's thoughts volunteer the boy's voice, "This fat one? He won't last a week."

He turns away.

"Follow me," says Asgell shortly, and Ffrewgí becomes concerned that he missed something.

"Is---" he starts, turning to the green-eyed boy, but the boy does not remain to respond: he throws him a wink and sets off. Ffrewgí abstractly observes that he walks with a pronounced limp, then snaps to attention and hustles in pursuit.

They walk for half a movement of the sun; Ffrewgí introduces himself to the green-eyed boy, Murchadh, and the blue-eyed boy, Wyddryr. Murchadh is very self-assured, Wyddryr is tiny, shirtless, and shivering. Ffrewgí offers him his shirt and, worn and dirty as it is, Wyddryr takes it.

Walking on, Ffrewgí wonders whether his growing experience of warmth is a reward for his kindness or simply from the exertion of a brisk walk.

A cool breeze is stirring the fog as Asgell brings the little troupe to a stop. The ground before them bends upward into a considerable slope and Ffrewgí's heart sinks.

Asgell turns her dark eyes to the three boys. “Your goal is to go straight up the face of this mountain and retrieve the flag at the top. I will be following behind, but it will be up to you to navigate the climb.”

Ffrewgí feels weak. Last night’s chicken and cornbread has already passed through his system and he feels utterly empty of strength and energy.

It will be a long day ahead.

* * *

The first half of the day passes over exposed root networks, through steep ravines, along dry creekbeds, and ever upwards. Ffrewgí plods along mechanically, watching his own bare feet step upon dirt, root, and stone as he follows the peripheral shape of Wyddryr just ahead.

The sun has fully taken control of the atmosphere when the group finally slows to a collective halt; forest dust forms blades of the sunlight as it breaks confidently through foliage that is still thick despite the elevation and incline.

Murchadh disappears before Ffrewgí controls his breathing enough to hear and clears his head enough to divine the reason, but when the boy returns the apparent reason is more than Ffrewgí could have hoped for: dangling from Murchadh’s curled up arm are two fair-sized pheasants. The sun paints a dappled pattern on his hair.

Murchadh hands a knife to Asgell. “Thank you,” he says, “it is the finest blade I have been able to hold.”

Asgell turns to the rest of the party. “Now, who is going to cook these fine birds?”

Ffrewgí swallows thickly. “I can,” he says, stepping forward, “if . . . if you like.”

Murchadh hands him the birds. “May I gather some herbs to flavour the meat?” he asks, turning back to Asgell.

Asgell gives her assent and Murchadh disappears again.

Ffrewgí drops to the ground and sits crosslegged as he plucks the pheasants, dropping handfuls of feather and down beside him. Absorbed in his task he hardly notices when Murchadh deposits a small pile of fresh herbs by his knee.

He finishes dressing the carcasses and looks up to see, and hear, a small, crackling fire. Asgell tosses a few twigs onto the flames.

Ffrewgí carefully collects Murchadh’s herbs into a hand and sifts through them with a finger. He recognizes chive, sage, and a leafy stalk of wild peppermint. Being fresh herbs, to be used on whole birds and not in a soup or stew---as he does not have a pot or necessary cutlery---he is left with little choice for preparation but to do a rubbing: he presses his palms together with the herbs between them and rolls them firmly to bruise out their flavour before rubbing the resulting herb-lump over the surfaces of the plucked pheasants. The flavour will not be strong, but Ffrewgí hopes it will at least be noticeable.

Wyddryr produces two thick branches, broken sharp, and within half a movement of the sun the smell of cooking meat and smoking grease is permeating their area of the mountain’s woods.

Ffrewgí’s stomach growls. He catches Asgell’s eye as she looks over, and he blushes.

“We want to be back by dark,” she says, “and you’ve got a ways to go yet. Are the birds done?”

Wyddryr turns his bright blue eyes to the fire. “Oh gods, please.”

“If they . . .” starts Ffrewgí. “I guess they can be ready.”

Wyddryr leans forward and yanks one of the spits from the ground. He hesitates. “Uh, Asgell, this one can be yours.”

“Thanks, Wyddryr---and you, Murchadh. You, too, Ffrewgí.” She takes the branch and bird and sits back.

The three boys divide the other pheasant: Murchadh takes only a leg, Wyddryr rends it limbless entirely, and Ffrewgí is left with the body. The whole body.

It is delicious. For the first time in weeks Ffrewgí feels full, satisfied . . . alive.

He is picking meat from between the bird’s ribs when Asgell tosses a bone aside and stands. “Let’s go.”

* * *

A stony bluff brings the troupe to a halt, sweating and breathing heavily, although perhaps the noise is Ffrewgí alone. This is the second climb the boys have faced; Ffrewgí does not know if he has it in him to make it. He flexes his fingers and attempts to dry his sweating palms on his breeches.

“Same routine?” asks Wyddryr. He turns to Asgell and holds out his arm. “Rope, please.”

Asgell lifts the coil of rope from her shoulder and Wyddyr shrugs his head and an arm through it so it lies crossways upon his chest.

Heart beating furiously, Ffrewgí watches Wyddryr scale the rock face as nimbly as he had the first.

Upon reaching the top the small boy lets down the rope. A good few paces of it coils upon the moss and stone at the bottom of the rock face---this one cannot be much higher than the first they had climbed. Ffrewgí finds himself gently touching the raw scrapes along his forearms, gifts of the previous bluff.

Murchadh has taken up the rope in his good arm and is coiling more of its length around the forearm of his crippled limb to catch him if he slips---repeating a process that had concerned Ffrewgí when he had first done it.

"Wait," says Ffrewgí, an idea jumping into his consciousness from where it had been steeping. He moves swiftly over to Murchadh and unwinds the rope from his arm. "There has got to be a better way to do this. If you fall with it this way your weight will break your arm."

Murchadh holds his arm out, allowing Ffrewgí to loop the rope in a certain way around the limb.

"Hm," says Ffrewgí, taking a step back to survey his work. The loop itself is better---the way he had done it will allow the length to feed through while Murchadh climbs---but, "This will still break the arm," he muses aloud.

"We may have all day but I'd rather not use it all," says Asgell behind them. "What's the hold up?"

Ffrewgí is suddenly aware of his bare, sweating back and the musk of his scent. Maybe this is a useless venture. His idea is half-brained.

"Keep going," says Murchadh, snapping Ffrewgí out of his reverie. Murchadh extends his arm again. "This will increase my speed," he gives a wry smile, “and I would like to not break my arm.”

Ffrewgí turns briefly to Asgell, who observes the rope and nods.

"Your intention is good," she says, "but it may be impossible."

Ffrewgí shakes his head. His hair, sweat-plastered to his forehead, does not move. "No," he says, and rewraps the rope around Murchadh's patient arm. "I think---if I . . . Yes, just here . . ." The rope is a dried, flexible reed and he is forming a strange basket in the shade behind the artisan's longhouse. Grandmother Uerichí nods approvingly, her eyes twinkling.

Ffrewgí stands back and Murchadh drops his arm to curl against his chest, his fist loosely around the end of the rope that stretches up to Wyddryr a couple dozen paces above them.

Wyddryr meets Ffrewgí's eye and calls down, "What's happening?"

Ffrewgí looks back to Murchadh and points at the weave around his arm. "Keep feeding it through, but make sure this part of the weave stays around your elbow or your arm will be broken if you fall."

"Thanks." Murchadh nods and without asking for any further explanation turns to the rock and grips a handhold with his good hand. He starts up, feeding the rope through Ffrewgí's weave as he ascends. Ffrewgí holds onto the end of the rope, ready to pull it tight to catch Murchadh if the boy falls.

After Murchadh makes it up it is Ffrewgí's turn. Even after watching the other two boys make the climb without much difficulty Ffrewgí is fighting despair as well as gravity as he makes his way slowly up the rock face. His muscles tremble under the weave he recreated on his own arm; Asgell holds the rope's slack at the bottom. The stone under his hands and feet is rough and still cold from the morning's fog.

Halfway up the cliff his foot slips and before panic owns him his instinct has him curl his right arm to catch his weight on the rope, which wraps tightly and holds him as he scrabbles at the rock with his toes. Sweat burns along the edges of his eyes but his hands are back in their holds and rigid with stress. He takes in a shaky breath, his heart pounding in his temples.

"Keep on, Ffrewgí," calls Asgell from below, holding the rope taut.

Ffrewgí lets out his breath and moves a trembling arm upwards.

* * *

"You wouldn't have died, you know." Wyddryr falls into step beside Ffrewgí as they travel onwards and upwards, currently winding their way through a slope of tumbled rock. "I don't even think you were ten paces up."

Ffrewgí keeps his eyes on the uneven ground ahead of his feet and does not respond.

The heavy silence is broken by Murchadh, who gives them a survival tip, as he has been doing all day, this time pointing to a tiny channel in the dust by his feet and telling them it should lead to a spring further up the mountain.

Ffrewgí is too thirsty to give words to his thought that they should follow it and too tired to care. Luckily for him, and the others in the rather bedraggled party, their path, by Murchadh's subtle design or luck, leads to the promised spring and everyone is able to drink. The water comfortably embraces the pheasant still filling his stomach---Ffrewgí has certainly developed an appreciation for the green-eyed boy who sets off up the mountain again after being last to slake his thirst at the spring.

* * *

The heat of the day is dropping away by the time they finally spot the flag and without the blazing sun, now invisible behind the mountain’s crown but for its blood that richly colours the western sky, sweat is drenching Ffrewgí’s whole body.

That they have made it this far---that he himself has made it this far---seems to Ffrewgí a miracle, but even with that miracle real and whole in his back pocket the party’s ultimate goal seems devastatingly impossible; the flag is only a spear’s-throw away . . . but it is straight up a cliff.

Obviously many times higher than the bluffs they have previously scaled, Ffrewgí recognizes with despair that Asgell’s rope will not reach from top to bottom.

“Is there . . .” starts Ffrewgí, looking to Murchadh, but the boy is already rushing along the foot of the cliff, searching in both directions for another path. He returns defeated, and they all turn to Wyddryr, who has walked up to the foot of the cliff with the rope over his shoulder.

With bravery and determination that inspires strength back into Ffrewgí---though upon reentry it finds plenty of resistance---Wyddryr latches himself onto the cliff face and climbs. He makes it about a third or a quarter of the way up and stops on a ledge. He looks around, pressed against the rock, and eventually pulls the coil of rope from his shoulder and ties it to a spur of stone just above the ledge. He drops the loose end down and it coils upon the ground.

Setting himself to the task, Ffrewgí breathes in a deep breath and moves to the rope. Murchadh steps up beside him and allows Ffrewgí to wind the rope about his arm. He climbs, then Ffrewgí climbs, and Asgell follows up the rear. Asgell does not fit on the ledge but finds a perch just below as Wyddryr unties the rope from the spur, loops it about his shoulder, and sets off upwards again.

The process is repeated two more times before Wyddryr is securing the rope to something out of sight on the peak. With practiced hands Ffrewgí weaves the rope around Murchadh’s arm, taking up the slack as the boy starts his laborious climb. Ffrewgí presses his back against the cliff, limbs shaking from exertion and nervousness. He looks down to his feet, angled out to fit onto the narrow ledge he stands on.

“Ffrewgí!” cries Asgell, and Ffrewgí panics as the rope twitches strangely in his hands. He looks up and sees Murchadh drop, his feet a dozen paces above but a spear’s-length to the side of the ledge.

Ffrewgí desperately yanks on the rope to catch Murchadh’s fall but the jerk signifying the boy’s seized momentum, and Ffrewgí’s own panic, sends him off balance and careening over the ledge. He falls, swings---cold air bites into the sweat covering Ffrewgí’s body.

With a jarring, painful thump Ffrewgí strikes the cliff face with his shoulder and hip, sending him spinning back into the open air.

“Hold on!” yells Murchadh.

Ffrewgí clings to the rope with burning arms and, his eyes closed in panic, strikes the cliff face hard again. This time he does not bounce out: a hand grips his pants at the hip.

“Come on, now,” mutters Asgell, and Ffrewgí feels himself pulled in the direction of her voice until he feels her arm around his middle.

Ffrewgí’s feet feel flat surface beneath them and he lets his weight sag upon them. After a moment Asgell’s arm leaves his middle and the rope is taken from his hands. He trembles against the stone still warm from the day’s sunshine.

“You’ve got to climb now, Ffrewgí. Just one more length.”

Ffrewgí opens his eyes. He can feel scrapes along the sides of his body, the pain warm and sharp. His hands tremble as he takes the loose end of the rope and weaves it around his own arm. His fingers are weak, his shoulders ache, his body hurts; he turns, shaking, to face the bluff and does not know if he can make it.

“You saved a life just now,” says Asgell softly from beside him.

Ffrewgí nods to himself, hardly hearing her affirmation. He can do it. He places his hands in little cracks, lifts one foot to a tiny spur, and lifts himself off the ledge. One hand’s-breadth, one foothold, one breath at a time he climbs, until he feels Murchadh grab his arm and pull.

He falls trembling to the ground and lies there until he hears Asgell pulls herself up beside him. He stands, breaths deeply, and walks over to the flag---a torn square of grey fabric. He drops a grasping hand onto its lank folds and tears it from the single nail that held it to a staff shoved into a crack in the rock. He looks at Wyddryr and Murchadh, then at Asgell.

The contents of the day blur through his memory and suddenly the terrible, painful length of it lifts from his shoulders. He made it this far, he can make it back. He holds Asgell’s gaze and waits for her to give the word.

“There’s the hiking trail,” she says, pointing behind the three boys to a faded footpath on the west side of the flat peak. “We’ll take that way back. We need live recruits and it would be nice to not have to replace you.” She says this last line with a faint smile.

Moonlight illuminates their hike home. It is a hard trek, but, without cliff face, mudslide, and backtracking, it passes in a monotony of physical exertion and before he registers it Ffrewgí is stumbling into camp.

Asgell guides the weary party to a long, plank table in the center of the tent village, where they find a display of crumbly cornbread and tiny chicken carcasses. Ffrewgí accepts his portion from Asgell and drops to the ground to eat it.

Time jumps forward in a blink and a swallow and Ffrewgí is being led, along with Wyddryr and Murchadh, in between two rows of small peaked tents.

“This is yours,” says Asgell pointing to one of the tents, and Ffrewgí falls to his knees and crawls through the flap of the tent without a word.

“Hey,” says Archora. “I hope the left side is alright.”

Ffrewgí is asleep before he can respond.

#Ffrewgí #chapter four

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