#even if its just a dried up scar in the landscape now

[vault81]

finally went to Earth on Starfield and..

where is everything? now I'm not a scientist or geologist or whatever, but shouldn't like... there still be buildings here? it's only been like 127 years since Earth was fully rendered uninhabitable, shouldn't there still be ruins of human civilization on the planet? (besides one building in London or other landmarks) admitably my knowledge on the subject is limited however, I know that buildings (especially made of concrete) don't disappear that quickly..

ALSO another thing, the landscape around London has changed drastically like okay the solar radiation now bombarding the planet is going to destroy the water and organic matter (although idk how fast it'd do that) I don't think it'd affect the geology that much.. so i've no idea how all these hills and mountains suddenly sprang up in the 127 years. It's weird as well, since from orbit it all still looks like Earth, but when you get down here it's just like any other generic planet in this game.

[mariacallous]

KANDAHAR, Afghanistan—As Afghanistan plummets deeper into a devastating economic crisis, the Taliban have declared a war on drugs that snatches away the sole cash crops relied on by many struggling rural families—opium poppy and ephedra, a plant that contains a precursor for manufacturing methamphetamine—putting millions at risk of starvation and potentially alienating the group’s own long-suffering support base.

High-ranking Talibs insist that drugs have been fully eradicated from the country and the ban is a matter of ethics; opium and meth are simply “dangerous for the world,” as one senior narcotics official put it. Farmers, low-level soldiers, and rural leaders say they’ve been told it’s a necessary sacrifice to secure recognition and desperately needed humanitarian aid. But in Kabul, where prices have soared and users are rounded up and imprisoned in hellish so-called rehab centers, dealers and users are adamant that supply is undiminished—and that Taliban soldiers still control the trade.

The road from Kabul to Kandahar—Afghanistan’s former capital in the south, where most opium poppies are grown—is just 300 miles long but takes 15 hours to drive. When we made the trip in October 2022, it was peak harvest time for the region’s famous pomegranates, but the landscape was arid. Clouds of dust and sand periodically swirled around our 1991 Toyota Camry, making it harder to spot craters left by roadside bombs or even the groups of small children kneeling in the middle of the road, begging with hands outstretched to oncoming trucks that lurched to avoid them just in time.

In Kandahar province, we were directed along a maze of rocky tracks toward the Afghanistan-Pakistan border by a Taliban soldier; he had been assigned to us for “protection” at a crumbling local military base. Every river and stream had dried up; the only signs of water access were occasional solar panels, used to generate electricity to pump water from deep underground. Until the ban, this scant water supply was used to irrigate the poppy fields that carpeted the area and provided a rare source of income to Kandahar’s rural poor. Twenty years of war scarred the hills and farms. There are bomb craters, ruined schoolhouses, burnt husks of police cars, and even the grave of a child killed in a U.S. airstrike, but the death toll of the conflict could pale in comparison with that of a newly waged war on drugs.

Having leveraged the drug trade to fund their insurgency for decades, in 2021 the Taliban outlawed the harvesting of ephedra, which grows wild in the mountains and from which ephedrine, a meth precursor, can be extracted, and the following April abruptly banned opium cultivation and production. This move blindsided many farmers in Afghanistan’s poppy-growing heartlands. Standing outside his shed-like motorbike repair shop on the side of the road in Kandahar province, Wakil Ahmad pointed to an empty swath of land behind the building.

“Before, this was a poppy farm,” he said. Six months earlier, just a few weeks before harvesting began, the Taliban told his family that this harvest would be their last. If they continued to grow poppies, they would be fined and thrown in jail. “The fields are useless now,” Ahmad said. “We lost everything. We don’t have any other options. We can’t grow anything else.”

With the country grappling with pariah status and the specter of financial collapse, the decision to eliminate opium poppies and processing of ephedra has baffled Afghans and international observers alike. Afghanistan’s narcotics market earns far more money for its people than any other commodity in the country: the total value of all legal products exported from Afghanistan totaled just $870 million in 2019, which is dwarfed by an illicit opiate market reaching an estimated value of $1.2-$2.1 billion.

With international aid and trade largely suspended, opium and meth became the last economic lifeline for many in provinces such as Kandahar and Helmand. In a country where the public sector minimum wage is under $60 per month, foraging for ephedra can bring in $30 per day, which, although laborious, takes no special skills or investment—traders even travel to pick up the product. In the traditional Taliban stronghold of Kandahar, poppy cultivation raises around $400 million a year for farming families, including the 30-year-old Talib resting his Kalashnikov rifle on his knees in the front seat of our car. The soldier said he has received no salary for the 15 years that he has served in the Taliban forces and doesn’t know how he’ll support his family without growing opium.

The Taliban last attempted to wipe out opium in 2000, with short-lived success. After the U.S. invasion in 2001, production saw a general upward trend, and cultivation spiked in 2017, providing crucial income for insurgents—including, notoriously, the Taliban themselves. Researchers such as David Mansfield argue that it’s highly unlikely the Talib leaders who issued the 2000 ban were trying to artificially inflate prices with a view to cashing in, but as the price of opium increased in the ensuing two decades, they certainly had no qualms openly profiting from it.

The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) reported an uptick in opium production after the Taliban seized power in August 2021, including a 32 percent rise in 2022. This production was concentrated in the southern provinces of Nimroz, Kandahar, Helmand, Uruzgan, and Zabul, which together account for nearly three-quarters of the total area under cultivation. Kandahar saw 12,300 extra hectares dedicated to poppy in 2022, a 72 percent increase from the year before. Processing of ephedra has also increased since 2017, supplying a cottage industry in ephedrine extraction at hundreds of meth labs across the country.

Back in Kabul, local street dealer Khalid scoffed at the idea that the Taliban have stepped back from the drug trade. Heroin and meth are typically bought in bulk from an area called Shahrak-e Aria (close to Kabul Airport), he said, and he sees “a lot of Talibs there” selling wholesale to dealers. Khalid said he has also bought drugs from a Taliban office in Shahr-e Naw, a largely upscale neighborhood known for its manicured public park but where, just outside the railings, we saw at least 50 men huddled around opium and meth pipes in midafternoon.

While it’s getting harder to smuggle illicit drugs into the capital through the Taliban checkpoints, Khalid said, at one wholesaler where he buys smaller quantities for street dealing, kilo packets of meth are packaged with an official Taliban seal, the symbol of the Islamic Emirate. This, Khalid believes, lets drugs pass through the “Kabul doors”—in other words, they are waved through checkpoints without closer inspection.

Analysts watching the situation closely say they haven’t seen evidence of stockpiling, but domestic availability of illicit drugs appears unaffected even as prices soar in anticipation of future shortages. Vanda Felbab-Brown, a senior fellow at the Washington-based Brookings Institution, said she fears that individual Taliban commanders may exploit price surges to increase their own heroin and meth portfolios, by allowing pockets of production to continue under their control in order to inflate their own profits.

On its own, the uninterrupted supply doesn’t prove that opium is still being cultivated in Afghanistan—Felbab-Brown says it typically takes two years of supply restrictions to affect availability on the street—but it contradicts claims made by government officials that all opium and heroin has been eradicated from the country.

There are other signs that some production has continued with the knowledge and blessing of Taliban commanders. Some farmers in the southern provinces told Radio Azadi last October that they were allowed to go ahead with their harvests, and a major heroin-trafficking operation run by Afghan nationals was busted in India’s Punjab region in January. Whether this is a deliberate attempt to shore up control of a smaller, more valuable trade or simply a case of opportunistic factions exploiting the situation to enrich themselves, Talibs appear to be the only winners of the ban.

Profit margins for opium farmers and sharecroppers are modest—perhaps a few hundred dollars per hectare in a normal year—but as our Talib soldier-escort explained, this far outstrips profits from crops such as wheat. In theory, having opium farmers switch to wheat should help combat what the UNODC describes as “one of the worst food insecurity crises worldwide,” but in reality, the slender margins would leave farmers with little means to buy any other food, let alone medicine or other basic necessities. Alternatives such as pomegranates are better earners, but orchards take years to fruit, making it an impossible ask for communities living hand to mouth. No stakeholder who is demanding that farmers transition away from opium—not the Taliban, the former Afghan government, the United States, or the UNODC—has been willing to foot the bill to cover rural incomes in a way that would allow farmers to transition away from poppies.

Low-level growers stay poor, but those further up the chain make serious money. During the civil war, the Taliban in some areas under their control taxed farmers and smugglers around 10 percent of their earnings, while some warlords and Taliban factions controlled parts of the trade directly. Badly paid soldiers and police officers with the Afghan government demanded significant bribes to spare poppy farms from destruction, while senior officials paid up to $150,000 for governorships in remote posts where they could exploit the trade for personal gain. In the early years of the U.S. invasion, Washington was reluctant to push for poppy eradication, aware this would alienate rural communities and drive them closer to the Taliban; reports even emerged of U.S. Marines guarding poppy fields for farmers. But over the following decades, enemy combatants increasingly relied on drug profits, and the United States switched to spending billions of dollars on counternarcotics programs. This included aerial bombings of suspected meth- and opiate-processing labs and trucks. According to testimony given by Felbab-Brown to the U.K. Parliament in 2020, most of these efforts were “ineffective or outright counterproductive” from an economic, political, and peacekeeping point of view, serving only to impoverish and alienate farmers, pushing them closer to Taliban soldiers who offered to protect their livelihoods.

Most illicit drugs produced in Afghanistan are destined for export. Tons of heroin, meth, and hashish were seized by Pakistani authorities in January 2022, including a record 130-kilogram haul of heroin intercepted by customs at the Torkham border crossing. Demand for meth is also soaring among Afghanistan’s neighbors, including Pakistan and Iran. But plenty of Afghans are hooked, too. Two decades of relentless fighting, brutal terrorist attacks, and economic chaos, followed by the return of the Taliban regime, have left more than half of Afghans struggling with post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, and anxiety. Despair and trauma breed addiction; there are now an estimated 3.5 million drug addicts in Afghanistan—nearly one-tenth of the population.

A string of reports and documentaries over the past year paint a grim picture of violent crackdowns on addicts and brutal conditions inside underfunded rehabilitation facilities, where there is little food to go around and malnourished patients frequently die from disease or the effects of heroin withdrawal.

“They give you no food or water. Beat you like an enemy,” said Khalid, the heroin and meth user-turned-dealer in Kabul, who said he was arrested in one of the early Taliban crackdowns and sent to Camp Phoenix, the former U.S. military base now repurposed as a Taliban-run rehab hospital. “There’s no food for us, so we have to eat grass, but if they see us eating grass, then they beat us again. They say they want to get you off drugs, but it is like torture.”

Potential victims of the crackdown extend outside national borders. Afghanistan supplies around 80 percent of the world’s heroin, including to many European nations where fentanyl, a synthetic opioid, is yet to penetrate the market. There is no evidence to suggest that heroin addiction or demand diminishes amid supply shortages, but in the past, disruptions have seen synthetic alternatives flood the market and overdose deaths soar as users struggle to adapt to massive changes in purity levels.

“There’s an assumption that the Taliban are the biggest gang in town, but transnational organized crime has become much more monopolized, more cooperative, and more powerful since the Taliban were last in power,” said Neil Woods, a former undercover police officer in the United Kingdom who now works with the drug policy reform organization LEAP UK. Woods fears a “fentanyl catastrophe” if the ban is effective. “If they do successfully clamp down on heroin this time, it’ll just be more cost-effective to make a quick shift to synthetics,” he said.

Senior Taliban leaders insist that the drug bans are ethically motivated, but their objections appear selective. Last September saw the triumphant return from the United States of Kandahar native Bashir Noorzai, a notorious drug trafficker and Taliban financier, in a prisoner swap that saw the man known as the “Pablo Escobar of Afghanistan” greeted at Kabul Airport by cheering crowds and senior Taliban officials. In Kandahar, village chiefs, soldiers, and farmers offer a more pragmatic explanation.

“Our leader mentioned that the foreign governments are not happy about us doing poppy farming. They said we needed to ban this to be recognized as a government,” said Ular Majeed, the head of a Taliban outpost close to the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, where he is responsible for 10,000 households in an area rife with cross-border smuggling routes. Now that they’ve fulfilled their end of the bargain, he said, “it’s time for [the U.S.] government to do what they said and recognize us, so you can help us.”

Back in Kabul, Taliban officials categorically deny any such negotiations are underway. “We wish that other countries would work with us to stop drugs and would help us, but we have not had any contact,” said senior counternarcotics official Mun Ali.

In an email, a U.S. State Department spokesperson described the ban as “promising,” albeit contingent on seeing a meaningful reduction in poppy cultivation or meth production. Asked if the United States had engaged in dialogue with the Taliban ahead of the announcement, the spokesperson replied: “As we’ve made clear, we’ll continue to engage the Taliban pragmatically to advance American interests.”

“This is very much a replay of the 1990s. They were making that same pitch, bargaining and consistently hoping that the ban would give them international legitimacy,” Felbab-Brown said. But from an institutional and regime survival perspective, she said, “it fundamentally threatens their ability to hold onto power.”

“The Taliban could be lining themselves up for the ‘well, we’re only growing poppy because you didn’t give us the humanitarian aid you promised’ approach. That’s quite feasible,” said Steve Brookings, a former chargé d’affaires at the British Embassy in Kabul and former special advisor to the U.N. Assistance Mission in Afghanistan. Even if officials want to kick the dependency on illicit income, it may prove financially impossible.

Members of the Taliban are often perceived as less corruptible and bribe-seeking than their predecessors, but the cracks are beginning to show. In Kandahar’s villages, soldiers and rural leaders admit they haven’t been paid in months or years. This may have been palatable while the Taliban were the underdogs, but now they’re in charge of the country’s finances—and it was their decision to ban poppy, many unpaid workers’ sole source of income. Meanwhile in Kabul, Talibs flaunt the trappings of their newfound power, cruising around the city in luxury Toyota Land Cruisers and the occasional Mercedes-Benz G-Wagon.

Asked if Afghan families facing starvation following the ban would receive financial support, Ali, the senior counternarcotics official, replied that, as good Muslims, Afghans know “obeying their leader is the most important thing,” dismissing the question with the flick of a wrist adorned with a huge gold watch. For years, Taliban commanders depended on loyalists to shoulder hardship in pursuit of victory, but if peace fails to deliver security and rural supporters feel betrayed by the widening wealth gap, support may evaporate—and lower-ranking Talibs will need to make a living wherever they can.

“You think the Taliban are good men who would not do bad things?” asked Khalid, sighing bitterly. “Yesterday, they couldn’t afford vehicles, but now they have all these [expensive] cars. They couldn’t afford to get married, but now they have three wives. This is their business: When they come and arrest you and take your drugs, they just give them to someone else to sell.”

Unsurprisingly, the Taliban vociferously deny these accusations.

“Our soldiers and staff fought for 20 years. They will never take bribes,” said Mawlavi Shir Ali Hemaad, the head of investigations at the Taliban’s organized crime unit. “We were the ones wearing jackets full of bombs. We were careless about ourselves, so how can we care about money now? No, never. It will never happen.”

But without food, income, medicine, or access to basic services, the costs of this loyalty will be hard to bear. To hold onto power, the Taliban need to choose their battles. Unless they can generate economic benefits from this ban fast—for the whole country, not just a handful of their own men—a new war on drugs will become a costly political mistake and one that only exacerbates the misery of addicts in Afghanistan and beyond.

[bike42]

Monday September 18, 2023

Nice morning - yoga and breakfast and we were in the library at 8:30am to pick up our lunch boxes, whatever snacks we wanted for the day, and to have our daily briefing.

Jenn described that there are 282 Munro’s (mountains over 3000 feet) in Scotland and it’s sport to “bag” them all! We’ll walk on the foothills of a few of them, but not to the top. Some people vie for bagging them in record time in a self propelled manner - cycling or paddling to reach them!

The leaders decided not to offer the 11 mile hike today due to the rain last night. They’re concerned about slippery conditions. All 17 of us opted for the eight-mile, 1000 ft gain (most of it in the beginning) option. They enlisted the Local Taxi Driver, Donald McDonald (supposedly they’re two of them in town) to help with the shuttle today.

It was a quick 15 minute drive to the trailhead. Keith had said we might meet a Stag named “Collin” at the car park, and he was there to greet us and ask for a handout. I was kind of shocked when Keith fed him a banana. Seems wrong to encourage what should be a wild animal in that manner! Jenn said the locals look after him year around and a vet even comes by to check on him. Still seemed wrong.

We climbed a bit, then as we overlooked and old homestead, Keith gave us a chat on “Highland Clearances.” Ruins like the one we were viewing, are known in Scotland as “scars on the land”. After Industrial Revolution, the land was “cleared” of original landowners - many were offered one-way tickets to US / Australia / Patagonia. If they didn’t leave, the “sheriff” tore off the roof and burned the house. The land was developed into large hunting lodges and sheep grazing. Scotland’s system of land ownership is said to be one of the world’s most inequitable: 83 percent of the land is privately owned, and about half of it is owned by just 500 families - many not from Scotland originally, or living outside of Scotland.

People in this area had a great cultural hub - exported whisky. Many sheep herders from this area did go to Patagonia, and came back. The old traditions are being reestablished, which is refreshing.

Right to Roam - runs deep with Scottish people! Before “The Clearances,” many Scottish families earned their livelihood as “sustenance farmers” on public lands. Now land ownership is concentrated in a few hands, but all are free to enter and landowners must maintain the trails.

Keith grabbed a handful of Spagham Moss. He squeezed it to show us how it retains water. Dried out, it can be used as a wound dressing. Compacted, it becomes a peat bog. Keith’s grandma told him be careful of the Bog man (precursor of the boogie man). Bogs can be used to pickle and preserve things (bog butter).

This area would have had trees in the medieval days - lumber used for building and fires. Landowners now keep it open as a heather meadow for hunting purposes.

Jenn talked a lot, or rather, wondered out loud, about the creation of this landscape - water and glaciers, sedimentary rock and sandstone. It’s clear to see the glacier involvement, but were there also volcanoes and/or earthquakes? Such lovely, yet different rock and scenery. And the power of water - so much water coming out of the mountains and making its way to the sea!

A first for us while hiking, we took a break about an hour into the hike and Keith pulled out a bottle of Whisky and small paper cups. I skipped the cup and had him add a dram to my tea flask - hit the spot. As our break time was ended, it started to rain so I put my rain pants on. Since it had also gotten a little chilly, I added my puffy jacket under my rain jacket thinking I’d take it off in a bit … I didn’t!

The group started splintering, Kelli had a busted boot and Keith tried to tape it up for her, but it slowed them down. We got behind 4 others and the ladies seemed to be having a tough time with the terrain and were taking it slow. We all stepped aside to let some crazy mountain bikers through, and Jeff and I took the opportunity to pass them and work on catching up with the others (the 4 from WI and the 3 ladies). We caught them, but then had a stop in the rain so Jeff and I decided to sit and eat some lunch. Jules was there too, having hiked up from the end.

We continued our hike, odd being all alone now, but we enjoyed the solitude and the trail was obvious so we didn’t have concerns of being lost. The rain came and went, but we were warm inside our rain suits. The river grew larger and the number of waterfalls dumping into it increased in numbers and volume - very spectacular.

We reached the parking lot and found two Backroads vans (a third had driven away just as we reached the end of the trail). John and Rhydian (the newlyweds) were there, along with the coolers full of drinks. I grabbed a Gin and Tonic and climbed in the van as the rain increased and I wanted to finish my lunch! About 15 minutes later, Jules came back and picked up the 4 of us and delivered us back to the hotel.

We went up to our room. Jeff showered, then I took a long, not bath. I could barely stand afterwards - maybe it was too hot. I laid on the bed trying to cool off enough to get dressed with JT napped. We dressed, grabbed some umbrellas and walked to another bar/restaurant on property for a wine tasting session, followed by dinner.

The wine tasting was led by Shane, originally from France. He came to The Torridon six years ago for a six month gig, but fell in love with it here. He said what he likes best is the people are so nice! He added “you know how we are in France!” We tried three difference single malts - I liked all, but preferred the non-peaty varieties. Here are some other facts we learned:

Five Types of Scotch

Single Malt

Blended Malt Scotch Wiskey

Single Grain (corn etc added to Barley)

Blended grain

Blended scotch (Johnny Walker Red)

France is the top consumer of Scotch Whiskys

The Angels Share - check out the movie

We had a nice dinner sitting with John and Rhydian, learning more about them. Afterwards, we headed back to the main building and had a nightcap (Scottish version of Bailey’s on the rocks) and chatted more with Shane.

[highgeneralkenobi]

@commandsir asked: you have to believe me. i didn't mean for this to happen.

To the east, twin full moons were just beginning to rise, bleeding silver light across the autumn landscape. Forests and mountains formed indistinct shapes upon the distant horizon, obscured by straight white trees that rose like pins from the soft earth. White trees with red leaves. In the daylight they were stark—vivid like blood on snow—but darkness had softened the effect. The scarlet leaves sighed overhead as a breeze shuffled through, teasing the sweat on his neck with the chill of looming winter.

That was to the east. But he knew that if he turned toward the west, he would find a deep scar seared into the face of the planet. The world had held its breath today as blasterfire rang out, punctuated by the staccato of battle droids marching. Ahsoka had been reckless, gambling lives in a bid to gain ground. As a direct result, their numbers had been decimated. They’d been forced into a retreat, and now low morale hung like a heavy fog over the camp. Tomorrow they would be left to pick up the pieces—and Obi-Wan, the highest ranking officer in attendance, would have to lead the way.

He didn’t hear her approach. Only when she spoke did he notice her over his shoulder, a shadow against the crowd of white trees. She looked smaller than he’d ever seen her. An insidious guilt had seeped into her being—he could feel the poison in her thoughts.

"You made a bad decision," he said simply, voice soft. "And many good clones lost their lives as a result."

A pregnant pause hung in silence. Obi-Wan had never been afraid of silence; sometimes the most meaningful lessons needed room to breathe. He turned back toward the eastern landscape before he continued. "As you grow older, there will be many more decisions like this one. They never get any easier—the future is always uncertain. Sometimes things will go wrong despite your best intentions, and by nature of who we are, good people will die."

It wasn’t fair. She was so young, so innocent. It was supposed to be exciting when a youngling finally became a Padawan, venturing out from the Jedi Temple to experience the galaxy firsthand. But she’d scarcely gotten the chance to experience all the wonder the wide galaxy had to offer. From the moment she’d been assigned to Anakin, she’d been surrounded by death.

 He could feel her there behind him, lost and hopeless, desperate for guidance. For forgiveness. 

He swallowed. "You will carry those mistakes with you for the rest of your life. They'll accumulate in the back of your mind, weighing you down like chains. They'll paralyze you if you let them."

His own youth hadn’t been quite so fraught, but he knew what she was going through. How many times had he been in the same position? How many times had he watched people he cared about slaughtered before his very eyes, often as a direct result of his own decisions? And how many times had he been left to look in the eyes of their loved ones, faced with the chill of their resentment?

He remembered those looks. They came back to him at night when he couldn't sleep, wearing on his soul. He could try to cope, try to make peace with his mistakes—but he could never forget them. 

"I often feel as though I've made more mistakes than anyone.” He drank in a deep breath of the cool autumn air, letting it cleanse his spirit. He had his regrets, and now Ahsoka was getting her first taste of them, too. But they had to move on. There were people who needed them to be strong. 

Slowly he rose to his feet, cloak fluttering in the breeze. The burden of the day weighed heavily on him, but still he stood tall, unshakable as a stone. “Ahsoka, greatness doesn't mean you're immune to failure. It means remembering your mistakes—learning from them so they were not in vain. It means finding the strength to continue doing your best, even when you fear the worst."

Footsteps crunched on dried leaves as he crossed the distance to her, one hand settling on her shoulder. As he met her eye, his gaze was kind and soft, free from accusation. "You made a terrible mistake today, that's true. But it doesn't mean you're a failure. Learn from this. Grow. And move on with the hope that next time, you will know how to save them."

[jungkookiebus]

The Lord’s Kiss | jjk

Genre: supernatural x smut x period piece Pairing: vampire!jungkook x reader Rating: 18+ Word Count: 5.1k Warnings: blood play, fingering, mentions of death, stockholm syndrome? Summary: You shouldn’t have stayed in the village for as long as you did. The woods are dark as you try to make your way home, only to be walking in circles. Is it convenience or fate that a stranger is now offering you help? With him, you seem to step into another reality all together.

The night was cold and the air bit at your skin. Ice cracked beneath your feet as you walked along the path towards home. It clung to the dead leaves and grass that still sprouted in spots through the dirt. The woods around you were dark and ominous, quickening your pace. The lantern you held swayed in your hand. The flame inside created a macabre dance of shadows against the trees that had you jumping when paired with the snap of a twig. It had taken you longer in town than you had anticipated, so when you hit the trailhead back home the sun was already dipping below the horizon. Your family would probably soon worry about you. Pulling your shawl even tighter, you hoisted the basket you were carrying a little higher and tried to walk even faster; even to the point that it was uncomfortable. The lantern swayed on your arm and casted light against twin trees that grew together from the roots. Didn’t you pass that tree earlier? A large, moss covered boulder came into sight and you knew you had been here before. Were you going in circles somehow? You started to stumble as you grew more desperate to find the right path home. You really should have started home before the sun went down and now you were in danger of running into a wolf or worse a—

“What do we have here?” The voice echoed all around you and seemed to be coming from every direction. It wove through the trees before getting closer until it almost whispered in your ear. Startled, you dropped the basket and the lantern which went tumbling down the path before burning out.

“No, no, no, no,” you whispered as you dropped to your knees and crawled towards the lantern. You were an arm’s length away when someone stepped into the path in front of you. You could tell by the shift in the air around you and you froze in place. Night birds and insects silenced their songs with only the wind to remind you that you were in the forest. You heard the telltale sound of the lantern being picked up and seconds later it lit with fire once more. Shiny boots stood in front of you and as your eyes traveled upwards you noticed the person was dressed in expertly tailored clothes.

“Let me help you.” His voice was smooth as cream, but as menacing and sharp as a knife’s edge.

You shrank back when he extended his hand and he laughed. Looking up, you saw that his smile did not quite reach his eyes which made you even the more hesitant. The lantern cast harsh shadows on his face, and he was both beautiful and terrifying. His dark hair was swept off his forehead and his skin was eerily translucent. Eyes as black as pitch stared back at you, but the lantern light seemed to be absorbed into their depths. Your heart quickened and his brow furrowed.

“You’re lost, little one.”

You knew you were lost and all you wanted to do was get home.

“Why don’t you come with me?” His voice had a strange airy quality to it as if he were trying to come off as gentle, but you knew he was anything but.

“I-I know my way h-home,” you said weakly.

He fully smiled now, and his teeth glinted as he held the lantern a little higher. Clicking his teeth, he kneeled to your level smoothly, one knee in the dirt and ice. He leaned forward, coming dangerously close to your face but you were too afraid to move. You had never met another person whose skin was not marred by the sun or work, but up close, his had no blemishes or scars.

“It doesn’t seem that way.”

Unfortunately, he was right. At night, the woods deemed themselves entirely different than the day and you were hopelessly lost. What were your options? Continue roaming the woods, possibly getting attacked by some wild animal or dying in the elements or—you could take your chances with a stranger. Your breath came out shakily and clouded in front of you. The temperature was dropping.

“Are you scared?” he breathed.

You were suddenly aware than when he spoke his breath did not cloud like yours, yet his outward appearance seemed normal. The feeling he gave off, however, was not. Your fingertips began to numb as the night air descended upon you two fold. What choice did you have?

“I’m not afraid.” Maybe, if you seemed strong, he wouldn’t harm you. Thoughts of your family raced through your head. They were probably wondering where you were if not already looking for you.

He held out his hand once more and you looked at it hesitantly. This decision could quite possibly be your last and it made your body all at once hot and cold. Tentatively, you reached out and placed your hand in his. His skin was cold as ice, but you deemed it because of the weather. He smiled again and stood up, pulling you with him.

“Shall we go, then?” He looked at you as if you had a choice, but you knew you did not.

You simply nodded and he let go of your hand in favor of leading the way. The path seemed familiar and strange all at once the further you walked into the forest. It was still silent save for the wind and an ominous chill ran through your body. Never had you heard it so quiet.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s not much further.”

His footsteps were silent where yours crunched along the ice still. You swallowed thickly and tried to keep your head up as you followed him. As if by some sort of magic, the trees seemed to part in front of you and he stepped out onto a rocky overhang that looked down into a valley you had never seen before. Was that always there? Surely you would have seen it before. Nestled amongst the trees stood a stately stone manor with every window lit from within. You stood, shocked, on the ledge and the wind whipped around your skirts and tangled your hair around your face.

“Let us go before you fall ill.”

He struck you out of your astonishment as he stood near a path leading downwards, lantern still swaying in his hand. You followed him and within half an hour you were stood before the large home. You had never seen anything so extravagant before, having lived close to the small village and never ventured into bigger cities. Beyond its high, stone walls stood a decrepit old church that looked as if it had not been used in many, many years. Ice hung dangerously sharp from the roof tiles and the heavy wooden door looked impossible to open. He walked up to a smaller door that was set into one of the large two and opened it. Warm light spilled out into the dark night and inside you saw an impressive hall with two lit fireplaces.

“Are you the lord of this house?” you asked as you froze, looking inside. You were suddenly afraid of trespassing. There were mentions of wars in distant lands and you were afraid to find yourself in the home of some feudal lord.

“I am,” he said smoothly. He had put the lantern out and was patiently waiting for you to enter.

You were still hesitant as you crossed the threshold. Your shoes echoed off the stone floor and into the Great Hall. Tall fires roared and warmed the room, instantly thawing your sore muscles. You heard him softly shut the door behind you before making his way to your side.

“You must be hungry. Follow me.”

In full light you were able to see him a little better. He was richly dressed and clean which meant he had an abundant amount of money, if the manor were any other indication. Large, plush rugs lined the floors of the hall and various chairs and tables were arranged neatly around both fires. Art that seemed larger than life hung on the walls, some were portraits while some were simply landscapes. Other than the two of you, there was no other soul in sight. He walked leisurely and you followed close behind trying to take in as much of the home as you could. A hundred of yours could fit into this hall alone. He turned into a doorway which led you down a hall until you reached an equally stately kitchen with a table and chairs situated inside as well. If you had to guess, there was probably a dining hall close by.

“Take a seat,” he said as he waved his hand towards the table.

He moved fluidly and as if he had all the time in the world. He pulled out a loaf of fresh bread, cheeses, dried meat, and various fruits and brought them to the table. He set them out before you as he grabbed what looked to be a bottle of wine and poured some into a cup. Once he had them out in front of you, he sat across, and looked at you expectantly when you did not move to touch any of it.

“It’s not poisoned,” he laughed.

“Then why don’t you eat?”

His eyes narrowed a little before he composed his expression once more. He drummed his fingers on the table patiently, never breaking eye contact with you. Soon, he sighed loudly as he reached forward for an apple and bit into it. It sounded crisp and juicy. You shuffled slightly in your seat to mask the sounds your stomach was making as you watched him chew.

He swallowed as he sat the fruit down on the table. “See? Not poisoned. Besides, I am not very hungry. Not for that, anyway.”

The way he said the last sentence sent chills down your back, but right now you were too hungry and tired to care.

“What’s your name?” you asked as you reached for the bread.

He hummed as he sat back, placing both feet on the table casually as he watched you eat.

“Jungkook.”

“You’re not from here are you?” The bread tasted freshly made and the crust crunched in your mouth deliciously. Not even your mother made bread this good.

“I’m from a lot of places. Here is just where I choose to be for the moment.”

His answer was odd, but you decided not to press since he seemed to be so aloof. You missed the way his eyes traveled from your face to your neck as you grabbed some of the dried meat. His met yours again as you looked at him.

“You can stay here for the night,” he said as he swung his legs off the table. “It’s much too cold for you to be wandering the woods so late at night. Plus, you never know what you might run into.”

Him? For example. You were not entirely sure he wasn’t a threat yet, but you felt your resolve melting the more he talked and the fuller your stomach became. Sleep clung heavily to your body and the ache in your legs was now a mild, manageable pain. Tendrils of sleep nipped at the corners of your mind. You blinked a little slower.

“My, look how tired you’re getting already.”

He stood from the table and was at your side in seconds. Your eyes drooped and he scooped you up with no issue. Your head lulled against his shoulder as you slipped deeper and deeper. How was this all happening so quickly? You did not have time to answer you own question before you were cloaked in a sleep so deep it could be debated whether you’d come back or not.

Mrow. The sound was distant and familiar. You were still somewhere nestled in the darkness with nowhere else to go. Mrrrow. The sound was a little closer this time and you tried to concentrate on it. Where had you heard that before? Where were you? Confusion hazed your thoughts. Were you at home? Mmmmrrrrrroooooooow. Blurrily, you opened your eyes to a dimly lit room. Heavy, velvet curtains surrounded the bed, but the end was open. You blinked a couple of times to adjust your sight. Next to your legs, sat a large white cat with green eyes. It stared at you inquisitively before meowing again. A fire burned in the fireplace. Oh, right, you were in the manor still. Lightning flashed, lighting up the room in its beautifully terrible display, before it fell dark again, and thunder rumbled in the distance. The cat stood and walked to the edge of the bed before it sat down and meowed again. You scooted closer towards it and it jumped to the ground before turning and waiting. Your feet touched down on an expensive rug. By the light of the fire and the occasional lightning, you could see the room was just as richly decorated as the rest of the manor. The cat meowed again, and you turned to see it sitting by your closed bedroom door.

“What do you want?” you whispered. You still were not entirely sure what to do with your situation. It was clearly still night if not incredibly early morning at this point and a storm was blowing in over the mountains. It would be suicide for you to go out into it. But was there danger within these walls as well?

The cat meowed and you sighed. You tried to walk as quietly as possible. You were not sure what you would disturb, whether it be him or some ghost, you did not want to find out. The door opened silently, and the hallway was lit dimly with candles that lined the walls. The house was dead silent, and you felt a strange chill go through your body. Your curiosity was piqued at the same time you wanted to run as far away from this place as possible. The cat walked lazily down the hallway leading to your right, so you slinked out after it. You did not even want to breathe. You followed it down a few turns of a hallway and the once silent house began to take on life again. Music played somewhere within the home, but behind closed doors. Were those voices? You had never heard a crowd so large before. The cat still walked as if it were not bothered by it in the slightest. The music, some waltz right now, was beginning to grow louder. There was a din of noise as you began to hear laughter and the clink of glasses. The cat now sat in front of heavy, double wooden doors and blinked at you as if it were bored. The voices on the other side were loud, but happy. The music picked up and you could hear dancing. You were pulling open the door before you even had a chance to register what you were doing. The brightness of the room blinded you for a second as you squinted your eyes. When you opened them again you were able to take in the gilded room. It was so unlike the rest of the manor that you began to question where you really were. The ceilings seemed impossibly tall, like the cathedrals father had told you about. A small orchestra was at one end of the room playing music, while hundreds of dancing bodies twirled amongst strange jesters on stilts, aerial dancers unraveled themselves from silk ribbons, and a constant dusting of glitter always seemed to fill the room. Every guest was opulently dressed and not one was without a mask. Some masks covered their whole faces, some half, and some just the eyes. They all ranged from beautiful to grotesque.

“I was wondering when you’d come,” you heard behind you as they handed you a mask. Shocked, you held out your hands, looking at the mask. That was when you noticed that you too were dressed in what seemed to be the finest of silks you had only heard stories of. Intricate flowers were handstitched into the fabric in an array of brilliant colors mixed with gold thread on a background of deep blue. The mask covered your eyes and was as red as blood. Fine crystals were inlaid into the mask, creating a twirling design of jewels that made you look both menacing and beautiful. You turned to see who spoke and it was undeniably your host despite the mask he wore. It covered half his face, but it was crafted beautifully to accentuate his cheekbone, it sloped delicately with his nose, and formed perfectly to drift right past the corner of his mouth, allowing you perfect view to his somewhat crooked smile as he looked down at you.

“You look stunning,” he commented.

“Where am I?”

“In my home.”

He wore a high collared shirt under a deep, rich blue coat that was decorated similarly to your dress. It was paired with dark, high waisted pants that were tucked snugly into shining boots that reached his knees.

“I don’t understand—”

He cut you off by grabbing your hand and led you to the center of dancefloor. He lifted your hand in his and placed the other on your waist as he led you through a waltz. His eyes glittered and shined in the brightness of the room and a fine dusting of diamond powder seemed to cover him head to toe. His dark hair shined under the thousands of candles perched precariously in their sconces. All around you, partners were jovial and laughing as they danced, whispering in one another’s ear while others embraced like lovers. At the edges of the room there were women entangled in the arms of men and even some men touching other men lovingly on their faces as they whispered in dark corners.

Jungkook kept his eyes on your face as you still tried to assess what was happening. The song ended and with it an eruption of cheers from the dancers as waiters came through with trays of drinks. Just as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared again, coming back bearing just as many drinks as before. He stood, still, before you as you watched the celebrating dancers begin to disperse before the next song started.

“Follow me,” he said, extending his hand. You placed your hand in his, and it was warm, inviting, as his hand enveloped yours.

Your thoughts and feelings felt real, but not your own. Something about him warmed you from the inside out as well as sent a stabbing pain of ice through your heart. Your mind told you to run as your body told you to stay.

But what if…?

You shook your head to rid yourself of the thought. His presence seemed to draw you in and keep you there and you felt the edges of the moth’s wing beginning to burn. You winced at the thought of staying here, but the pain was not nearly as bad as before. The crowd around you parted fluidly, filling back in on itself as you passed. No one really looked in your direction; they were caught up in their own worlds, in their own bubbles, completely unaware of anyone around them. You began to question if the scene around you were real. You smelled the sweet scent of champagne, felt it bubble under your nose as the waiter passed, yet the warmth was almost gone from the room.

He pulled you from the brightly lit ballroom, to a small door that blended so well with the wall you did not even know it was there and was pitch beyond where the light reached. He stepped inside and pulled you with him, door shutting quietly back into place. He reached out, pulling your mask from your face. He moved in the dark quickly as if he had the pattern of the house memorized. He took you up several sets of stairs and further away from the party until it was so muted that you had to strain to hear. At the final landing he opened another door. Moonlight flooded the room. The largest window you had ever seen created a clear wall that looked out onto the valley and the surrounding mountains. The moon was full and closer than you had ever seen. A large, heavily draped four poster stood against one wall while an ornate fireplace flanked the other. Large rugs covered the floors and even more beautiful paintings covered the walls. Dark, purple wallpaper that seemed to also be lined in gold covered the walls which also boasted dark wood paneling. Everything about the room seemed warm and mysterious despite his cold hold on yours. He led you across the room until you stood before the large window. Your breath fogged the glass as you gazed wide eyed into the night. An owl swooped past and into the trees, the trees cast ghostly shadows as the moon moved slowly across the sky. Rain began to fall softly as its clouds perfectly framed it.

“This could all be yours,” he whispered into your ear.

You shivered as gooseflesh rose on your arms. That rational part of your brain that had been telling you to run grew quieter and quieter until it was almost gone. Your brain was now connected directly to your heart and for some reason it seized in a way that sent butterflies into your stomach.

Eyes still fixed on the sharp edges of the evergreens, you asked, “What do you mean?”

His lips were warmer than his hands as he pressed them to the base of your neck. You shivered again as he sighed. He inhaled again as if he were smelling a freshly poured glass of wine. His hands were on your upper arms squeezing lightly.

He ran his nose up your neck and let his bottom lip skim your skin. “I’d give you everything you wanted…will you stay with me?”

What was he asking you? Some deep, dark part of you knew exactly what he was asking, exactly what he was, but you had to be wrong. There was no way you were right. His hands slid down your sleeved arms until they reached your wrists. Swiftly, he pulled your hands behind your back while tilting your head back with the other. His lips were on your neck again and you felt him quiver against you. He seemed drunk, but he appeared sober in the ballroom…

“Stay with you?” You wanted him to say it. You did not want to have to face the harsh truth of this and how much you wanted it. Your family would get over you. Right?

His teeth grazed your skin and the ice that you had felt through your heart melted, seeping into your stomach, and downwards. Your body reacted to his touch in a way that scared you.

“_____, you know exactly what I mean,” he whispered. “You knew the moment you accepted my help.”

And you had. His breath did not fog against the glass like yours. Where the wood stairs creaked beneath your feet, his did not. His skin, though warm, had ice beneath its surface.

“Y-your one of those creatures from the s-stories,” you muttered as his grip on your wrists tightened. He seethed against your skin at the word ‘creatures’ and you winced.

“I’m not a creature,” he said as he nipped lightly at your skin, but you felt the warning behind it. “I can create you into something new.” He began to grow excited as he inhaled deeply against your skin once more. His grip loosened a little on your wrists as he became preoccupied with what was underneath your flesh, pulsing in time with your heartbeat which he heard so loudly in his ears. “Stay with me. I can show you the rest of the world, ____. Just let me…” He trailed off as he hotly kissed down your neck, leaving it wet as he began to salivate over your scent.

“Yes,” you whispered, barely above a whisper. Your heartbeat slowed as your body relaxed. It seemed as if the affirmation, the answer to all his questions, was what you needed to do. It felt right. He froze behind you, fingers tightening as he moaned.

“Let me show you…”

His lips trailed to your exposed shoulder as he released your wrists in favor of bunching your dress in his hand. He pulled the hem up quickly, holding it in his hand as he slid it up your bare thigh. He reached beneath finding your center and cupped you gently. You moaned, leaning back into this shoulder. His hand still cupped your jaw, keeping your neck as exposed as possible to him. You were already beginning to soak the cotton of your undergarments as he slid his fingers over you. He nipped a little harder into your neck while he pressed the fabric against your clit. You heard the distinct pop of breaking skin, but the pain never registered as he circled his fingers on you. He laved his tongue across your skin, gathering the first droplets of blood that threatened to spill into your collarbone. He felt the first tingles of electricity go through his body at the taste. It started somewhere in his dead heart and made his fingers feel as if he just touched fire. He slipped his hand through the waistband and now had his skin against yours. You reacted, hips shifting forward as he attached his lips to the bite and sucked lightly. He gathered your slick wetness on his fingers and rubbed over the now swollen bundle of nerves. You had never been touched like this before and you felt high on the experience. He pushed you into his hips as he pressed down on your clit with his palm and pushed two fingers inside of you. You cried a little at the intrusion and he whispered reassurances against your skin that had your body relaxing into his once more. The soreness in your neck was subtle, but there. What masked the pain was the way his fingers curved inside of you exactly right, pushing against something inside of you that had your muscles going lax while all at once so stiff your legs were cramping.

“Do you feel good?” He was pumping his fingers faster now, grinding his palm against your clit. His entire hand was wet, and it made his efforts easier.

“Y-yes,” you muttered as you clung to his wrist. Your other hand was sliding helplessly against the glass.

He could hear your heart fluttering. Hearts beat differently, each had their own unique pattern, just like a fingerprint. But just like people, hearts conveyed emotions like the faces of strangers. Yours beat in a pattern of lust; right where he wanted you. His lips were back at your skin, searching, until he found what he wanted. The vein he needed. The one he had been smelling all night. He took a breath, closed his eyes for a few seconds, suspending time as he meditated. This would be an almost religious experience. He never did choose lightly, but he was sure of this. You would not have to see his teeth sharpen and you were so lost in the feeling of his hand between your legs that you did not really feel his teeth sink deep into your skin. Hot, fresh blood flooded his mouth as he pierced the vein. The taste was all at once bitter and sweet, like a wine with raspberries on the nose and ripe tannins. He drank graciously from you as he curved his fingers at each thrust, pushing you dangerously close to the edge. You had wet the cotton and your thighs as his hand slid faster and faster. He detached his lips, feeling your heart skip a beat. He was not ready for that yet. His lips were wet with your blood and he licked at them greedily. You moaned as your head lulled. You were in a subspace you had never been in before and your body was a mixture of molten warmth spreading from your center and something cold that seeped from where your neck met your shoulder and it spread across your chest. He pumped his fingers until he had you clenching around him. He bit into the flesh of his wrist and brought it to your mouth; your head still laid against his shoulder as your breath shuddered in your chest. He let the dark blood drip across your lips and tongue, and he watched as you instinctively swallowed. Then you winced. He wrapped his arm around your waist as you began to cry out. He ground his palm harder against your clit as he licked at the blood leaking down your shoulder. Your entire body was shuddering as you began to feel too many things at once. You came around his fingers so hard your vision blackened, then a sharp pain in your chest ripped through your body all at once. You cried again as your knees gave way. With his arm still around your waist, he dropped to his knees with you. He leaned back, bringing you to his chest as your eyes rolled back and your body convulsed in his arms. Nestling your head into his lap, he brought his hands to the sides of your face as you laid out before him, arms at your sides, as you felt your heartbeat slow. His face hovered above yours, his dark eyes fixed on your face as he watched your lips quiver. They seemed to be turning blue and your shuddering breath began to slow. He listened intently as your breathing weakened and your once strong heart slowly began to die out. He closed his eyes, hands still gentle on your face, as your entire body slumped in death, the last beat of your heart echoing in his ears. He sat patiently, waiting, as he evened his breathing and concentrated. He reached out with his thoughts, searching yours, waiting for those first few tendrils as the disease took you. A new life breathed within you. A light blossomed, something that he felt more than saw, and it spread through your body like melting snow. Life came back to your limbs as your fingers moved, then a slight movement of your foot. He heard you sigh as you took a breath. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open and you were looking into his endlessly dark ones. He smiled, and it was genuine, as his palms pressed into your skin. He leaned down, placing a metallic kiss to your cool lips.

“Welcome back, my love, I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

[bitch-butter]

1, please, because it's a classic h/c line and I love it

A classic, love that Energy~

1. Shh, it's ok. I'm here

“Hello?”

“I’m losing it.”

Not the most graceful way to open a call, but then Joe has never considered himself the most graceful motherfucker on the planet. Certainly not now, with his hands shaking like a tree in the wind, his guts feeling as weak and spindly as floss knotting up and turning into gauzy clots, hairballs of stress stopping him up like a soggy drain.

“Joe?” Web’s voice echoed down the line, bouncing around his ear like a voice in a seashell.

Huffing, Joe fought not to physically kick out at the wall beside the phone. “Who else would it fucking be?”

“What’s wrong?” the other man pressed immediately, voice lowering as the sound of shuffling rattled through, the sound of Web likely ducking away, finding somewhere dark, quiet.

“You get calls like this often? Why do you always have to make sure it’s me?” Joe continued on, irritation biting through his voice.

The sound of a sigh made its way through, and he couldn’t be totally sure whether he wanted to be there to see Web’s fucking face or whether he wanted it somehow even farther away. 

“What’s wrong?” Web asked again, slow and patient.

Joe chewed his lip, one hand coming up to shield his eyes as he slumped against the wall. He needed to try to be quiet, accounting for his new upstairs neighbors and the unusually silent landscape of the first floor, but all he wanted to fucking do was let fly through the phone, vomit this particular strain of bile out and send it through and make Web clean it up. Anything to get it out of his own body, away from his head that was already beginning to pound with the pressure of choking it all back into rough hisses.

“Lieb?” Web urged again, and just the gentle press of his voice, like a swell on the shore, made up his mind that if he wanted anything else for the rest of his goddamn life it was to have him here. He’ll take his stupid patient expressions, the put-upon niceness of his eyes when he’s looking at Joe splitting apart, he'll take it all just to not be alone like this.

Pulling in a hard breath, he kept his eyes covered. “I can’t talk about it to them,” he said roughly, the admission sitting like a ball of fire in his neck. 

“About what?”

“About the fucking -” he started, harsh, hand clawing up in the air before pounding dully, once, on the wall beside the box. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Ribs, trains, the smell, it lived close under his skin, virtually a muscle memory.

Silence fizzed through his head, and he shifted on his feet like an animal in a cage, shaking the tension out of his shoulders only for it to take up residence in his stomach. 

“Joe,” Web said finally, before a strange exhale of a sound. “You don’t have to talk about it to them.”

“I do, they’re my family.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know,” Joe ground out. “They’re fucking asking me questions, I don’t want any questions, I’m fucking, I’m…” he pulled in a thin, wobbly breath and tightened up a fist against the continued shaking of his hands.

“Listen, will you take a breath?” Web said, maddening and solid. “Breathe.”

He wanted to fight, but he wanted to breathe more, and pulled in a long breath that sat in his chest like water. Letting it escape in a long spiral, he closed his eyes again, throat feeling dry, cracked.

“Web…” he started, before losing the thought, getting himself lost in the other man’s name, the memory of his face, the thought of how bad he didn’t want to be alone burning up behind his eyes. “I’ve lost it.”

“Shh, Joe,” Web hushed through the phone, the warm distilled by miles upon miles of telephone wire. “It's ok. I’m here.”

“You’re not,” he bit, hating the truth and hating that he had to say it.

Pausing once more, Web’s voice faded off into the snowy cascade between them. “Will you indulge me for a second?” he asked, not waiting to hear Joe's reply before he continued. “Just imagine I am there, alright? Imagine I’m right there with you.”

Nose scrunching up at the absurdity of the request, Joe’s mouth half opened to tell him to take his fucking fairy tales somewhere else, but his tongue was flat, his face dried up and hot and losing steam to make way for the long, long, spread of cold over his heart. Silently, stubbornly, he closed his eyes against it once more and nodded.

“Ok,” he breathed out, still rough.

He made himself see Web, standing there just beside him, made himself picture the lines of his neck, the dimmed blue of his eyes, the tall, beautiful breadth of him. It hurt to see, it hurt to think about.

“I have my hand on your neck, and then in your hair,” Web said, soft, and his voice seemed to be becoming more and more clear the longer Joe let himself feel, let the gentle sparks of his imagination take the familiar shape of Web’s hand, petting through his hair, smoothing down his scarred neck. “You can let it go. Let it leave.”

Joe shuddered, muscles clenching up before releasing with a forced exhale as he continued feeling Web’s hands, letting them ghost over his neck, his face. “How?”

“Let me take it, I’ll hold it for a while.”

A disparaging laugh got caught up in his mouth, his eyes opening to look tiredly into the shabbily painted wall. “If you were here -”

“I am here,” Web said, finite.

[shittybundaskenyer]

✹ ▬   𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐃

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈.   — 𝓖𝓻𝓲𝔃𝔃𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓔𝓪𝓼𝓽      |     𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏  — The Goddess of War, Morrigan Marlowe I.

pairing: Arthur Morgan x Morrigan Marlowe (OC)

summary: She saved him and with that he saved her in return. It was a strange symbiosis, like wildflowers in a fruitless garden, alluring curious bees. He made her garden bloom.  —  Arthur Morgan thought he was done with living, but in a gentle golden sunrise, on that cursed mountain, he's rescued by a mysterious woman. 

warnings: descriptions of injuries and sickness, blood, Arthur has TB, some self-hatred and unkind thoughts

𝑁𝐸𝑋𝑇 𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑅    |    𝐴𝑅𝐶𝐻𝐼𝑉𝐸 𝑂𝐹 𝑂𝑈𝑅 𝑂𝑊𝑁

There’s a wolf. 

Between gently swaying raspberry vines and dried grass its eyes glint. Golden, with a hint of forest green. He can see it clearly, even though his vision is getting cloudy with stinging tears that are forcing their way through until they can escape from the corners of his eyes. He was never a man who cried easily but the happenings of those last few hours are starting to clear in his mind, and loneliness is slowly sinking its sharp claws into his barely beating heart. 

The wolf scents the air, maybe it smells his fear now, or the lingering gunsmoke the wind stirs towards its way. Will it rip his throat out? That would be at least quicker than slowly choking on his own blood. 

But the wolf doesn’t move like it would attack. It just watches him, cautiously stepping closer until he can feel its fur brushing the torn up knuckles on his right hand. It brushes its muzzle over the ripped fabric of his shirt where a bullet grazed his shoulder and where Micha's punches start to bruise a dark reddish purple. 

He feels blood mingling with the tears on his cheeks, a salty copper taste lingering in his mouth as he gasps for air. The wolf snarls, but not threatening, drawing closer to his face. 

Their eyes meet and the sun slowly creeps over the horizon, painting the landscape purple and golden in the early morning mist. Arthur's chest hurts, so much that he can barely catch his next breath. The wolf sniffs his face and for a second they inhale the same air. Its ears flatten, golden eyes meeting his. 

There's something in its gaze, a warmth almost, like when he would look at sunlight filtering through the canopy of a forest on a hot summer day and let it gently caress his face.

Arthur struggles for another breath, even more desperate now. He starts shaking, wrecked by sobs and pain and the need to fill his lungs with the air that is barely pushing past his throat. The wolf nudges him then, places its head between his collarbone and neck, bares its teeth and he thinks now, it will tore his flesh open. 

He tries to reach for the light fur that grows on the wolf's head but he doesn't have that power in him anymore. His hand lies limp over his stomach, absentmindedly pressing down on a wound to slow the bleeding. Not that it would mean too much. 

His vision starts to go black around the edges but it's not from the wolf's attack. It just… rests there, like it would listen to his breathing, the slowing beats of his heart, until it rises and stomps its large paw on his chest, flaring up the pain from broken ribs again. He wheezes and the wolf growls, almost annoyed. It circles him and pushes its head under his arm and shoulder and turns him to his side. It's even worse now, the pain and the lack of air, and he moves as the wolf pleases, too weak, so goddamn weak.

The wolf rams its head into his back, making him cough until a thick patch of reddened spit and phlegm leaves his mouth. He can feel blood trickle down from his nose and he retches, helpless, and spits again.

There now, he can gulp down a breath. 

It doesn’t let him rest. Hits him with its paw and nose, bares its teeth when their eyes meet after the reddened saliva dribbles down his chin. He’s too tired to do this, too weak to keep on breathing, but the most animalistic instincts of him and the wolf doesn’t allow him his final rest, not yet. So he wheezes and coughs and chokes until he calms down, until the wolf looks at him once more, with the rising sun glinting in its eyes, and rests its head on his aching chest, huffing a warm breath over his jaw. 

Sunrise paints the landscape golden and under, the misty forests a warm reddish-purple. The world is quiet, only his tired breaths are mingling with the quietly whistling wind that twists and turns around the Grizzlies and the old, crooked pine trees. A whitetail buck grazes not too far, the sunshine glinting on his antlers. He raises his head and Arthur and the wolf stare back at him until he turns and jumps, disappearing between frost-kissed blackberry bushes. 

The wolf and the sun warms him, caressing his face and pained body, gently lulling him until the sky turns into pink, purple, and then a brilliant blue. 

He can’t keep his eyes open anymore. 

 *

 When he wakes the wolf is gone but there's a woman. 

He's in a room, laying in a bed that is covered with something soft, maybe a pelt. His senses are still muddled, but they slowly creep back to him. The ache in his body is still present, breathing is still a struggle. The light coming from a hearth and a kerosene lamp is making him blink back tears, but with his hazy vision he notices the woman quietly busying herself with brewing something, and the air is heavy with the sweet smell of burning herbs. 

And then he coughs.

The coughing fit wrecks his body, makes him gasp for air between spitting up blood and choking on it. It stains the fur he's laying on, and drips down the corner of his mouth, disappearing in his beard. 

The woman drops the kettle she was holding and rushes to him, carefully pulling him by his uninjured arm to lay on his side. He spits again, the blood finally clearing from his mouth while she holds him in place with one hand and hits his back with the other until he coughs up the mucus that's choking him. 

Arthur goes limp when it's over, wheezing in painful breaths while she regards his face and the stained pelt under his head. She reaches for his overgrown hair and brushes it out of his face, her gaze meeting his. She has doe eyes that glint golden in the light of the dimmed kerosene lamp placed on his bedside. He doesn't recognize her but somehow he feels he knows her at the same time. Maybe from another life. 

"Better now?" she asks quietly while she places his hand on the bed and gently lays him back. 

Arthur tries to speak but only a tired groan leaves his lips while a string of bloodstained saliva dribbles down his chin. He tries again.

"Not much," his voice is so quiet that only a whisper of a gentle breeze could blow the words away. But she listens and lays her palm flat on his forehead. His skin is clammy there, probably the result of a fever, and she clicks her tongue disappointedly, confirming his assumption. "If—If I may ask," he rasps out, trying to be polite, even if speaking feels like being stabbed in the throat every second, "where am I, Miss?"

She pulls back her hand and glances towards the window on the far wall for a minute, where blinking stars and an inky black sky is visible through the glass, and then back to his eyes. 

"Found ya half-dead while I was huntin'. You're in my home now, up in the Grizzlies." 

Arthur just nods and closes his eyes, not having the energy to keep them open anymore. The woman pulls back for a little and when she returns he feels a cool, wet rag on his forehead, and soon after, her hands again, sneaking under his head to keep him upright while a tin cup is lifted to his lips. He forces himself to look up at her when he feels the fresh water hitting his tongue. 

She’s a bit surprised when he grabs the cup she’s still holding, his palm wrapping around hers so he can drink all of the water. When he’s done she doesn’t pull away immediately, but regards his face, the scars and blackened bruises still lingering there. The blood on his chin over an old, jagged scar. 

“Why did ya bring me here?” he rasps, every word a stinging pain to form. She looks down for a moment, at his bruised hand that carefully releases hers. The tin cup is empty. 

“Guess life ain't done with you yet.” 

That's all she says and he sighs, regretting it the next moment as his lungs try to expand, so tired, so weak. He stifles another cough into the fur he stained with blood earlier.

“You’re wrong, Miss. I’m as good as dead.” 

Her face turns a bit worried, but she tells him she saw him fighting on that mountain. That after all he did she couldn't let him die while those other men in black swarmed the place like rats to search through the dead. 

His face falls at that, a frown drawing his brows together while she watches him. He tells her that she got herself into something that could kill her. She answers with a sad, bitter smile and that she knows exactly how cruel men could be. He doesn't ask her how or why, he only nods and turns his head to the side where he can see the stars glinting silently outside the window. He knows women who met cruel fates. 

If the Pinkertons didn't find his body, they'd track him down. Milton assured him that he would be hunted to the ends of the earth until the end of time. Agent Milton was dead now, shot down by Abigail when Arthur's strength failed in fighting him off. Still, his voice whispers in his mind regardless. 

Arthur is sure that they'll hunt him down and shoot him like a dog, or make it last like they did with Mac Callander. The sick bastards .

And this woman, they will kill her too. There's no mercy after what happened, no offer for amnesty. Just a gun and a finger on the trigger. 

"If they turn up… They'll kill us, Miss."

"They can try," is her only answer.

She lifts the rag from his forehead, puts it in a bowl of water he can't see from where he's laying, but he can hear it splashing as she wrings out the cloth. The cool touch of the fabric is back in a few seconds while she rises from the chair next to him and her pinky finger accidentally brushes his scarred knuckles as she lifts up the tin cup from his weak grasp. 

Arthur doesn't feel like talking anymore.

 *

 He spends a week sweating out his fever. The woman brews him herbal teas that taste awful and knock him out cold within five minutes. She feeds him broth when he's too weak to even lift a spoon and she tends to his wounds and bruises. 

Arthur tried to refuse her help, the food she made for him, the care she gave so willingly. He never could defeat that kindness in her, however stubbornly he tried. She just gave and cared and made sure he was living day after day, not letting him succumb into that self-destructing hole he dug for himself. Arthur marveled at how such a pure soul can still exist in such a cruel world. She told him it's easier when she's alone in the mountains, and that people are kinder here than stuck up city folk. That, he agreed on. 

And now, after each passing day he feels vulnerable. He never had to rely on someone else when he was wounded or sick—he always managed on his own, even stitched his own wounds sometimes. They always left a jagged, ugly scar, but he never had to bother someone else with them. Now, he's furious. But his anger is directed only at himself, his weakness, his foolish self that got himself sick, that worked himself to the ground, that didn't die on that mountain. 

He asks her to stop once, when she's taking out spoonfuls of broth into a bowl. She doesn't understand. Arthur looks at her when she comes closer with the bowl in hand, sitting down next to him on an old wooden chair. He tries to sit up but his broken ribs protest and he sinks back into the bed with an annoyed huff. 

"Why're ya still doin' this?" he asks while she lifts the bowl to his lips. He drinks it, his body fighting, not as stubborn as his stupid mind—it fights to live, because it always fought for that. 

"'Cause you're not gettin' better."

"You know what I mean."

"We're more similar than ya think. I was in your place once. A stranger helped me, and now look at me. I live. And you'll live too," she manages to be so openly honest with him without revealing any real detail about her past. Arthur's beyond curious, but he just takes the bowl from her now, gulps down a mouthful because he feels, for the first time in a month, truly hungry. 

She watches him while he finishes the food, smiles at him when he pulls away the bowl and his upper lip and beard is smeared with the broth. She has a kind smile, a lady's smile that was not born to live in the wilderness like this. 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his palm, the ache in his shoulder flaring up like gasoline poured onto embers.

Arthur realized a few days back that she was the only person who lived here. One night, when he couldn't sleep from the nightmares and his aching chest he listened how she walked around the house, checking the doors and lighting the lantern outside, on the front porch. 

But no one was coming home in the late hours of the night. 

He asks her then, that she lives alone or her family is just away. She looks down, a hint of sadness softening her features before she can hide it behind a fake, barely there smile. They're not coming back. 

"I'm sorry."

It's not pity, not when he's lost so much too. It's more like a deep understanding, a knowledge of hidden wounds that never can heal fully. She looks at him again until their eyes meet and he's confronted with an honesty that usually only mirrors can muster. 

"It was a long time ago now," she tells him while she takes the bowl into her hands, leans back on the creaking chair. Arthur follows her movements with tired, bloodshot eyes. She looks outside, through the small window where the curtains are only half-open, the early morning sky burning behind them in a deep red and purple. 

She rises then, takes the bowl to the washbasin in the other corner of the room. She brews coffee, its familiar scent awakening a comforting warmth in his still aching chest. She offers him a cup, leaves it on his bedside to cool a little while she takes her own and steps out to the front porch, into the sunrise in red.

 *

 She asks his name the next week, when he still doesn't start to heal. Arthur answers her with a bitter smile and his name, so strange now on his tongue that still tastes of coppery blood after coughing. 

"You wanted something to write on my gravestone, ain't ya?" 

"Don't be silly Arthur," she scolds him, walks closer from the stove where she's brewing some new kind of tea. He likes how his name sounds when it rolls down her tongue. It's soft. Strange. After so many other people had said it with hate and anger, it's nice to hear it like he could be a normal person. Not a no-good ugly bastard like him. It's also nice hearing his first name, the one that is stained with a bit less blood than Morgan , the one that shines inky black on every wanted poster from Blackwater to Annesburg.

She sits beside him, on the bed this time, and she checks the cool rag that's draped over his forehead. Her hands smell like various kinds of herbs, of the outside, of the wilderness. Arthur inhales it deeply, fights down a cough while he ignores his aching chest. He misses the outdoors. It's nicer dying in a forest than a bed. It's more fitting for him, too. No outlaw deserves the warmth of a home in his last days. 

"It's still burnin'," she sighs and pulls back her hand. 

"I'm not gonna get better, Miss." Arthur turns towards the window again, where he can see the pine trees basking in the early afternoon sunlight. Frost glimmered on their branches earlier and painted the cobwebs in the corner of the windowframe a shining silver. "I have consumption."

Admitting it to her feels like a mistake, just like being in her house, eating her food, accepting her care. He doesn't deserve all this, not when he has taken so much from kind people like her before. He tried to do good in the end, he tried , but—

"I know," she nods, a hint of sadness sparkling in her eyes. "My Pa had the same symptoms. He had it as well."

He starts to understand now, the things she said about her family. He wants to ask but he bites into his lip instead and nods. She watches him for a moment, her eyes following the tired lines of his face. 

She tells him her name then. Morrigan. Arthur remembers the Irish tales and legends Hosea used to read for him when he was still young and somewhat careless and happy . A Celtic goddess, war and fate and doom and death. How fitting for him. But not for her, not when she's so gentle. She reminds him of Boadicea, another kind soul named after women of war. 

"I've seen enough death, Arthur," she whispers and she stands up from the side of his bed, walks towards the whistling kettle on the stove, but she turns back for a second to look into his eyes and say "I don't wanna see yours too."

[dontmindmyshadowhunting]

Welcome to Faerieland (Fan Fic) - Chapter 9 - The house in the hollow hill

This is Chapter 9 of “Welcome to Faerieland”, a sequel to my Kitty Fan Fic "To never being parted" although it can be read as a standalone story.

AO3 Link to the full story here.

****

“Livvy? Livvy, is that you? I should have guessed I would be the first one to join you.”

The girl - the one he had met in the weapons room, the one from the drawing - shivered in his arms. Ash tightened his embrace, shielding her as best as he could from the chill and the wind as they soared through the night sky. He flapped his wings harder and winced. It felt as though a thousand needles were piercing through them, but he couldn’t slow his pace. He needed to get her to safety and tend to her wounds. She didn’t have much time, the demon poison was spreading through the long gash in her leg. Already, she was hallucinating.

“Livvy.” She sighed and smiled. Her eyes were half-open, but they were blank as stones. “I have so much to tell you.”

Ash could now see a familiar landscape stretching ahead of them, up to the white sea cliffs and the hollow hill in which the golden cage he called home stood. It was risky to bring her there. Save for the usual cleaning and kitchen staff sworn to secrecy, there had never been anyone but him, J, and very occasionally his mother in this house since they had moved in three years ago. But he needed the potion to draw out the poison in her system.

“I am… I am not Livvy,” he whispered back.

She blinked but her blue-green eyes remained unfocused, their pupils fully dilated. Her gaze set upon his wings.

“Are you an angel?”

Ash swallowed the lump in his throat.

“If I were, it would be the fallen kind,” he replied grimly.

Her eyelids were heavy now. She was mumbling something but it no longer made sense. Just as he thought she would pass out again, she jolted back to consciousness. She was suddenly staring into his eyes, a look of recognition flashing across her face.

“Clary?” She said, startling him, before she blacked out, her body once again limp in his arms.

****

When Dru came to, she registered dimly that she was no longer flying but half lying, half sitting on a mattress - much softer than what she was used to at the Academy or even at the Institutes - and propped up against plush cushions. There was a funny taste in her mouth and she idly remembered having been forced to swallow a liquid. She no longer felt cold, and she realized that a silk blanket had been pulled over her.

Was that what the afterlife was about? An everlasting sleep in a comfortable bed? What a letdown.

When she blinked her eyes open, she was greeted by a beautiful sight. Her faerie prince was staring at her with his grass-green eyes, a lock of his tousled fair hair falling across his outrageously handsome face. He brushed it away with an impatient gesture, tucking it behind one of his pointy ears, and she noticed that his refined velvety clothes had been replaced by a plain long-sleeved black shirt.

“You,” she breathed. She narrowed her eyes. “I knew it! I knew you were too hot to be real!”

“Er- What?” His lips parted. He looked utterly dumbfounded.

Dru’s hands shot up and she started pinching his sharp cheekbones.

“What- what are you doing?” He tried to articulate, but she made it somewhat difficult, as she was squeezing his face and kneading his cheeks.

She could not help it. She giggled.

“Look at you. You are so… perfect. This is ridiculous.”

One of his blond eyebrows raised.

“So that’s the part where we kiss and there are fireworks and romantic music playing in the background?” Dru pursued.

She grabbed him by the collar, drawing him closer and his breath hitched. When their lips were so close they were almost touching… he turned his head away in a swift motion. She was left staring at his jawline - again, she marvelled at its sharpness - and noticed a wide X-shaped scar on his neck that had been hidden by his collar when she had first dreamt of him.

“What is it? I am not your type?” She said jokingly. Maybe her fantasies involved a bit of resistance to make things more fun.

He slowly turned to face her again. There was no trace of humour in his expression. His gaze was intense and serious.

“Not my type? On the contrary. You are exactly my type. You defined it, actually.” The sharpness and bitterness of his tone startled her. She swallowed.

“Then... why won’t you kiss me?”

“Because I don’t kiss girls who are under the influence of alcohol, drugs or - in this instance - demon poison.”

He started standing, but she grabbed him by the arm and almost cried out at the sudden throb in her right leg. She blinked and noticed for the first time that she had a long gash across her limb. The bleeding had stopped but it still looked awful. Several Iratzes had been drawn on her skin, near the wound. She remembered the searing pain she had felt as the demon’s claw had ripped across her flesh… It all came back to her then. The battle. Ty. Kit. Jaime.

“We need to go back! My brother and friends are still out there on the battlefield!” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Raziel, how long have I been out?”

The faerie lifted his hands hesitantly to rest them awkwardly on her shoulders. He stroked lightly in a reassuring gesture, as his green eyes bore into her.

“The battle is over. King Kieran’s knights and the Wild Hunt swooped in, right after you were injured, and saved the day.”

She exhaled a sigh of relief as she fell back on the soft cushions. She felt dizzy.

“They are all alright.” A dark veil seemed to have covered her eyes. “I can’t-” I can’t see.

“Shhh. Stop talking. Spare your strength. Get some rest.”

It was suddenly all dark. An unbidden image came to her... black wings smeared with blood flapping furiously against the cold wind...

“You carried me… Your wings… you are hurt,” she said, before she fell back into unconsciousness.

****

Dru woke to a soft breeze tickling her skin. She immediately sat up, wincing at the pain in her right leg, and took in her surroundings.

She was in a vast high-ceilinged bedroom, illuminated by a soft light that spoke of dawn. The windows were equally huge, framed by velvet curtains.

Bookshelves were covering almost every inch of wall, and though they were entirely filled with books, there did not seem to be enough space for all of them.

More books were stacked in piles, others scattered haphazardly across the floor.

A latest generation laptop was resting on a large mahogany desk in the corner, as well as several tablets - what was the point of having so many? Dru wondered - video game consoles and controllers, a huge sound speaker in the shape of a silver skull and… more books.

The room harbored several collections of various items, weapons mainly, but also figures from comic books and fantasy novels. A real size shiny C-3PO seemed to serve as a valet stand, a black leather jacket comically wrapped around its shoulders.

The contrast was odd, as if an enthusiastic teenager had decided to set up his headquarters in the ballroom of a palace.

A pillow and a crumpled white blanket had been spread on the floor, next to the bed. They were tainted with smears of blood that could be traced on the thick carpet toward a half-open wooden door. Artificial light was pouring through the gap.

With strenuous efforts, Dru whirled her legs out of the bed. She blushed as she realized she was no longer wearing her dress - which had been torn and covered in ichor anyway - but in a plain black shirt. On her, it was long enough that it covered her thighs. She tried not to think too much about who must have dressed her and picked a long staff made of oak wood, probably a rokushakubō, that was resting against the wall. She used the weapon as a walking stick as she limped across the bedroom, looking out the windows as she passed them. All she could see in the dim light were large stretches of green grass. She was still in Faerie, she knew that much at least.

When she reached the half-open door, she peered around and... gasped.

It was a bathroom, much bigger than her own bedroom at the Academy, and to say it was luxurious would be an understatement. Everything was built in the most precious and refined material, even the taps looked like they were shaped from gold. The blond fey was seated at the edge of a huge circular bathtub with his back to her, only wearing boxer shorts. His pale skin was covered in Marks, some freshly inked, others faded, as well as battle scars. He was clutching large cotton pads and seemed to be struggling to clean the wounds on his black wings. Vials filled with different colours of liquid were scattered all over the marble floor as well as boxes of dried herbs. He whipped his head at the sound she made.

“I- I am sorry,” she said, feeling her cheeks flush at his nakedness.

“Sorry for what?” He replied, in his euphonious voice.

“I didn’t know you were…” She replied, waving her hand at him.

“Didn’t know I was what?” He looked puzzled.

“Naked!” She rolled her eyes.

He just stared at her for a few seconds before he let out a short back of laughter.

“I don’t mind,” he finally said and went back to tending his wounds.

Dru swallowed.

“Let me help you with that,” she said, as she slowly crossed the distance, and sat behind him. She picked a few bandages and started working on the cuts on his wings that were the least accessible to him.

They remained in companionable silence for a moment.

“You are a Shadowhunter,” she eventually said, breaking the stillness. “Why didn’t you tell me so when we met earlier?”

He shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

“That’s not it. Your skin was covered in clothes. You are hiding it.”

He tensed. “So were you. I assume you had your reasons. I have mine.”

Okay… He had obviously decided to close the subject. And she didn’t want to pry. She redirected the conversation.

“About earlier… What I said…” She swallowed and blushed at the memory of her throwing herself at him. Ugh. How pathetic she had been.

“Did you speak earlier? I didn’t hear a thing,” he replied, casting a knowing glance at her over his shoulder, his lips suppressing a smile.

She exhaled.

“Thanks,” she said. “You know what, I do think you are beautiful. But so are Michelangelo’s sculptures. And you won’t catch me snogging them.”

He was still sitting with his back to her and she couldn’t see the expression on his face but he seemed to be smiling as he replied. “Message received.”

“So… is this where you live?”

“It is.”

“Alone?”

“No. It’s just me and my uncle J, though.”

She fell silent for a moment and he heard her unspoken question.

“I hardly see my mother. And my sorry excuse for a dad is dead. Good riddance.”

She flinched at that. She had noticed there was a darkness about him and wondered if it was linked to all the scars on his body or his evident hatred for his late father. Or both.

“I guess I never thanked you. For saving my life earlier.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I am Drusilla, by the way. Drusilla Blackthorn. People call me Dru, though.”

He nodded, as if it confirmed something he already knew.

“I am Ash.”

“Ash…?”

“Just Ash.”

“Don’t you have a last name?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” She playfully quoted Shakespeare.

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Your turn.” He suddenly stood and turned to face her, folding his wings. Dru realized that it brought her gaze right at the level of his… She swiftly turned her face away, blushing. When she glanced back at him, shyly, he was sitting seiza-style on the floor, in front of her. He gently lifted her right leg to rest it on his lap, a small smile playing across his face. She could not catch the look in his eyes, under his silvery eyelashes, as they were focused on inspecting her injury, but she was pretty sure he knew exactly what was going on in her head. He slowly brushed his long and deft fingers across her skin while his other hand cupped her calf, and she couldn't stop her leg from shaking. Holy crap. He had barely touched her and she was already a flushing mess, her breath now coming in short gasps. She was very much aware that her toes were nudging at the waistband of his boxer shorts and that if she brought her foot a few inches lower…

They both startled at the sound of a loud banging on the bedroom door.

“AAaaash,” uttered a man in a slurred speech through the wooden material. “You self-righteous b-bastard. Open the f-fucking door.”

The voice sounded familiar but Dru couldn’t pinpoint exactly where she had heard it before. It didn’t help that it belonged to a man who was obviously inebriated.

Ash cursed. He brought Dru’s leg down and put a finger over his lips.

“You. Are. Not. Here.” He mouthed to her, his green eyes suddenly deadly serious, all of the earlier playfulness gone from one moment to the next, and she almost cringed. He stood and swiftly exited the bathroom, closing the door behind him. She grabbed the staff and lifted herself up from the edge of the bathtub to get closer and hear the conversation.

“Asssh,” the voice repeated. “I know you are ho-home. You left a m-mess in the infirmary. Anything you wish to tell m-me? You got into a f-fight again?”

Dru heard the bedroom door open with a creaking noise.

“What about you, J? Went out for liquor again?” Ash’s voice replied sharply.

“Ash. I d-don’t tell you where to put your d-dick. You d-don’t get to tell me what goes into my m-mouth.”

“The fact that you just said that with a straight face is evidence that you had one too many, J.”

“F-Fuck you, Ash.”

“Hmm… I’ll take a rain check on that. Not that I don’t find you attractive, but you know I don’t screw drunk guys. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

When she heard the door close behind them, Dru came out of the bathroom, in search of her phone, on the off chance it had survived the battle. There it was, resting on the nightstand, plugged in for battery charge. That was… thoughtful.

She grabbed it, swiped the screen open and tried to call Ty, but there was no service. Crap.

She rummaged through Ash’s drawers to pick a pair of shorts that she pulled on clumsily, and gathered a few weapons. She headed for the door, opened it and… ran straight into a pale white torso. Ash clutched her arms to steady her, then brought his lips against her ear. “Going somewhere?”

Dru jutted her chin out. “I need to find my brother. He will be worried sick.”

He didn’t move his mouth from her ear as he softly whispered. “You only need to ask.”

She stepped back to stare into his green eyes. His expression was unreadable.

“Okay,” she replied hesitantly. “Can we… go now?”

“Whatever you wish. Can I show you something first?”

She smiled at him. “Hmmm sure. I have to tell you though, I have four brothers, including one who has absolutely no issues with nudity. Trust me, I already know what it looks like.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head, and went to confiscate C-3PO’s black leather jacket. He put it on her shoulders. The sleeves were so long she had to roll them three times so her hands could peek out of them.

As Ash shrugged on his black shirt and black jeans, Dru cast a quick glance at his body. He had broad shoulders and was definitely muscular, as all Shadowhunters were, but not in a bulky way. His long and pale limbs emphasized his tall, overall narrow figure. He was like a spear, shooting up and deadly.

He caught her watching him, and gave her a lopsided smile. In turn, he allowed himself to look her up and down, but it was quick, efficient and not in the lazy, lingering, creepy way guys usually eyed her.

“You look good in my clothes,” he said finally. He came to stand in front of her, and gently grazed her cheek with his knuckles.

“Your skin is so translucent that it feels like a splash of red ink leaked from a pen underneath when you blush.”

She was pretty sure the red on her cheeks must have spread even farther, the colour brighter, and she did something she had never done in front of a man before. She looked down.

“Grab my neck,” he said, and she complied.

In a swift motion, he swept her off her feet and carried her in his arms like a damsel in distress.

He moved to the open window and… jumped out.

It was different now that she was fully conscious and aware of her surroundings. She let the wind blow through her hair, allowed herself to be overwhelmed by the surreal feeling of being suspended in the air without the fear of crashing to the ground.

She whooped in excitement, crying out “I am the queen of the wooooorld!” and he laughed.

They landed on a narrow patch of grass on top of a cliff. A nightmare for anyone who had vertigo, but Dru didn’t mind great heights.

They both sat at the edge, enjoying the landscape. It was absolutely breathtaking, an unobstructed view of Faeries lands, patches of dark forest, small lakes and plains of green grass extending farther than the eye could see.

Dru understood why Ash loved this spot. It looked like you could see everything while not being seen. It was a spot no one could access, unless well, they had wings…

“Look,” he said, pointing towards a chain of rocky mountains. The sun came out lazyly, spreading its first rays to scout the sky before making its glorious appearance and altering all the colours of the picturesque landscape from one moment to another.

Her breath hitched and she grabbed his hand reflexively.

He whipped his head around to look at her and she pulled it back immediately. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Don’t be,” he said gently. He cocked his head, a questioning look on his face. “Do you have a boyfriend, Drusilla Blackthorn?”

She smiled at his use of her full name. “I don’t.”

“A girlfriend, perhaps?”

“Nope. No boyfriend, no girlfriend.” She exhaled. “There is a guy, though…”

She looked up at him and he was staring back, his expression unreadable.

“I have had this crush on him since… Well, since forever. He seems to like me too, but he won’t act on it. I think he’s afraid of my brothers.”

He lifted his eyebrow. “He’s a bloody coward, then.”

She punched his arm. “Don’t say that! You don’t know him.”

He shrugged. “The question is… does he know you?”

She looked at him then, and was struck by the intensity of his gaze. There was a hidden message there, as if what he had really been asking was “Does he know you like I do?” But that could not be it, right? They had just met. It would be quite presumptuous of him.

“That’s not all. There is another reason, I think, and that’s why I haven’t made a move myself. I think… he is still figuring things out about himself...”

“Clearly,” Ash muttered.

“...And of course, there’s the issue of... my age.”

She waited for a change in his expression, a question, but he remained silent, his gaze steady.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how old I am?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter? Age doesn’t really mean anything in Faerie. I’d love to know your birthday, though. So I’ll know when to throw you the most decadent party you’ve ever been to.”

She let out a free, careless laugh. It was as if a weight had been lifted, that she didn’t even know had been there.

“What about you? Do you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend?”

He crossed his arms against his chest. “I don’t date. I screw around, though. A lot.”

“Why don’t you date?”

He shrugged. “I guess I have major trust issues. Oddly, it’s the only way I know how to get close to people I will never see again anyway. And of course…” He smiled crookedly. “I like sex. Don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She cleared her throat, rubbing her thighs nervously. “So... I am ready to go when you are.”

“Sure, your carriage awaits. Where to?”

“If possible… the New York Institute?”

He tensed. “Is this where you live?”

“Oh no, I was just there to attend a birthday party. I study at the Academy, so that’s where you can usually find me these days. My real home is the Los Angeles Institute, where my family lives.”

Ash didn’t say anything. He was watching her with a thoughtful expression. She looked down, at the frightening drop into emptiness.

“Is this the moment in the movie when the guy turns out to be a psychopath and leaves the wounded girl on top of a cliff and she is left to choose between jumping and starving to death?”

“You have a lot of imagination,” he said, his expression still musing. He grasped her chin to lift it slightly toward his face. “I rather thought it would be the moment in the movie where they kiss and there are fireworks and romantic music playing in the background.”

“Heeey! I thought you hadn’t heard anything !” She swatted at him and he grabbed her wrist in a motion so swift it was almost a blur.

“Heard what?” He said, and she didn’t reply, she couldn’t reply because the next moment he was kissing her, his incredibly soft lips hesitant at first, leaving her plenty of occasions to withdraw. She didn’t.

The kiss grew deeper and it was as if the ground was a rug that had been swept from under her, she was in a free fall, tethered to reality only by his gentle fingers holding her chin while his other hand moved to cup the back of her neck. He smelled like the best Faerie had to offer, all at once, rocks warmed by the sun and fresh grass, luscious petals twirling in the wind, a storm turning a gentle stream into a torrent.

They both jerked away at the sound of an ear-splitting noise.

Before them, a giant eagle was flapping its wings steadily, observing them through narrowed eyes. Josephine, Dru vaguely remembered. And it was not alone. Behind it, an even larger creature, that made the first look one like a fly in comparison, was hovering.

“Drusilla Blackthorn?” The smaller bird screeched.

“In the flesh.”

“I am Josephine. And this is my father Rocky. These are the names Tiberius Blackthorn blessed us with. Our real names cannot be spoken by your mere human tongues. Your brother is looking for you and we are to bring you to him. You can ride on my father’s back.”

“Wait, are these… rocs?” Ash said in awe, his green eyes glittering. “These are thousands of years old legendary birds of prey thought to be extinct. The most dangerous predators among birds. And your brother actually named one Rocky? How cool is that guy?”

“Where is Ty now?” Dru asked.

“He is with my mother, looking for you,” the bird answered. “But we are to meet him at the polyamorous cottage.”

Ash turned to look at her, amusement mixed with curiosity plain on his face. “The polyamorous cottage?” He mouthed.

She elbowed him playfully.

“Okay, let’s go,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

“Wait-” Ash shot an arm in front of her. “I am not sure how I feel about you riding on an unearthly predator.”

“What do you suggest?”

He pondered for a moment before giving her an answer, his expression clearly torn. He finally sighed, seeming to have come to a decision.

“Well… You can ride me,” he said, gesturing at himself and giving her a wicked grin. “And that’s not a one-time offer.”

She rolled her eyes but could not help to feel relief.

“Are you sure you are up for it ?”

“Are you kidding me? A private invitation to the polyamorous cottage? And of course, I can’t wait to meet your brother Tiberius. It will be fun.”

She threw her hands up. “Wow. Don’t get your hopes up. My brother is very difficult to befriend. I love him, but “fun” is definitely not the word I would use to describe him.”

Ash turned to look wistfully at the two giant creatures waiting in front of them. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Well, he sounds pretty fun to me.”

****

Tagging @gabtapia and @bookeater34 ;)

[isoscele]

Lumberjanes Week Day 2 - Magical Creatures

.

It can be boring, learning to tie a knot. Seafarin’ Karen has sympathy for the kids who just can’t sit still, can’t twist their fingers right, lose track of the turns of the rope. She’s got a steady store of work songs saved for those moments when the twitchier ones start to shift around. That part everyone likes; you don’t become a Lumberjane without harboring some secret need to be a part of something bigger than yourself.

Sometimes, though, they’ll ask for a story. She’s got plenty of those, too. It used to be that she wasn’t so good at telling them. Couldn’t get the feeling across--the way the ocean opens out in front of you like an empty hand, and you can’t decide which of your lonelinesses is in the driver’s seat today. Like most things, though, she’s had a lot of practice, and she can now proudly say that she can captivate any audience of preteens.

Sometimes, there’s a kid who has a few more questions. It’s always the ones with the bitten nails, whose skin is a little tighter under the eyes like they haven’t been sleeping. The ones who scan the horizon, heartbeat-quick, when nobody’s looking. They want to know if she’s ever run into anything she really can’t explain, anything that the pre-dawn shadows still sometimes take the shape of. 

And--well, okay. 

One more story can’t hurt.

.

What you may not realize about going to sea to seek your fortune is that, in the single act of pushing out from shore, you’re giving up control completely. Maybe you’re used to that--maybe you live with three generations of women who talk about the family blemishes through clenched, smiling teeth and shave with religious devotion. Maybe it’s better this way.

Still, the day will come when you wake up just before the first fingers of dawn pry open the horizon, and your brain will feel like a shipwreck and you will realize that you have misplaced several months of your life.

You won’t know where they went. They can’t have drowned, or marooned, or beached themselves on the rocks. You can’t have just set them down and forgotten where you put them. Only yesterday, you were falling asleep to a sickening heat and a whale song that blanked out your thoughts, and now you are very far away and somewhere in the future and your arms are covered in tentacle-shaped scars that you cannot recall getting. Your galley is stacked with messages in bottles. Your deck is littered with broken glass.

The moon is waxing. You check every time you look up, more out of habit than necessity because yours is a misaligned curse. The air is frigid, and as you watch it starts to snow. You had forgotten that it could snow in the ocean. For a moment, you wonder if you have accidentally left the planet, if you have sailed all the way to some other world where everything is twice as beautiful and there is no land and nothing except for you and the water and the snow.

You should be freezing, but your body is used to these temperatures. It has, it seems, acclimated without you. Still, you rub your arms, note the patchiness of your skin. Your teeth are longer, and sharp enough to saw through rope, but you don’t pay that part any mind. You came here to become something else, after all.

And so you let the snow, golden in your lantern-light, fill your vision until you can’t see anything but the white fog of your breath and the black of the sea. And then you go into your cabin and make yourself some hot cocoa.

You almost fall asleep like that, hands curled around your mug, listening to the gentle shh-shh of water slapping the sides of your boat. You almost dream--jellyfish the size of islands, driftwood blackened by the scrawl of a different language. Carving shaky maps into the sycamore-sized shark tooth lodged in the side of the hull, your pocketknife slipping against its plaque. Singing sea chanties under your breath, all too aware of the attention they might draw.

You’re startled from your spot when the boat starts to rock, faster and with more strength than you’ve ever felt. You stumble out to the deck, hand still curled protectively around your cold cocoa, but the moment you burst through the doors your entire world flashes white.

Your foot catches on a patch of melted snow, and you go down hard.

For a moment, writhing in the unearthly light, you’re certain that you’re dead. Maybe you died in the months you forgot, woke up without knowing you were supposed to be a ghost. Maybe this is the ocean’s way of reminding you.

The light is so bright that it makes every bone in your body warp with pain. It bends the world around you. Even the horizon and the ocean and the moon, the three fixtures by which you’ve lived your life, crumble into nothing under its gaze.

You don’t realize you’re shouting until another voice cuts into yours, one as deep and loud as a whale song.

WHAT DID YOU SAY, she says. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. Angel, alien, something in between. The deep, finally getting its jaws around you. “What are you?”

She doesn’t respond, so you look up again. It’s stupid to, but you can’t help it. 

The light hasn’t dimmed at all, but your eyes are adjusting a little. You can just make out her outline.

She’s huge, and wrapped entirely around your ship. Most of her body is black and slick and leathery, and her hands are webbed, cupping the sides of the boat like a child holding a toy.

The light, with all its infinite and terrible brightness, dangles from a stalk on her forehead. Behind it, you can just make out her teeth.

You understand two things at once, flat on your back with snow scavenging your skin and the light burning into your eyes. One, anglerfish are only ever found in the deep, built to hypnotize fish who have never seen light.

Two, you must therefore now be in the deep. It doesn’t matter that your head’s above water, that the moon must still be pulsing weakly somewhere above you. In some way, in some world, you have found yourself in the deep.

Here is another thing you may not realize about going to sea to seek your fortune: there will always be a hole in your maps. You will sketch coastlines into a thousand pieces of paper, the underside of the table, the loose skin of your hands, and there will always be a spot where the ink never dries. Where your finger skates across the surface, landing on the other side. 

A patch of sea, no bigger than the pad of your finger, that balks all attempts to be charted.

In this no-man’s-land, the anglerfish woman will pick you up with one clammy hand, hold you up to her enormous, pearly eye. The flesh of her fingers will press against you in damp sacks. She will smell so much like salt that even you, who have smelled nothing else for years, will find yourself unconsciously leaning closer. 

Bioluminescent strands of hair extend from her chin and stomach and the baulds of her knuckles, tracking slow lines through the snow. Her eyes will follow you, huge and pale and glistening. Her teeth--God, you can’t even think about her teeth. Her teeth must look the way the ocean does to a person who has never seen the ocean. The way the stars do to a newborn animal just opening its eyes. 

Her light sways, flurried by an endless smudge of snow. She’s absolutely, unfathomably beautiful.

YOU ARE VERY STRANGE, she says. AND VERY WARM.

You can’t speak. You can’t remember if you ever could.

YOU ARE TOO SMALL TO HAVE SURVIVED THIS FAR. BUT HERE YOU ARE.

“Here I am,” you manage. “I’m--I’m very glad to be here. With you.”

Silence. She circles your boat, holding you aloft. YOU MUST BE STRONG.

You don’t know if this is an observation or a piece of advice. Regardless, you nod. You can feel your bones stretch, wanting to shift. You don’t know what that means, the way the oldest thing inhabiting your body aches to be with her. 

You lean against her massive ridge of wrist. The ocean laps at your sides, seeping in through the gaps of her fingers. The snow, lit both by the moon and by her, blisters across your skin. Here, you feel both all-consumed and all-consuming. You feel wild, invincible, incalculably small.

But you are a guest here, and it’s time for you to remember that.

“Would you like some hot cocoa?”

.

One last thing you may not realize about the sea is that it changes when you aren’t looking. 

Years later, when your skin is rougher and your muscles are harder and your brain chemistry has begun to lean towards the wilderness, you will again seek out the holes in your maps. Driven only by the salt under your nails and a mad memory of light, you will station yourself at the mast and wait to lose some time.

But instead of ocean, instead of massive hands and beautiful teeth, you will find yourself in the middle of a lake surrounded by forest.

Again, your body will know this landscape like its own. You won’t be afraid, even as you stare into the shallows. 

And then, maybe, a woman will emerge from the treeline, her hair perfectly coiffed, her shirt starched, badges stretched across her chest like so many scales. 

And maybe she will look at you like she has never been less surprised in her life. And she will open her mouth, and she will say--

but this story’s run long. Seafarin’ Karen can read an audience with the best of them. The kids are shifting around again, and the knots look great, and it’s almost time for their hike, anyway. She should probably let them go.

With any luck, they’ll have a good summer. It’s the only hope she holds onto, these days. 

[waynedunlaptheorgandonor]

Land of Enchantment

i wrote some celebratory porn in-light of the spin-off news (when i should have been working on other things). takes place in new mexico. p much pwp with some sprinklings of me waxing poetic about how weird and amazing new mexico is. have i ever mentioned i was born there? and also it’s my favorite place in the world? caryl is going to my homeland, bitches, get on my level

-diz

There are no state borders anymore, but New Mexico is its own place anyway. Already she's a contradiction; she's miles' worth of mysteries waiting to be unraveled, and just look at that sky. The sky is different here, vast in a way Daryl's never seen before, as if the horizon is running from him, getting farther and farther away while taunting him to follow. He could spend his whole life chasing it and would never come close.

When he dismounts the bike and his feet touch the ground he can feel the magic in the soil. The minerals beneath the surface are transcendent, casting a spell across the whole of the desert, and suddenly he understands why it's called the Land of Enchantment. 

Carol gets off the bike with grace, her hair windswept from the road, and she is decadent. He's never seen her look so beautiful. An enchanting woman standing on enchanted land, and when he realizes, with a skip of the heart, that he's allowed to have both he thinks, this must be what it feels like to be a lucky man.

"We made it," she says unnecessarily. They're the first words they've spoken since they passed the withered and bent "Welcome to New Mexico" sign that they hadn't needed, because New Mexico greets you wordlessly when you enter. You don't need to be told when you've arrived. You just know.

He nods, but doesn't speak, drinking her in with the parched eyes of a man who hasn't been allowed to even look at water for over ten years. Ironic that only now he can have it, here in the desert.

He tears his gaze from her—not an easy feat—and gives his surroundings a good once over. In the low light of dusk he can see the track marks from where a lizard skittered by not long ago. He can tell the breeze has been gentle by the way the sand slopes. It's new but the same; he's a tracker no matter what the terrain.

He says, "I thought I'd miss the trees more."

He's never lived without the forest before. Part of him—a part bigger than he would ever admit—was afraid he'd be a fish out of water here, trying to flip-flop his way back to the sanctuary of the forest, but as vast as the desert is he doesn't feel exposed. He feels as though he is being cradled by the small hills and tall cacti, the way he does by the trees. There are different hands holding him, but they're providing the same touches of comfort, telling him not to worry, he's safe.

"I didn't expect it to be so pretty," Carol says. She walks a small, slow circle in place, getting a panoramic view. "I always thought deserts were full of nothing, but who knew that nothing could be so alive?"

She's right. Even the empty air vibrates with energy; the voice of the soul inside the frontier welcoming them home. On the highway they’d passed a road sign that said “gusty winds may exist,” as if even the meteorologists of the past knew they could never predict for certain what the state would offer. New Mexico is breathing around them, so vibrant and resplendent that Daryl wonders if he even knew what being alive meant before he landed here.

Carol steps into his space and places a hand on his bare forearm. Her fingers are electric and charged, causing pleasant sparks on his skin as she slides them down past his wrist and laces them with his. He tugs her closer and she goes willingly, her other hand reaching up to cradle the base of his head, her thumb resting just below his ear and caressing the curve of his jaw. Dusk is upon them, and on the canvas of deep reds and oranges they’re a part of, the blue of her eyes are a stunning contrast.

“Kiss me?” She says it as a question but it may as well be a command by the way he’s compelled to oblige. Ducking his head the short distance between them, his lips find hers and fit between them in a way that’s so perfect he wonders how it took them so long to realize they’re from the same two-piece puzzle. The picture they create when they come together is abstract—anyone looking can have their own interpretation, but only they know what it truly means to say. Together they’re an art piece depicting a love deeper than the ocean; denser than the forest; vaster than the desert.

He wraps his free arm around her waist and pulls her forward until her hips meet his. The gliding of her tongue over his makes him press his fingertips into her lower back. They rest on her vertebrae like they’re piano keys. He has every intention of playing her notes until he perfects the melody of ecstasy. She hums in his mouth, already making music that’s muted as it’s swallowed by the sand around them. He moves his kiss to her neck and whispers, “Want’cha.” 

“Then have me,” she replies, lifting her chin towards the sky to give him access to more skin. He skims his teeth over old lovebites he’s already gifted her. He doesn’t leave them there to claim her. Carol will always be her own person, but he likes to remind her that some bruises can be sweet. 

Stepping away from her is so difficult he’s surprised he doesn’t hear the tear of velcro. He’s still got a hold of her hand, and he lifts it up to pepper each knuckle with a kiss before letting go. On the bike they have only their essentials—storage on a motorcycle can only be so big—and it takes him only a moment to find the thick, fleece blanket rolled tight. The pattern is colored with rich copper and turquoise, already matching the aesthetic of the southwest. Maybe that’s why he’d liked it so much when he found it. 

He unfurls it and gives it several good shakes before laying it flat on the dusty ground. He fixes the corners, making sure it’s smooth, and then focuses on unlacing his boots and kicking them and his socks aside so he doesn’t track dried mud, blood, and grit on the blanket. The sand is warm and unfamiliar on his bare feet. This is nothing like the sand on the coastline; like everything else, New Mexico is a breed of its own.

Kneeling on his knees in the center of the blanket, he holds a hand out to her. She’s already removed her own shoes, and instead of coming to him she meets him dead in the eye and starts unbuttoning her shirt. He lets his arm drop and watches transfixed as each undone button exposes more of her. After she lets her shirt slide off her shoulders and drop to the ground, she unclasps her bra from behind and lets it follow suit. Only then does she approach. She stands tall over him, and he places his hands on her ass and presses his face into the soft skin of her belly. 

Peeking up at her through shaggy bangs with fire in his eyes, Daryl undoes the buckle of her belt. She draws her lower lip in between her teeth as he works her pants and panties down. He takes his time. The few times he received presents as a child he never had a chance to savor the unwrapping because his brother was always hovering nearby, ready to snatch it away from him, but no one is stealing his gift tonight. 

Her body is a timeline, depicting dates of war. Every scar is a summary of a battle, but still they’re beautiful because they’re all battles that she won. He kisses every single one of them, so sad she’s been hurt, but so ecstatic she’s alive.

When he’s done unveiling her, he lets her kick her clothes to the side as he sheds his own shirt to help even the playing field. Of course he has his own timeline written across the span of his flesh, but he no longer cares that she sees. Even if he was still self-conscious he wouldn’t be right now, because she’s standing there before him, an ethereal beauty backdropped by the enchanting New Mexican landscape. 

He nudges her legs apart and fits himself between them. He works himself up by nipping at the skin of her inner thighs. An appetizer. A groan rumbles through her, both out of frustration and anticipation, and he smiles. But he’s not cruel; doesn’t aim to tease. He finds her with his mouth and lets the tip of his tongue entice her as he trails from her entrance to her clit with a feather-light lick. 

Her fingers tangle in his hair, and the gentle tug urges him on. He gets serious now, flattening his tongue and licking her for real. God he loves it when she shudders like that; wants to get her to do it again, so he slips two fingers inside her to make her shake. They slide in easily, her body readying itself for him, and his erection gets harder the wetter his hand gets as he finds the right tempo against her walls. 

Meanwhile, his tongue is busy writing love letters. His rhythm is an oration, explaining every inch of his heart to her. She answers back with the contracting of her muscles, telling him she hears him loud and clear. Her own love declaration comes when his fingers and his mouth work in tandem to pull all her wires taut, and then make them snap, causing her to cry out, telling the whole of the desert about her satisfaction. 

He catches her when she crumples, her body a rag doll, overcome with pleasure. But he doesn’t give her time to recover before he’s kissing her hard, feeling voracious like he never has. He’s ached for her before, but never on enchanted grounds. New Mexico is casting spells, and the onslaught of magic heightens his every sense. He has to see her, feel her, taste her, touch her, hear her—needs all of it all at once. 

She straddles his hips and he doesn’t wait for say-so before thrusting his hips up and inside her. She thrusts down at the same time and sends him in deep. When they come apart and he slips out he growls, low in his throat, and gathers her up in his arms. He’s not as gentle as he should be when he flips her onto her back, but she doesn’t seem to care, clawing at him and pulling him down, as if, even though he’s got his arms around her shoulders and their torsos are flush together, she wants him even closer.

He sinks inside again, and her warm, slick walls welcome him. Both of her legs wrap around his hips when he starts fucking her in long, deep strokes. He finds the pert nipple on one of her breasts and flicks it with his tongue in time with his thrusts. She writhes around beneath him, muttering encouragements. When she gets close again she tugs his face back to hers and kisses him frantically. Her moan is almost a sob as she arches her back and cums even harder than before. 

He wants to keep going, but he’s fighting a losing battle as her muscles pulse wildly around him. The build is slow and delicious, the heat coiling in his groin in stages—the beginning, the point of no return, and then finally, the release. He empties himself entirely, burying his cum inside her where it belongs. She’s petting his hair, guiding him through it, and then kisses his forehead oh-so-sweetly. The expression on her face when he finally comes to his senses enough to lift himself up and look at her is one of undeniable love, and he knows his face says the same.

They put off coming apart until they have no choice, but even then, when Daryl slips out of her, he rolls onto his back and pulls her to him. She rests her head on his chest, just above his thudding heart that’s trying to slow down, and he trails his fingers up and down her skin lazily.

At some point the sun disappeared, and above them is an expanse of stars like they’ve never seen before. How can New Mexico make even the stars seem different? The milky colors of the galaxy are even visible if they look hard enough. 

Everything is different now. Daryl can feel it in his bones. Whatever moves this mysterious place, they’re a part of it now. It’s irreversible. But that’s okay. They were beckoned here like a siren call, but they’ve found a blessing not a curse. New Mexico has enchanted them, and there’s no going back.                                  

[ninbayphua-moyan]

An Instant’s Beauty: A Moment’s Eternity

I cannot sleep deep in the night; I rise and sit to play my lute. Thin curtains mirror the moon bright; Clear breezes tug my lapels mute. A lonely swan shrieks over the plain; Hovering birds cry in north wood. What do I see pacing in vain? My heart is grieved in solitude. [1] 

Warm morning sunlight streamed in through the lightwell, painting the dimly lit room in a dreamy pastel gold, quite like that of a faded photograph. The balmy Penang air was steeped in the fresh, earthy petrichor of a recent shower, blanketed with a sense of Saturday languidness. A gentle breeze, pleasantly cool against my skin fleeted through the wide-open windows, carrying with it the alluringly sweet scent of frangipanis.

          I flipped the century-old poetry book, its yellowed leaves a beautiful contrast against the teal-blue covers. White silk cords stitched together the pages in a butterfly binding whilst faded black ink encased in vermillion frames marked each leaf, punctuated only occasionally by an ink wash painting of landscapes or plants and animals. Reflexion. I placed the book back down on the table and picked up the brush. Dipping the tip in freshly grounded black ink, I started copying the text.

          I remember a sense of meditative calm seeping into the room against the backdrop of gently rustling palm leaves and running water. The way my hands traced the familiar characters with controlled ease and precision. The movements of the brush long since deeply ingrained into muscle memory from years of practice. Stroke after flowing stroke danced gracefully across the beige xuan paper, each carefully crafted character a painting of woven words. It strikes me now, as I pen my memory onto paper in Bute Park, how similar writing is to calligraphy. Even though it bears a certain form, each writer brings with them their own flair as they string together the words and weave them into a tapestry of thoughts.

          A ripple in the tranquil air.

          The soft fluttering of paper-thin wings. A shimmer of blue at the corner of my eye.

          Propping my brush against the holder, I looked up to see a beautiful blue butterfly flitting in through the window bars. It hovered by the inkstone momentarily before finally coming to a rest on the wooden brush rack next to it, the erratic beating of its wings slowing to a stop. Brilliant hues of cobalt and azure scales glistened as it sat there peacefully basking in the warm tropical sun. Watching the butterfly, I couldn’t help but wonder if the old folklore A-Poh[2] told me was true – that butterflies were the souls of deceased ancestors visiting the living. Wouldn’t that be nice if it was real. Then I’d be able to tell A-Gong[3] all about getting into university; about how part of me was glad that I got accepted but also about how another part of me didn’t want to go since I’d be leaving home for three years straight. What if everything changed whilst I was away? The places I’ve known since childhood…the familiar faces I’ve grown up with…If only the butterfly really was A-Gong. He’d be able to give me some advice.

          A tantalising aroma of freshly steamed glutinous rice dumplings wafted through the air, successfully drawing me out of my musings just as the clock struck noon.

          “Jia-bui-lo!” [4]

          Scurrying feet on creaking floorboards could be heard all over the house as my siblings and parents made a beeline for the dining hall. I looked away from the butterfly and smiled at A-Poh who was standing in the kitchen doorway. She beckoned me over with a toothless grin, her eyes crinkling into two half-moons as she motioned at the large bowl full of steaming glutinous rice dumplings in her hand. Getting up from the Luohan bed[5] where I sat cross-legged, I joined them at the dining table where Di-Di[6] and Mei-Mei[7] were already sat with their chopsticks at the ready, excited grins plastered across their hungry, eager faces.

          I take a seat next to A-Poh, and, picking up my chopsticks, took a bite out of the dumpling in my bowl, its familiar flavours instantly crashing over my taste buds like waves washing up against its shores. A groan escaped my lips as I relished each mouth-watering bite. The savoury note of succulent pork belly marinated in soy sauce and five spice; umami-rich dried shitake mushrooms with its juicy and chewy quality; firm-textured salted duck egg yolk that gives the dumpling a briny aroma whilst its bright orange-red hue creates a pleasant splash of colour against its otherwise brown and black counterparts; the refreshing sweetness of the water chestnuts, a crunchy nuttiness amidst the softness; soft, sticky golden brown glutinous rice encompassing it all, delectably infused with the subtle fragrance of its bamboo leaf wrappings and rich flavours of its fillings from the hours of steaming…ah…these tenderly wrapped packages of love though plain in appearance were worth more to me than gold.

          I was still half way through my first dumpling when another newly unwrapped one plopped into my bowl. Quickly swallowing my food, I tried protesting only to be shushed with another mouthful of rice being forced into my open mouth and a fond pat on the cheek. I shook my head in resignation whilst my siblings sent me cheeky looks before sneakily scooting closer to our parents. There was no stopping A-Poh now that she was on the rampage and those little troublemakers were smart enough to know to stay out of arms reach of her stuffing chopsticks. The rascals. Di-Di even has the audacity to stick his tongue out at me which was obviously returned with an eye roll.

          Little did I know then that these habitual banter, familiar aromas, and accustomed faces would be what I would miss most after leaving. Everything was as it should be; and everyone was where they belonged. In that instance, surrounded by dust particles glimmering in the golden tropical sunlight, it was as if a spell had been cast that would make today go on eternally. For a moment, I let myself believe in the enchantment; that tomorrow will never come and the flight ticket to London was nothing but a forgotten fantasy…

          Bzzz.

          Bzz. Bzzzzzz.

          Bzzz.

          I instinctively reach for my phone to turn off the alarm that pierces the heavy veils of sleep. However, when I open my eyes, I’m met with an unfamiliar white ceiling instead of the usual worn wooden beams. For a moment, I lie there, disorientated before realization sinks in. Cardiff. I am in my flat in Cardiff and the weight I felt on my stomach wasn’t Hua-Hua[8] but rather, my laptop which was still perched on its spot from yesterday’s all-nighter. I must’ve dozed off at some point.

          Slowly sitting up, I gaze around the silent room. Its bleak white walls; books and worksheets sprawled messily across the covers; steely early morning sunlight filtering through the narrow window into the dingy room; folders organized in a nice pile on the desk...My wandering gaze comes to a grinding stop when it lands on the calendar next to the neat stack of folders.

          February 7th.

          I sigh. Looks like I’ll be celebrating both my birthday and Chinese New Year alone this year…

          The frigid February air is still bitterly cold despite being swaddled from head to toe in layers upon layers of coats and scarves. Miserably, I trudge onwards along the banks of the River Taff. Razor sharp winds slice at my cheeks leaving behind searing scars. As the last remaining trickle of warmth leave my body, my mind shuts down and I plod along the cobblestone streets mechanically, limbs and face numb from the biting cold.

          A lukewarm breeze flutters by, stirring my slumbering senses. Bit by bit, warmth seeps back into my frozen limbs and my foggy mind clears as if waking up from a trance. Glancing around, I spot the words Marchnad Caerdydd [9] and realise I’ve arrived at the market. I shake off the remaining frost induced spell and venture into the quiet maze of stalls, trolley in hand.

          The smell of freshly baked bread and pastries wafts through the crisp air, tinged with a breath of floral sweetness. A range of raw meat laid out in clear glass cases bathed in neon pink lights line the murky grey brick walls. Whiffs of coffee beans tickle my nose whenever a dull-eyed person shuffles soullessly pass me in the near vacant market. Stall owners sit spiritlessly at their stalls staring lazily into space. It was almost like walking into a ghost town.

          A splash of colour.

          Turning around, I see a stall filled to the brim with a rainbow array of fruits and vegetables. A refreshing sight in the seemingly deserted marketplace. The sudden craving for something sweet results in me buying a bag of strawberries before wandering on.

          As I nibble away happily on the strawberries browsing through the stalls up in the gallery, I was suddenly struck by a sense of déjà vu. Bit by bit, the scene before me starts to change. The glaring daylight fades away into the tranquil darkness of night and the dusty marketplace roof is now a sky full of twinkling stars. A magnificent full moon shines softly against the vast velvety void, casting a gentle glow on everything below. Towering, lush palm trees replace murky grey brick walls and the cobblestone floor is transformed into a well-travelled dirt road. A lively buzz fills the now soothingly warm tropical air as a familiar sight begins to emerge in the distance. For there, at the very end of the road, stood Penang’s bustling night market, glowing and glittering like a chest of magical gems in the blanket of darkness.

          Brightly lit stalls sheltered by rainbow umbrellas formed a colourful labyrinth, drawing people young and old towards those warm lights like moths to a flame. The sound of street vendors hollering out their wares permeated the air, mingling with the cheerful haggling. Weaving in and out of the throng, I hurried over to the food stalls section. Bellowing clouds of smoke imbued with the irresistible aroma of Asian street food rose into the night air and my mouth began to salivate.

          As memories melt into ink and reconstruct themselves as words on the page, I am suddenly reminded of Lauren Elkin’s essay on being a flaneur.[10] Wandering through the streets of a city, uncovering its secrets and crafting it into a tale for the shelves. Having read Virginia Woolf’s Street Hunting, it’s fascinating to see not only the difference between Penang and London but also her contrasting writing style.[11]

          A familiar smell wafted down the street. I snapped out of my trance and made a beeline towards a stall tucked away in the corner. An old couple stood amongst bamboo steamer baskets selling staple dim-sum[12] delicacies. Noticing my arrival, the old woman hurried up to me and enveloped me into a bone-shattering hug.

          “Nai-Nai![13] Can’t – breathe –”

          She lets go of me with a laugh, grabbed my hand and quickly led me inside. As she busied herself fawning over me, Ye-Ye[14] quietly filled up a bowl and placed it in front of me with a kindly smile. I looked into the bowl to find it full of crystal shrimp dumplings[15], my favourite dim-sum dish.

          I picked up a piece of dumpling with my chopsticks and take a tentative bite, my mouth immediately exploding with flavour. The saltiness of grounded shrimp marinated with soy sauce and sesame oil contrasting exquisitely against the unique juicy sweetness of fresh prawn; a thin yet sturdy glass-like wrapper encapsulates it all with delicate pleats, creating a tasteful balance between the plainness of the dough and the richness of its fillings. Ah…heaven in a bite-size bundle.

          Ye-Ye and Nai-Nai smiled fondly as they watched me wolf down the shrimp dumplings with the same unrestrained gusto I’ve had for the past nineteen years. We reminisced about the past, laughing at funny memories whilst savouring the simple dim-sum dishes, and I couldn’t help but noticed how time had flown. Just yesterday I was barely tall enough to reach their knees; today, I stood half a head taller.

          “How long?”

          “Three years.”

          Minutes pass, neither of us uttered a word. Then, Ye-Ye gently ruffled my hair, the same way he’s been doing since I was two, only this time, the smile on his face seemed tinged with a hint of melancholy.

          “Silly child.”

          My nose soured at the affectionate nickname and I quickly tilted my head back to stop tears from falling. The stars seemed strangely lonely that night.

          “Still such a cry-baby.”

          “Am not!”

          Hastily blinking away the tears, I got up and enveloped Nai-Nai in a tight hug.

          “Take care.”

          I nodded, not trusting my voice. After a few pats, we broke apart and I turned to head home.

          “We’ll save some shrimp dumplings for when you come home!”

          I dared not look back so I raised my hand and waved farewell instead. Until next time.

          Strolling down the five-foot way, I paused in front of a pair of ventilated timber doors. Mythical creatures of Chinese folklore embellished each panel. The dragon floating reverently amongst wispy clouds, each delicately carved scale shimmering with contained power. Opposite it, perched nobly on golden branches, was its gentler feathered counterpart – the phoenix, its wings spread wide, ready to take flight. Under the moonshine, it was as if those gilded bodies were suddenly brought to life. Their once dull sheen now aglow in brilliant shades of scarlet, orange and gold, almost as if they would burst into flames at any moment, just like in the myths of old, and be reborn from the ashes.

          As I gazed at the exquisite carvings, entranced, an old memory resurfaces. Same door, same carvings, but a very different time. I was a lot shorter for one, and I wasn’t alone. The large calloused hand that held mine was wrinkled and dry like the pages of an old book. Where a finger was supposed to be was stump, the only remains of a work accident in his youth.

          I tugged at the hand and A-Gong glanced down, a gentle smile on his weather-beaten face. Seeing the question in my doe-like eyes, he laughed. “These?” he asked as he lifted me up with one arm whilst running his other hand over the carvings which glittered under the setting sun. “These are spirit guardians sent by the Jade Emperor to watch over our household.”

          “Howshowld?”

          “Family,” he chuckled and tweaked my nose. I giggled, playfully reaching out my stubby fingers to grab his beard. Still laughing, he pushed open the heavy, half-a-century-old doors and we entered the house.

          Standing in the living room, the sounds of mirth slowly faded into silence and evening sunlight was replaced with the darkness of night. Without bothering to turn on the light, I walked over to the Luohan-bed and struck a match, lighting the wooden lantern. A pool of golden light was casted around the table where a flight ticket to London sat, my passport placed neatly beside it.

          I sighed.

          Sinking down into the cushions, I glanced at the clock. Five hours. Then it’s goodbye for a very, very long time. I gazed absentmindedly around the familiar room as my mind takes a trip down memory lane: mornings sprawled across the brightly coloured majolica tile floor trying to trace its intricate patterns; Evenings spent watching A-Poh wielding her embroidery needle with decades of practiced ease; A-Gong playing the erhu[16] on peaceful nights…ah yes, the erhu. Closing my eyes, I could almost hear it. The bamboo bow strung with horsetail hair traversing between two silk strings as A-Gong’s fingers dance deftly along its slender neck producing a vast array of tunes: one moment tender and sombre, the next sonorous and joyful.

          “Mmmreeoow?”

          I opened my eyes and found myself gazing into the forest-green orbs of a young calico sat patiently on my lap. Snuffing out the lantern, I laid down and wrapped my arms around Hua-Hua as she snuggled against my chest.

          An intoxicating sweetness tickled my nose.

          I glanced over at the potted plants to find the tan-huas[17] blossoming. Head propped against the pillow; I watched as the tightly rolled petals bloom in slow motion. Its fiery red tendrils unfurling elegantly to reveal a profusion of feathery white petals, much like a swan ruffling its wings, about to take flight. In the darkness of night, its snowy petals seemed to glow from within, as if made of moonbeams. With moonlight streaming in from the lightwell above, even the floating dust particles were transformed into shimmering stardust dancing in the quiet night air.

          Yet, as enchanting as it was, I couldn’t help but remember that it would all come to an end very soon. By dawn, before the sun’s first kiss, its lustrous petals would be shrivelled up and a withered carmine carcass would be all that remains of its snowy beauty from the night before; its lingering exotic fragrance a ghost of its twilight arrival. There’s an old saying A-Gong used to describe the tan-huas blooming: an instant of beauty but a moment of eternity. Even though beautiful things don’t last forever, they live on eternally, etched into our deepest memories. Just like the tan-huas, my time left on this quaint little island was coming to an end. By dawn tomorrow, I too would be gone; and though I’d be leaving this cozy old house I called home, I’d take with me its memories, just as the scent and beauty of the tan-hua lingers on forever in the memory of all who witnessed it.

          Listening to the rustling palm leaves and soothing gurgle of running water, tension oozed out of my body as my muscles relaxed. The tranquillity of night imbued with the intoxicating sweetness of tan-huas calmed my racing thoughts and my eyelids started to droop. Just before being lulled to sleep by Hua-Hua’s soft purring, I caught sight of a glimmer of azure amongst the radiant white blooms. The fluttering of delicate wings; quiet footsteps; something warm being tucked around me; and the familiar scent of incense from eleven years ago accompanied me as I drifted off to sleep.

NOTES:

[1] Ji Ruan, ‘Reflexions’ in 300 Gems of Classical Chinese Poetry, trans. by Yuanchong Xu (China: Peking University Press) pp. 88-89

[2] ‘A-Poh’ means ‘grandmother’ in Hainanese

[3] ‘A-Gong’ means ‘grandfather’ in Hainanese

[4] ‘Jia bui lo!’ means ‘time to eat’ in Hainanese (one of the Chinese dialects).

[5] ‘Luohan bed’ is a traditional Chinese furniture equivalent to the modern sofa-bed. It is made of wood, often containing a low wooden tea table set in the center.

[6] ‘Di-Di’ means ‘younger brother’ in Chinese 

[7] ‘Mei-Mei’ means ‘younger sister’ in Chinese 

[8] ‘Hua-Hua’ means ‘flower’ or ‘patterned’ in Mandarin which is a reference to the calico cat’s tri-coloured coat as well as the fact that calicos are called ‘Yin-Hua-Bu-Mao’. The naming is also a pun and an allusion the association it has with the memories her grandfather and his favourite flowers – the tan-huas.

[9] ‘Marchnad Caerdydd’ means ‘Cardiff Market’ in Welsh.

[10] Lauren Elkin, ‘A tribute to female flaneurs: the women who reclaimed our city streets’, in Flaneuse: Woman Walk the City, (London: Chatto & Windus, 2016)

[11] Virginia Woolf, 'Street Haunting', in Selected Essays (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 177 - 187

[12] ‘Dim-sum’ is a style of Chinese cuisine that’s prepared in small bite-sized portions served in small steamer baskets or on a small plate. It is also a metaphor in this story for a Chinese saying: 麻雀虽小，五脏俱全 meaning ‘small as it is, the sparrow has all the vital organs’. Just like dim-sum, the narrator’s happiness comes from a seemingly insignificant object such as a bowl of shrimp dumplings.

[13] ‘Nai-Nai’ means ‘paternal grandmother’ but can also be used as a general reference to or a friendlier and more affectionate way of addressing an old woman which is often used to show the closeness of the relationship.

[14] ‘Ye-Ye’ means ‘paternal grandfather but can also be used as a general reference to or a friendlier and more affectionate way of addressing an old man which is often used to show the closeness of the relationship.

[15] ‘Crystal shrimp dumplings’ also known as ‘Har-gao’ are a staple dim-sum dish made of prawn semi-translucent wraps kneaded from flour. In Chinese culture, dumplings are normally associated with togetherness and reunions since the wrapping of dumplings is a group activity that is usually done with family which helps emphasizes on the sense of belonging within the narrative.

[16] ‘Erhu’ is a traditional Chinese two-stringed fiddle.

[17] ‘Tan-hua’ also known as Epiphyllum Oxypetalum is a species of cactus found in South America and Southeast Asia that blooms rarely and only at night. In the Chinese culture’s language of flowers, the tan-hua means ‘an instant of beauty, a moment of eternity’, meaning beautiful things don’t last forever but they last forever in our memories.

Author's Notes:

Back with Part 3 of the short story slash prose pieces from uni series (this part was also written in second year lol) The story is back to the present, picking up a year after that rocky start in Part 1 and A-Yun is now in her second year of uni reminiscing about the time leading up to her departure for the UK. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading Part 3~

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 

Since exams are over and graded and I've officially graduated, I can finally post my work online without having to worry about Turnitin picking it up as plagiarism because apparently you aren't allowed to plagiarise yourself according to university which is absolutely ridiculous but I'm not the one making the rules here so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, please don't reupload my works without permission.

[sopxhiea]

Blitz

 | “My resentment is beginning to outweigh my love.”

Alfie Solomons X Reader

The canvas was empty against the cold surface of the wood, the quiet music playing from the radio was the only noise around. The wet brushes around quietly dried down as the breeze coming from the small window filled the space with the chilly weather. The air was sharp, gentle but subtle in the way that it roamed around one’s soul.

She was quiet while staring at the empty walls. It was an early day for most of the city from what she could muster, noises of footsteps and cars outside filling her ear as a small sigh left her lips. It was cold inside, she didn’t mind. She needed the crisp air’s company to keep herself sane even if it meant that her nails would turn purple, they always did.

She sniffled, there was nothing but a light dress and a thick cardigan on her and somehow, she had thought it would be enough. She felt her fingertips numbing slowly, hurting at first even though the pain left its place for the feeling of nothing as it felt like her fingers were made of air. She didn’t move, feeling too incompetent and restless. This was nothing new but she wanted to savour the pain, remember this moment so if, in the future, a time came where she was more herself, she would have something to look back at.

It had been three weeks since he had disappeared. He didn’t say where he was going, she was sure he had either died or was close to becoming a ghost. She silently let out a prayer that if he ever came back as a ghost, he would stick around. He had broken up with her, telling her that it was necessary and he didn’t want to hurt her. She was his secret, a jewel he kept dear to his heart but he didn’t seem to have any second thoughts when he was calling everything off.

She had just stood there, speechless as her mind began wondering about how he could do this. She was more than sure he had a reason, she just didn’t know what it was. Anything, he could tell her anything and he knew this but he chose to keep it to himself. The fact that he had cancer and he was slowly dying, he kept this to himself. Ollie’s new girl and the new employees that were making a mess: he told her all of this in detail when he’d asked but when he was dying, he had just brushed it off and decided to never see her again.

In his mind, Alfie was right. This was him protecting her from any hurt. He had men protecting her and he always would have that, no matter if he was here or in a ground full of souls. Telling her would upset her at first but what he couldn’t muster is if she would break it off. His heart belonged to her and he wondered, if she would turn into a cold soul when he told her. He decided to turn into that cold soul himself, it was the safest way in his eyes.

Ever since the last time they’d seen each other, many things had changed. He had been shot and then brought back to life, he had abandoned cyril and had been staying at the place he found in Margate for the past three weeks. She had stopped painting, unable to bring herself to begin something that reminded her of the love of her life. She was his, heart and soul but he ceased to see the love sometimes, became insecure and filled his own head with misconceptions.

In all truth, she would be sad for a while but she wouldn’t drown herself in agony like Alfie thought she would. He knew her, way too well maybe but when it came to protecting her, his vision was clouded with the wrong scenarios of what could happen. She was the love of his life, he had promised to take care of her no matter what the day he had realised just how precious she was for him but now there he was, in a big yet empty house in Margate, no Cyril or his precious Y/N in sight.

She sighed, she was missing him more than she thought she would. Somedays, she regretted loving him this much but then the memories filled with his loud laughter and contagious joy came into her vision and she would regret saying such things to herself. She had stood there when he told her, storming off not too long after with no word coming out of her mouth simply because she thought that things made no sense. She hoped it was a joke, some sort of prank on her but it wasn’t when the stars started to appear and he still wasn’t home.

Long hours passed, neither of them moved from where they were sitting, miles apart but in the same daze. She wasn’t sad, that wasn’t what it was. She resented him a little, that resentment grew every time she would see one of his men guard her door and the feeling of betrayal made her chest feel heavy, he could be so cruel.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

(A month later)

The clouds slowly parted as time passed, the mixture of feeling tired and dazed could be read from her face as she sat on the chair right in front of the canvas. There was a wedding of a close friend that was coming up and she had decided to paint their portrait and an additional landscape as a gift, she wasn’t fully satisfied but it was good enough. It had been a week since she had restarted painting again and it didn’t feel too suffocating like it did before.

She was healing. It was a very slow and agonising process and it hurt to improve, to keep going but she managed it, little by little. What she missed to see despite improving on her own was the fact that he had been back a couple days ago. He was alive and well, except the scar decorating the side of his face but he seemed to be doing good despite the commodity. He meant to go to her of the first hour of his arrival but the courage never seemed to find him, it felt like he was a powerless teenager again.

Weeks passed, he would contemplate whether he should’ve gone to her house or her shop but the days seemed to pass relentlessly before he could make a decision. That day of the wedding, she was supposed to get ready with the bride as that was the request, she didn’t decline and soon found herself in a room filled with a dozen other ladies and roses around the space. It was a lovely day, calm and sunny as the bride walked in with the dress and Y/N heard people holding their breaths, she chuckled to herself.

There were many times she had thought of how she and Alfie would get married. She knew their religions weren’t compatible but she also knew they would make it work. She had dreamed of everyone coming a wedding in a big house, friends and family filling the spaces as she would stare at his loved one on that day, his eyes would only see her. She knew Alfie would’ve cried, privately if not in front of everyone and she could’ve made a day out of it.

But that wasn’t the case anymore.

A couple hours passed and she found herself in the reception, meddling with her cake as a couple girls spoke about the veil. She didn’t care and she could honestly care less but she kept up the eye contact, acting as if she really cared when in reality, she was just restless as always and a little in pain because of the heels she was wearing. About fifteen minutes later, the dancing started. She got up only to stand next to a wall for the next hour.

A couple gentlemen came up to her, offering their most charming smile and the best pick up line they were able to muster and all they got was the shake of her head and some kind yet insincere words. She decided to go for a walk, maybe have a cigar while she was at it. This was becoming as painful as she had thought it would be and she didn’t want to stand inside where every and each man reminded her of her past lover.

She was on the open field, the grass’ green colour mixing with the sky as it faded from a dark orange to blue, the ends of her dress were flying in the air but she didn’t care, she didn’t mind. The air was cold as usual, she was mad at herself for not bringing a coat but the cold outside somehow made the feeling of inner turmoil disappear for a while, it was only the breeze and her now.

She was standing next to a long tree, watching the sunset as he approached. The man getting married was a respectable friend of his but she didn’t know that, at least she pretended not to know it. She had heard about him being around and a part of her heart wanted this resentment to be over but she was still feeling betrayal in the wounded parts of her heart, she was reminded of the scars every time she tried to breathe.

She didn’t say anything as he walked closer, she recognised him from his footsteps: hard but unstable. She smiled to herself, a feeling of warmth coated her body when she smelled him around her body, the breeze and her own body were betraying her. She was supposed to forget him, never recall a memory but the wounds were still fresh, even though it had been over two months, it was still as hard as the first day for her to stop herself from anything at all.

“Y/N...” he said, his voice was hoarse and deep like usual. She hated how much she missed him, she hated how his voice made her heart feel so weak. She knew her heart was his, would always be but at times like these, she felt betrayed.

She looked at his face, handsome as ever. There was a couple new scars on the side of his face, she almost winced in pain just from seeing his beautiful face but kept it to herself. He was still the same man, with a little more knowledge and pain, but still her Alfie. She gave him a soft smile, he felt his heart melt but stopped himself from feeling anything, or tried.

“You came back...” she said, soft. Her voice was a melody to his ears, he had forgotten how much he enjoyed her voice. There was no betrayal in her voice, just a monotone melody.

“Yeah, I did.”he said, his eyes were apologetic. She didn’t care, the hurt she felt was surfacing.

“Are you alright?”she said, quietly but he heard her.

No matter the amount of hatred and resentment she felt in her heart, she still loved him. He was her dreams and hopes morphed into a human being, she would always love him. It didn’t matter that she felt her heart being thrown into a corner when she saw him, and with a new scar on the side of her face. He was still handsome regardless. This was also her heart betraying her brain.

He almost scoffed, why did she still care about him? He had broken her heart and disappeared all in the same day but all she did was to ask if he was okay because apparently, this was all she cared about. He thought that she looked beautiful as ever with the dress she was wearing, she still managed to take his breath away.

“I’m fine, yeah..” he murmured under his breath as their bodies faced each other under the sunset. “Been better though..” he softly said, the tone of his voice was enough to make her smile.

There was a man she came in with, James. He was a businessman from London, well known and quite the catch for some. He had asked Y/N out on many dates and she had accepted to come here with him, the loneliness wasn’t cured still but at least he would take her home that night. Alfie knew what was going on, from the way they danced inside and how James looked at her. She wasn’t dazed by him, simply a little entertained but not enough.

While she took a good look at his newly found scar, hands on his beard, he enjoyed the feeling of her soft hands while it lasted. He thought this maybe the time to talk to her, she was busy and the last time he wanted her to speak. it hadn’t gone so well and this time he wanted to hear her.

“Dove..” he said, her eyes flickered on his for a second before he continued speaking. “I’m sorry, yeah, It wasn’t right for me to leave that way.” he said, waiting a while as her hands left his face. She leaned back on the tree, eyes never leaving his as she took the time in. She sighed, she hoped her heart wouldn’t betray this time again.

“What happened?” she asked, simple and clear. She needed to know what actually happened so that she would calm the anger down in her heart.

“I......was sick,yeah.” he said, meeting her eyes of worry as she wondered. He had been sick?

She had realised his tired antics and a few new scars gathering around his chin but didn’t say anything. There was times when he would come home with open wounds and bleeding so she didn’t pay that much attention to it, she should have.

“Sick?” she whispered, she was afraid of what he was gonna say but she needed to know.

“They told me, right, that I have cancer of some sorts..” he said, casual and calm. She turned to face him, a wave of shock in her face.

She felt her blood boil this time. He was all he cared about and he hadn’t told her that he was dying, actively and slowly dying. Was it her fault? Maybe she had been too fragile to him and now he thought, if he told her, she would be too unstable. There were too many things going on in her head, so many thoughts filled with worry and anxiety for him.

She could’ve said anything, about how restless the nights had been and how worried she had been. She was angry, tired and confused. Why was he dying? Why was it him? She felt like she’d been left out of something, something important and maybe it was her fault, Had she been too careless?

“My resentment is beginning to outweigh my love.” she whispered.

It was the full truth. She loved him to death but being left out of something like this, she felt so betrayed, even more so than before. She didn’t blink, obvious anger in her eyes as Alfie stared at her, digesting what she had just said.

“I....I wish I didn’t love you so much..” she said softly, hands thrown up in the air while she waited for him to speak but he didn’t. He looked at her like a puppy, he hoped she’d take him back but a part of him also knew that train had left.

She still loved him, he said to himself. And she did, desperately and vulnerably. She loved him to a point where she would leave everything, everyone for him in a heartbeat. He looked at her, taking a step closer and taking her hands in his.

“Dove, I....” he said, not managing to get a word out and before she knew it, her hands were not in his anymore.

“Alfie..” oh how he missed his name coming out of her mouth. 

“I’m gonna go inside now, I will stay for a while and the nice gentlemen inside will take me home..” she said, close to his body as he pushed down the urge to kill the guy inside. “..tonight, you can come by my house. We will talk but for now...” she breathed out, feeling like she was doing a mistake but it didn’t matter. She wanted him back but slowly. She was gonna make him wait this time, it wasn’t going to be easy to let him in.

“I need to think....” she said slowly, letting his hands go and walking as she whispered to him one last time, “I’ll see you tonight.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

If you want another part, lemme know!

[traditional-with-a-twist]

xxiv. Beauty and Her Beast

@bubblesthemonsterartist his highness the first prince would like to neither confirm nor deny your allegations of sneaky problem-solving >.>   <.<   }:)

@the-pompous-potato awwww! <3 it made me so happy that you feel for Haruka! agreed that he is way too stressed and should know better than try to solve things by taking all the blame on himself. poor guy. and Izana... yeah, he isn’t in a good place right now, no matter how much he pretends to have it all together

<<Previous || first arc || AO3 || Next>> 

Time had never passed so quickly.

The first day after Izana’s proposal, Shirayuki had forced herself to strike poses, recite lines, pace her footsteps as requested.

Meanwhile, her mind experienced all the pain of divorce from its earthly home, as her inner self cried out against the impossibility of conforming to the role selected for it.

She had dreaded, wondered, doubted, and fixed on no answer to the maze unfolded before her.

She could devise no escape. 

Her spirit beat against the walls, dashing from one corner to the next, bruising itself in hapless search for an opening, while her bloodless face assumed its expressions, her wooden limbs their positions, with all the grace of a carved doll.

...

Where could she find release from the obligations that entrapped her, the obstacles that compelled her to walk a crooked path towards an unwanted future?

All day she fumbled through her duties, drawing ire from those near her in station and frustration from those below. Tension ran high with the hours before the ceremony fast elapsing; the princess was not the only one who felt the pressure.

Only two other souls knew of the additional trial she faced, and both were absent - one, mercifully so; the other longed for, but unseen.

...

She yearned for Obi, for the warmth of his presence, the reassurance of his touch, the relief of hearing his voice and knowing he was well -- but she feared it, too.

He might look on her differently, might be cold, distant, or even dark - the gentle, teasing mischief of his face shut off from her by an impenetrable shadow.

She felt half-convinced it would be better if she did not see him...until the late hours of the day, when the possibility became a certainty.

Then the blow of disappointment proved all her fears false: She regretted his absence and reproached herself for wishing it.

...

Now it was late morning, the second of the allotted three days fast expiring. She lay on the floor of the greenhouse, searching the glass panels above for an answer as yet denied her.

Shirayuki had solved an intractable problem in this way once before; it was on these grounds that she excused herself for straying outside the orbits that defined her new existence: the office, the desk, the hall.

The inexorable movement of the sun overhead warned her that her transgressions multiplied the longer she persisted in her idleness. 

The part of her brain that caught and restrained details like a tourniquet reminded her of each scheduled item on her agenda as she bypassed it: breakfast, fitting, rehearsal...and still she lay, unmoving.

...

Before her mind’s eye danced images of the future that awaited her. She pictured herself: elevated still higher, to the premier place in court, standing at the first prince’s side.

Was there anything in his manner that suggested they might be united in anything congenial as friendship, sharing at least a passion for the good of Clarines?

She feared Izana had never looked on her as anything but an obstacle, a complication, an anchor weighing down the ship of state in its precarious journey.

...

Nor could any fancy deceive Shirayuki into believing that he had conceived a baseless passion for her, like the Prince Raj of old.

If not beloved, what could she be to him?

It taxed her to imagine coming close to this man, in his tall, awful splendor - so like and unlike Zen.

...

Once she had experienced something like it - her only point of reference in this mental journey through a landscape as blank and forbidding as the frozen tundra.

It had happened that day when Izana conceded defeat - or rather, a strategic withdrawal. He had retired from the field of their first engagement with a salute: 

Quick as a striking hawk, the prince had stooped and left his mark on her.

...

Shirayuki tried to relive that moment now, to put away from her the near impressions of Obi’s restrained energy, to bypass the treasured memories of Zen’s caresses, to experience again the sensation of unexpected intimacy with a strange and dangerous man.

Izana had kissed her, and she had felt - what?

Her body tensed even in remembering it, even though so much time had elapsed. She had cringed; she shrank back with the natural desire to protect herself from his advance.

What should she say to a lifetime of such moments? How could there be union between two natures so unlike?

Even though her eyes were already closed, Shirayuki flung an arm across her face, as if she could deflect the possibility like blocking a burning sunbeam.

...

There under the warm shadow of her arm, a different picture took shape: eyes the color of honey and a smile that melted like copper in the flame, bending near her.

Obi had held her, comforted her in the moments when she felt most alone.

He looked at her with love in his eyes - a love that smoothed his roughness and gentled his edges. It was quiet, nearly invisible when she forgot to look for it, yet insistent.

His love had taken the shape of a need, as tangible as her need for closeness and stability, a call that she felt beholden to answer.

...

Now entered the frost: blighting, scarring, disintegrating every fragile evidence of the tenderness budding between them.

Would she abandon Obi when he found himself most helpless to resist?

Her spirit rebelled against it. Her mind strained for a remedy. Rolling onto her side, Shirayuki curled into a ball and pressed her face into her knees, trying to think.

...

In Tanbarun, she had built herself a happy life: longtime friends, beloved patients, a promising practice. 

It had all weighed less than dried leaves in the scales of royal justice.

She had known of only one path, only one chance: to leave everything behind and hope for something better on the road.

...

As it turned out, she had served Zen with her anonymity. 

Her faceless neutrality had freed her to venture where he could not - from the height of a tower to the depths of the lake.

Now she found herself entitled nobility, a castle insider, a princess-that-would-have-been.

Could she not serve Obi with all the trappings of power and prestige that she had earned in the quest to prove herself worthy of a place at Zen’s side?

...

As much as these roles and their attendant obligations fettered her, they must also empower her.

Surely as Friend of the Crown of Tanbarun, royal pharmacist, intended second princess, her voice would be heard if she raised it to protest an injustice.

And if not?

If it was all in vain, if her objections sounded no more than the thumping of a bird against the glass, then at least she hadn’t lay down and allowed the wave to pass over her, with no concern for the other lives it might wreck.

...

With this thought, Shirayuki roused herself.

The smoke and dust had cleared, revealing the mission at the heart of the disaster.

She got up, dusted off her skirts, and straightened her hair, girding herself for battle. Obi’s smile - the special one that he saved just for her - would be the standard she carried overhead.

It was time to give Izana her answer.

[hollywoodhangar]

5 things!

Tagged by: @silvcrreaper! thank you, dear! :’D this is a really cute meme! I’ll probably use it again in the future bc of that tbh. I’d like to do a lotta characters. Tagging: @mettatoniic / @corviudex, @wcrldlyadventures​, @tcthinecwnself, @scwewywcbbit, @wabbitseezun, @couragelinked​, @contractualsarcasm​, @heedingcalls, @bloominghands, @fairestfall, @blackstardiopside​ / @hellhogged​, & you!

doing this for red’s hardcore over-a-year fixation seriously this woman owns my ass at this point hhggh this thing got way too long!!

CLAUDIA P.

5 THINGS YOU’LL FIND ON HER PERSON.

Her mother's broken pearl necklace. It's very near and dear to her, she's held onto it like a security blanket as well as a trinket for luck & protection ever since Lord Phantomhive whisked her away to the estate. She keeps them safely tucked away in one of her hidden skirt pockets! Those of supernatural origin that are able to detect magical objects can sense there is a Divine blessing on it; it’ll never be lost to Claudia, and those who mean her ill-intent will have their hands burn when they grab at it - almost like they stuck their hand in flames. It’s a precious thing that Máire [ her mother ] has long since used in her prayers specifically to Brigid ever since she was twelve, so it’s instilled with her blessing! 

Her axe. Even when she’s retired, the Countess keeps her silver axe on her person just the same; tucked away in its renewed sheathe that’s hidden under a flap on the back of her dress [ fun headcanon: while undertaker takes his sotoba up from the top of his collar, she pulls her axe down from below ]. Divine magic also touches this weapon; a blessing from the Morrígan in which the blade is kept heinously sharp so long as she gets some sip her blood tribute, absorbing the splatter and gore through the axe’s silver surface and leaving it pristine. Should too long go by without it having a taste of blood it will begin to dull rapidly for the amount of years its gone untouched, but fortunately the Phantomhives never seem to run short of assassins, hitmen and abductors. Her Divine continues to be pleased.

An emerald poison ring. Silver, classy and adorned with the head of a wolf opening its maw to hold a shiny emerald. No one'd expect such a beautiful big gem hides such a heinous poison beneath! It looks pretty neat when she pops it open and the poison pours out of the wolf’s mouth.

[ Enchanted ] Skeleton key. A simple-looking golden key with hidden runes that activate when inserted into magical locks its made for, but it functions like a normal key as well. This key will open absolutely any door in the Phantomhive manor [ unless Sebastian’s room has the same thing going on! ] as well as the invisible locks she has guarding her forest altar. This is also the only thing that will open all doors leading into her bedroom [ the hallway and the balcony ] as those locks are spellbound to react to only the key itself. Vincent’s always tried to pick his way in but could never quite achieve it! I like to think he inherited his mother’s mischievously nosy curiosity. 

Her black choker with a deep green brooch embedded in its middle. It hides the scar paved along her throat from the attempted assassination. Don’t want anyone seeing that, especially not family. v_v

5 THINGS YOU’LL FIND IN HER ROOM.

Her bed, of course! Mahogany framed. It’s enormous, as to be expected for a Countess. It’s extremely soft, easy to sink into and piled with many lace-ended pillows. Heavy, wool-knitted beige blankets lay over the very top, plush to the touch and covering the white and green sheets beneath it. Deep green curtains with leaf embroidery are tied to the bed posts with dark brown rope, and close all around the bed when Claudia turns in for the night -- except for the curtains at the foot. Those stay partially open to absorb the heat from the fireplace. As for the back of the bed, she built it herself! It has an enormous, full-length mirror installed into its wooden frame and a long, smooth surface below for convenience. It has two lamps at both ends that are within reach. 

Lovely mannequins. Rested next to the balcony are two simple manniquens. One is the bearer of her Brigid cloak, the hood pulled up and draped over to obsfuscate the face. Its arms are stretched forwards, hands splayed up with the ceremonial cloth and ropes used for Claudia’s handfasting ceremony; the pearls that were wrapped around all that hanging from its neck. Opposite of that is the other manniquen. Covered with a deep, dark duster, a peasant blouse, tight black pants and thigh-high boots give off a familiar visage of the Countess during her Watchdog days. Around its waist hangs a very intricate rich brown leather belt with lots of slots in it, weaponized chatelaines and satchels with golden clasps - and a golden wolf head as the buckle in front center.

Secret compartments. Many secret locked compartments in the walls she installed herself [ ^ that can only be opened by aforementioned skeleton key, or a very determined and powerful supernatural force ], hidden behind landscape portraits and animal print wall tapestries. She keeps various things in them: Tonics & Poisons. These are very rare breeds of both, being highly efficient in what they’re made for specifically. There’s vials of strange-looking gnarled roots and various colored liquids stored in here as well, along with herbs (??) hanging from the top. Inheritance. The late Lord Phantomhive left Claudia a fortune, most of which she sent to charity, but kept her own sum for emergencies sake. But that is not all he left her; there’s a small pile of letters, some opened, some remaining closed with different seals. There’s also an envelope in here for Claudia specifically, opened and re-sealed. What’s inside is information concerning safe passage to a number of locations and a list of names. Near the very end, the Lord gave Claudia a way out if she ever felt the need to flee from the Phantomhive title; she’s the only blood left. He would not hold it against her to forfeit the Watchdog title, he’d be dead - he has no reason to care for anything at that point. It’s a very bittersweet gift Claudia’s gone back and forth more than once and plans to hand down to the Undertaker “if I go before he does”. She trusts him to hold onto it and give to any Phantomhive who starts feeling pushed to the brink. Altars. A small altar for each of her Goddesses exists in the walls, in twin compartments side-by-side, their doors marked with the carvings of an anvil and a raven. Brigid’s altar is warm, decorated with handmade trinkets and rolled up drawings. The Morrígan’s is dark, positively dark and dimly lit with this very small icy blue lantern that hangs from the top, and the rest of it is decorated with fans fastened from raven feathers and odd white-crimson candles -- that contain her own blood.  Memonto Mori. Death has been embraced around Claudia for so much of her life, so she’s dedicated her own reminder of that in a “.. yet I survived” way.  Mementos from the Famine in the form of mothbitten fabric from the nightgown she wore that entire time and a lock of hair that had fallen out, from the first attempt on her life by a kidnapper in the form of the rusting gun he had and the bottled flesh & muscle she tore from his throat that earned her the title “Wolf of Winchester” among the Aristocrats of Evil, from the nigh successful assassination in the form of the bloodied gown fabric and pressed white roses that wear dried crimson on their petals. There is nothing for the Phantomhive Fire. This rebuilt manor is a jarring memento mori of its own now. 

Cherry wood bookcases. It is stacked with books of worldwide mythology, folklore, natural remedies, strange leatherbacks, and lots of journals Claudia’s written personally over the years. There’s pictures of loved ones wrapped in oval-shaped, polished wooden frames, a lot of old wooden toys she made for her progeny that they’ve grown out of, a black onyx hand with all fingers lined with rings she made herself and holding an ornate athame. Currently, “Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus” sits with a long brown & white feather serving as a bookmarker. 

Urns. Three very precious porcelain urns that are specifically customized to fit the lives they belonged to: Vincent, Rachel, and Claudia’s seven hounds. While she drew the designs for Vincent and her hounds, she let Rachel’s parents decide how they wanted their daughter’s urn handled. She passed the drawings to the Undertaker and he made them to perfection. They rest on the previously mentioned bookshelf, side-by-side in a very gorgeous center display, with fresh white roses, rosemary, gladiolus & lilies from the garden surrounding them and small lanterns constantly providing a low, gentle golden light. There’s candles that have been melted to their hilts and others that are brand new.

5 THINGS THAT MAKE HER HAPPY.

DOGS. 

Mythology. Mythology and folklore have always been incredibly fascinating to her! They can easily eat hours away as she delves herself into learning more and more about them and re-reading the ones she already knows.

Family. I've said it once, I've said it twice, Claudia's a woman who adores to be surrounded by family. Her attempts to convince the Midfords to join with the Phantomhive household have gone shot down by both her grandson and her daughter. One day she’ll prevail. One day. She won’t but she can dream of having a full house again, let her dream.

The countryside. Honestly, the fact they live here instead of in the city was something of an immense comfort to Claudia because it’s a little reminscent of Donegal. She regularly takes Gelert for a walk and finds a nice green pasture to just sit in for a while and enjoy the wind. It brings such a huge wash of calm and relief and what she turns to when feeling absolutely stressed, anxious or angry. Her natural dopamine hit!

Sweets. The Countess has a bad sweet tooth like her grandson and loves to eat sweet things, including things of her own baking and creating! Wave any delectable sugary sweet before her face and you have her attention - not her compliance, but her attention. [ 1v1 phantomhive discourse is continuously stealing the other’s treats. she doesn’t even recall who started it but it is an on-going War. ] 

5 THINGS SHE'S CURRENTLY INTO.

Infinite woodworking! She has several projects going on at the moment, one being a boat and another being a marionette bitter rabbit she’s eventually going to get around to painting. Both gifts!

Foraging. Sure she can easily send the servants to buy this stuff from the market, but she likes to retrieve them herself. There’s a lot of berries and edible/medicinal plants in season right now and she’s pretty happy about that. :) Mulberries galore.

Reading. Very good exercise for her brain as she’s getting a little more forgetful in her old age, so keeping it busy with things like this strengthens her mentally. At the moment she’s not only reading Frankenstein, but she’s also reading about Japan mythology! That, and about strange monsters & creatures encountered at sea, actual accounts taken down by the author of the book who interviewed many-a sailor. 

Hunting. Not only does it give her a grand excuse to get out of the manor, but she needs to keep her archery sharp and Gelert in shape. 

Summer Games. Speaking of which, she has a title to defend! Sporting events are beginning to ramp up and the Phantomhive name continues to hold first place in the Archery branch, much to the chagrin of many who try their aim & speed against the Countess And Lose. Also, the events are always a bunch of fun to take part in - she’s dragging along anyone available.

5 THINGS THINGS ON HER TO-DO LIST.

Finish the on-going "Misfortune's Way" Funtom board game with Ciel. [ Ciel: 9. Claudia: 9. Neck-to-neck. Who Will Win? ]

Continue work on the boat she's created for the Midfords. She needs to finish carving their family crest into the right side of it and hollow out the rest of the bow. So much work to be done! But four months of blood, sweat and tears are going to pay off. :)

Fix that TERRIBLY painful floorboard her foot keeps hitting. It's been on this list for about a week now. She keeps forgetting or gets sidetracked! She’s getting a bruise. :( [ have tanaka do it? no no, she lets that poor man rest now. have sebastian do it? not a chance. "Are ya daft!? I ain't about to have that damned vulture creepin' about my own private quarters." ]

Pack up Tanaka, cook some food [ avoid bard. he always offers, she always declines after he set a strawberry cobbler she requested on fire right before her own eyes, and then proceeded to catch a portion of the kitchen on fire. she was so stunned she didn’t even notice Sebastian come in and bat out the flames LMAO. ], make some tea and head out with Gelert to her favorite spot to chill in the countryside and soak up the rays of Summer. She’s been so much colder than normal lately and needs to a b s o r b s u n. It’s Summer! She shouldn’t be freezing this much! [ although it is funny to put her hand on the back of people’s necks when they complain about the heat and watch them flip ]

Commune with the Goddesses at her forest altar. Bring the landscape painting she’s done for Brigid, bring the bloodied clothes of a fallen enemy for The Morrígan.

[idealistsinc]

08 // clamor

wc: 1,224

The smog lie like a violet pall over Fogfens. Yesugen stormed from the gates and stood out on a knoll, shaking, till at last the blindness of rage passed from her eyes. Before her unfolded a landscape pockmarked with crystals, the earth a ruptured, harrowed field where only morbol seedlings could grow; beyond, the hulking carcass of the former Castrum Centri rippled like fire in the eerie-half light. A wasteland. Ironic how such a place could make her long for the inhospitable grit of Thanalan, the gentle burble of Nophica’s Well below the bridge as she hiked the road to Horizon, the texture of a stone floor in a Goblet armoury — those simpler days when she was just going to bring Oryokuln to Eorzea.

Somehow, that had been the easy part. What Yesugen hadn’t accounted for was what came next: the clamor. The outrage. The struggle of forging a life for a tribe out of shoestrings and pig iron.

“Cheye, you’ve changed a lot.”

She drew a measured breath, touching the raised scar at her throat — and then choked on Mor Dhona’s mephitic vapors.

“Cheyesugen?” said a voice.

Erdenechimeg Oryokuln shuffled out the gates of Revenant’s Toll. Though her hips never aligned quite right anymore, she had as regal a conduct as ever, her gray hair pulled tight from her face and her horns gleaming with the oils Isha’a had brought for her age-dried scales. Yesugen willed the pit of snakes in her stomach to settle.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Dene,” said Yesugen gently, dipping her head. “The ground isn’t even.”

“Pah. If a fall from standing on my own two feet does me in, it’s my time to go.” Dene squinted at her hard. Yesugen resisted the urge to shrink. “You shouldn’t be out, either. This weather’s not good for your throat.”

“I’m just...getting some air.”

“I can’t imagine why,” she said. “It’s not as though you and Arasen were howling at each other loud enough to bring the roof down or anything.”

Yesugen did shrink, then. “You heard that?”

“Who didn’t?”

Arasen had cornered her after her shift at The Seventh Heaven, aggressive, exhausted, pinning her against the building with hands that bled from the work of construction as he snarled, “Do you abandon your people so easily? You’ve already replaced your father — why not the rest of us?” She hadn’t been afraid of Arasen, then, though in retrospect perhaps she ought have been. Instead, staring into red-rimmed eyes, she had thought about what the blood had looked like when it pooled on a metal grate, and something in her had just gone, gone off somewhere else while her body stayed and screamed. To be honest, she didn’t remember any of what either of them had said — only that eventually he’d let her go and she had come out here, with the vaguest sense that if Khaizo saw her like this, the thing that’d lurked in the room with them since she cut her hair would all at once come out.

“I’m sorry,” said Yesugen. “I’ll handle him.”

“I think perhaps you are already handling enough,” said Erdenechimeg. 

Yesugen was khatun in name only now. But that didn’t absolve her of a certain responsibility to her tribe, regardless. She had ferried them away to this place, allowed them to offer their lives to hold in her hands, and abandoned them to their own devices in a foreign land longer than she should have; she would not make the same mistake twice. Much had to be done to soften their landing: Eorzean to teach, gil to earn, boots to craft for little boys who were already shooting up like weeds...and an angry ex-conscript to manage. A man she had failed to save before the Garleans stripped him of his tribe, his friends, and his very sense of self.

“I will handle him, Dene.”

Dene looked at her evenly. Yesugen lifted her chin, reaching for the natural authority her mother had always embodied so easily. “I’m sure you will,” she said, finally, in the way of a parent acquising to a stubborn child. “And in all that handling...will you ever have time for what you want to do?”

What I want? thought Yesugen, stunned.

In the Ghimlyt Dark, she had survived because of a vision of falling stars. Their light had blazed across her mind’s eye like a brand, and she had known, even before she knew the name of what had been done to her, that things could never be the same again. She had been chosen for a duty to her new homeland, to live and die in the service of something greater than herself — to be, as it were, the kind of person Eorzeans tended to call a Warrior of Light.

Except...

“I am — afraid.”

Say she could have what she wanted. Say she could go back to Ul’dah, could fly Alga across that tantalizing stretch of open blue sky — could race chocobos again, visit Percevains and Yannick and Rosalinde, hunt puk hatchlings for Walcher in the grasslands of Horizon’s Edge, kiss Isha’a under the fronds of those gnarled and tenacious trees and let Khaizo, Khaizo who followed her to war, be finally and at last at peace. 

How long would they have before all of Eorzea burned?

The nixes croaked in an unpleasant chorus somewhere from the bog.  “What I want doesn’t matter,” she said.

“Oh, none of that, Cheye. You have desires and dreams as much as anyone.” Dene steered her chin so that Yesugen was forced to look at her, her gnarled fingers belying a strength that befit a woman who had once been the Oryokuln’s finest huntress. Even in her softness was a kind of steel. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be your mother’s daughter.”

Yesugen could have laughed, if she didn’t feel so much like crying. “My mother? But she — she gave everything for Oryokuln.”

“Yes,” said Dene, “but she also defied it at every turn, didn’t she?” She paused meaningfully, her silence saying what all the words in the world could not. “Like you will, khatun.”

One year, at the height of summer on a peak of the Fanged Crescent the Oryokuln called the Stairs of Azim, Orbei had taken Yesugen to the summit and pointed over the gently rolling foothills where, in the blue distance, a ribbon of water shimmered. “The One River,” she had said, the wind high in her hair and the sun bleaching her hair gold. There was always something about her mother that made Yesugen think she was happiest in places like these, standing on the edge of a universe. “Never forget that there are people out there, Cheye. A whole world — but the world won’t wait for us.”

She never could have known her words would be prophetic. Her mother, who wed a Doman man and had a half-Raen daughter to the outcry of the tribe. Her mother, who died when the world came in and chewed them up in its teeth and so didn’t live to see her daughter bring Oryokuln into history’s eye. 

Perhaps it was a great thing Yesugen had accomplished. But as she suddenly started to weep, with a weary and dire sorrow, what Yesugen said was,

“I — I just wanted to go home.”

[annatao]

Creepypasta: The bloody judge

Kira was born in an ordinary family, her mother worked as an accountant in a small company.Kira did not even know her farher. Since childhood, the girl was one oddity in games- she tore the doll's head, put them over the experiments and laughed and played with them making crazy eyes that frightened her mother and brother. When Kira  was 13 years old,  suddenly died her older brother from a stroke that affected the psyche of girls. When the girl was 18, she moved to another city to her aunt to study time because it was not convenient to travel from one city to another. The girl has long fascinated stalker's life and has been many times at different gatherings, where she went to many places, down in the abandoned caves, bunkers, but it was not enough of the adrenaline. One day, for the next gathering, she met a guy named Alex, who was soon replaced by her older brother. After about half a year after they met, Alex was gone and now her main gole go to Pripyat and find her friend. Soon she came sms from her friend Sveta. She met Sveta  in college  from 1 year of study:

C: hi, Kira! I've something heard from  our old friend . A week later, they were going to Pripyat for a tour, but they were for the complete collection is missing two people.Do you wanna go?

K:why not? I do.

C: is great!  do not worry, all paid for, just two people refused to travel for whatever reason, and asked to give the tickets to someone.

K: well, thanks for the info

Kira  knew, it her only chance to find out what happened to Alex. Suddenly, she came to the phone SMS "help me." She is very surprised, because SMS came from Alex, but she knew that his phone is broken and lying in his house. Shrugging, the girl went home and decided to walk up to it through the forest park.  Kira entered the park with the last rays of the sun. At this point, she felt at ease the soul that seemed strange to her. Before leaving the park, she stopped and looked up at the sky, when suddenly something flashed in the bushes, like a bullet, and then there was quiet melancholy sound. On guard, the girl slowly walked out, looking around, until she again to heard rustling in the bushes, but this time the sound was close. Major tremors ran through the girl's back and out of the bushes came a quiet, but like a dead voice whispered something. For the first time the girl was scared and started running away towards the house. Arriving at the apartment and going to her room, she slammed the door, threw her bag on the floor and sat down at the table of the small workshop, where she collected all sorts of stuff for hiking or just what comes to mind. Breathing heavily, her eyes ran in panic across the table, and her heart was beating so fast and hard that smacked into her eyes. Gradually, the panic began to recede, her eyes began to complain of fatigue and lack of sleep, her body relaxed and leaned against the table. She close eyes and under the hum of the old table lamp quickly fell asleep.

A week has passed. Long-awaited day of departure is came , and her last free hours she decided to clean up in her  workshop. By removing unnecessary details, she found her first pictures with Alex, she made it on the  first joint gathering. In the production of parts and tools for their "products",she found it at the gatherings , or she worked as all. Knock at the door. Sveta, joyful impatience, came  into the room with stuffed bag . She looked and put the bag on the chair:

C:Are you ready for the tour? What are you doing again?

K:N-nothing -Kira quickly removed the photos and put them in a bag next to the clippers, -just... it does not matter...

-OK

The girl dressed in a dark blue turtleneck and black pants with the dressings on her legs, wore black ankle boots and took her bag with stalker's jacket swamp color. She   came out of the room, and then came out of the apartment. Arriving at the gathering place, Kira was surprised, that people were not enough, that encouraged girl, but it feel vanished. With Kira and Sveta went  Lena named Bayonet. She wasleader in own  "gang", she always yelling at everyone and commands, and if something is wrong, be ready for the bad joke of her. A few days later the group arrived in the Kiev region, and then the group arrived in a small village, where the live stalkers and ordinary people . The group approached the highest average body man with a small bristles on his face and a scar on his nose. He was dressed in a camouflage brown jacket,  dark green pants and army boots. Adjusting its hood, he coldly looked students:

-you that group of tourists?

Yes, and you are our guide? 'asked the world

Yes, my name is Joel, but my nickname Sacrum. Come on, I'll take you to the local "hotel" - a man for a moment, he looked at Cyrus turned away and immediately went into the heart of the village. The settlement was gray and gloomy, the sky in the clouds, the trees were dried and black and only looked away trees leaves. Many looked at the newcomers, some even shook his head, saying one has committed suicide, even though they just came for adrenaline. Once inside the building there were all renovated and they were soon distributed through the rooms. In the evening, Cyrus was not myself from the strange voices and decided to take a stroll. The street was dark and damp, and there was a small moldy mist under his feet. Heading into the heart of the village, she noticed that nobody around, except that she saw Lena, which is why it looked into the well. For the first time Cyrus felt strong anger and hatred from which it did not even notice as she came from behind and pushed her into a well. The sound of the water was not, and only stopped abruptly screaming Lena. I am realizing that she did Cyrus hiding behind the house and sat on the ground in tears, clutching her head.

What have I done!!? - She thought holding his head, but for some reason suddenly felt light and even joy in the soul, and his face COLOUR smile. "No, you did everything correctly .. remember that she made on one of the gatherings, when she locked you in the bunker, while you did not find Alex. You died then, and now you're the judge! Now you navedesh order!" Swept dead voice head girl, the same voice that had once heard in the forest park.

Wiping tears, she felt bad and slowly walked to the hotel through the dark alleys of the old houses. When they reached the hotel, she was somehow terribly wanted to climb through the window, rather than go through the main entrance. The house was small and, therefore, up to 2 floors, it is easily accessible. Noticing that her friend is sleeping, she tried to go quietly, but their rustle Cyrus still woke her:

K. Cyrus? why are you awake? something happened? -COH Light murmured, peering out from under a blanket.

Cyrus did not say anything, but just turned and looked wild-eyed holding a machete in his hand. Light was not myself from her eyes. A wide smile graced his face. Eyes mad at her. Cyrus sat down and straightened the tuft of her hair. Slowly brought it out and flick slashed her friend's neck. Blood warm rivulets ran down his neck. She wanted to scream but could not. The surrounding silence was broken by groaning from broken cords and larynx, and the head is not littered with hastily back dragging a body. Looking at the body of his best friend, she licked her lips, and without thinking twice jumped out the window. She knew that she could not be, and therefore went to Pripyat along the path through the trees. Despite the rather eerie atmosphere, she walked along the winding, overgrown path looking at the map of Alex. Soon, the old and mutilated trees became fewer and fewer, and on the horizon through the gray mist appeared the first high-rise buildings of Pripyat. Sighing deeply, she went deep into the dead city and listening to the silence of the night and then pierced someone's noises, strange noises, the cry of crows and howling wind. Turning the corner of a building and checked his map as suddenly blew strong and cold wind carrying with him a card.

F YOUR MOTHER !!! - I grumbled loudly Cyrus, but then it has attracted attention as someone's body lay in the middle of the dark yard. Deciding that it is the body of Alex, she hastily began to look into the pockets of the lamp, but suddenly heard a noise behind her. She turned at the sound, and not having time to investigate the situation was hit in the forehead. Sometimes she came to herself and only then she could see how it haul through the lanes and courtyards. Each time the landscape has changed but the same were only three dark silhouette.

Late at night she woke up on the floor in a dark and dirty room, which covered the small and the only honey. From the ceiling fell off the old plaster walls in rust and mold; on itself, she found a dirty robe and on his hands were wounds from needles and something else. Immediately she could not get up because of the weakness and severe headache, but most of all it struck mutilated corpse in the other corner. It was her friend at the gathering, but all in burns and stains in some parts of the body are the joints and bones covered with blood vessels, and in the eye sockets stuck small steel bars. Rising from the floor, she heard footsteps approaching the door:

Sir, we have taken samples of the girls and your guesses were not groundless. Compatibility for the experiment and the probability that it will survive 94.7%!

-excellent! it immediately to the operating table and prepare everything you need! I hope that the new drug will work this time.

A minute went into the room some people in tight suits and took the girl by the hand dragged her into the operating room, through the old rooms. Cyrus began to resist, but as soon as she left the room became howl and moan from burning on the face and legs. Legs did not obey, and she could not walk from the pain, all darkened and swam in his eyes. Woman Soon thrown on the table and its bright white light blinded, and his hands strapped to the table. After a moment, she felt a sharp pain in the eye and hand.

-Proklyate! urgently! an urgent need to remove her eye! and bring the anti-radiation drugs !!! - shouted someone's a woman's voice. The girl began to twitch convulsively, and she put a shot, causing the body stopped moving. The following hours throughout the labs heard heart-rending cries and screams. From shock and pain spasms girl's body arches and twitching, eye bleeding, and introduced pieces of wire sticking out of her collarbones and arms. Suddenly she felt the rope someone loosened his right hand. Deep in the subconscious mind remains of shouting to her that this is her chance. Gathered last strength, she pulled her hand with such force that it hit it on the lamp, which shines directly into her face. Sprinkle hail the girl's body, she was able to take the splinter and stick in your head to one of the captors, while the others fled from the room. Getting up from the floor, she managed to pull out a pair of wires sticking out of himself, but his body did not seem to listen and jerked her every move, as if she were allowed through the current is through the conductor. Turning around, she saw herself in the reflection: battered brown hair, pale skin was a cadaver in burns and red spots, bruises under his eyes and the wound .. cut from the glass went through the left side of the face and only one of its happy-cut does not hurt the eyes, but not the second eyes ... have to survive. Wiping the blood from his face, Kira took a small forceps and headed down the hallway to the main center.

-SSK5B02 Welcome! can you hear me?! - he shouted the doctor in the phone.

Do not worry ... no more and you will not hear, - he said quietly in a hoarse voice, stabbing him in the Adam's apple forceps and cut it up to his chin. Hands professor flickers on the table and in a desperate attempt, trying to strike the girl. Feeling with one hand on the table next to the folders souvenir dagger in a beautiful stand, he pulled the sword from its sheath, raised his hand and tried to hit the girl with a knife in his head. But it was too late. The last thing he saw was a disfigured face and a girl sticking a dagger that has passed through both cheeks. She slowly pulled out the knife and threw it on the floor. Smiling broadly already limp body of professors, Cyrus turned off the phone and went to the side of the corridor, when suddenly she saw a familiar figure, it was Alex, who was standing in the corridor doorway. He was terribly mutilated, just like the corpse in her room, and that resulted in the girl horror. Tattered clothes as myself flesh Man, no eyes, except that protruded vessels of the eye and red blood flowed. Beckoning for a man disappeared from sight. She did not contradict him and went without paying attention to what was already behind her followed him. In one of the corridors man again he appeared and disappeared through a small door next to the exit. Once inside and slammed the door, she found her things that were lying next to a shelf of strange cans, and on the floor littered with old yellowed newspaper. Looking around, Cyrus dressed, and taking his gun went to the wall where the jolly old newspaper about the loss. Hearing the corridor running away, without hesitation she climbed into an old ventilation shaft, and soon it was thrown into a large old container that was standing around the corner of the huge building. Ghost-not just to keep up, but only quietly whispered in a dead voice, as if hypnotizing and forced her to stand up. The girl ran away from the horrible place, hiding in the cloud forests.

2 months later

Evening of the bustling city. The woman returned home and changed into a warm home linen included TV. At that time she listens to the foreign news, especially about the Kirovsky district and how many people are missing, and then found the mutilated corpses, and some have been without golov.2 months ago great-niece was missing. Lisa many times punished herself and her passion, but the fact that Cyrus was killed - in it she did not believe. Lisa also supported his cousin Kate. Kira's mother wanted to sleep, and then completely become delirious. The woman managed to bring his sister back in order. But just a week before she died. It is killed by a drunk driver. The woman died at the scene from chest fractures. The car is too much a woman pinned to a tree that touched the heart bone.

As usual television broadcast about the economy, about the household councils and of the typical news about events in the city. Nothing interesting. Rising from the sofa soft woman went to the kitchen to make himself a hot tea and enjoy it with a chocolate cake. By putting a small ladle of water to warm up, Lisa felt strangely it seemed that the house has someone else. And someone sitting in Kira's room. After her disappearance she did not dare go there. She was afraid. This feeling is not lost even after dinner. After retiring to her room Lisa took a sleeping pill from the nightstands and taking pills fell immediately to sleep.

Deep night. Outside, the rain poured down in buckets that muffles the noise from cars passing by the house. Suddenly there was a creak in the hallway, as if someone had walked heavy quickly and disappeared into the next room. Lisa would have written off all its neighbors, if not distinct noises and chatter something glass. On the back of the woman walked cold shivers, and his heart pounding in his chest. Swallowing, she slowly stood up from the bed, and then wandered out of the room. The woman saw that the bloody footprints to drag out of the kitchen and ends at the threshold of Kira room. From under the door gap was evident that the feeble light was burning in the room. Wedding Crashers. The smell of blood, Hughes covered his nose and mouth. Approaching nearer and nearer, she heard the intruder something spends on steel that publish unpleasant rattle. Taking out a small basket of old cane invalid woman opened the door, and then froze in horror, but in her veins the blood froze. Under the dim light of a desk lamp and sat Cyrus winepress bloody machete. The very same girl was terribly disfigured, and her skin was putrid, like a dead man in the grave:

-davno not seen Aunt lysates cold voice, the girl said, and then looked up to the light of a desk lamp lit her face. The woman was frightened. No. This is not her niece, a mutilated monster. From fear female soul went into the heel, and then ran away screaming slamming the door behind him. Running out onto the landing Lisa began to type in the phone number of the police, who managed to take with them. But trembling hands as evil is not obeyed. Dialing a phone number, she leaned against it to his ear, and then became a heart-rending scream and cry, "Help!".

Come on, I'll help you-a woman's voice came from behind. Swing. Old wheelchair cane passes through the neck and out through his right eye.

Early in the morning to the home of Lisa Hughes came two police cars. Seizing a gun and shockers, police officers rushed to the staircase:

-bozhe my ...- probubnel senior lieutenant looking at the blood running down the stairs. Carefully lift them upward met with stony faces frightened crowd, which quickly fled their homes in panic. Arriving officers froze looking at the body of a woman lying in blood.

-Lord ..- nasty man said looking at the bloody inscription written by the victim's severed fingers - "witness".