#i dug my grave seven years ago

[the5n00k]

Damn this edit from like two years ago still goes hard

[roohuh]

Your Grave

Part 32 of Year Seven in Obliviate

Ominis X MC

Summary: You find Ominis digging up something from a grave

Warnings: kissing

Waking in the modest bedroom you and Ominis now share, you search in immediate panic for Ominis. The indentation in the bed where he once lay is quickly cooling. You bolt out of the empty cottage wand in hand ready for anything.

“Ominis!” You scream in panic. Only to see his head poke up from next to a gravestone. Letting out a long steady breath you laugh at the sight of the man kneeling next to the grave, up to his elbows in dirt holding a small muddy black box. The sun is not far in the sky, pink blushing clouds meander by.

“What on earth are you doing?” You laugh. Holding a hand behind his back he stands and kisses you on the cheek.

“Just some early morning grave robbing.” Craning your neck you try to see what he dug up and is now hiding. He moves his body blocking your vision while he whispers,

“Not yet, love.” Eyes flicking to the headstone you read your own name inscribed with the words “dearly loved beneath.” You sit in front of the grave, solemnly taking in the sight. Laying a hand on the smooth stone you wonder what would have happened if you actually were dead. Would Ominis eventually have moved on and met another?

“I really was dead…” you breathe. Gently Ominis sits next to you taking your cold hands in his.

“You were. We should go and see your parents today, they had a funeral for you a couple of months ago.” A pit starts to form in your stomach, you lay your head against Ominis for comfort.

“What am I supposed to say?” Brushing the hair from your eyes he traces around your face with his fingers then kisses your forehead tenderly.

“The truth.”

“I don’t know if I am ready to talk about the truth. What if they make me leave this place? I will not be separated from you again.” His arm circles your waste seemingly deep in thought. Watching his face you think about how handsome he is. The night before he had shaved his face and let you cut his hair, you did your best but you are certainly no barber, despite your best efforts he is still handsome as ever. Breaking your admiration he comes out with,

“Then marry me.” Lifting your head you scan his face for any sign of jest.

“Do you mean it?” There is a slight quiver in your voice. Lovingly he smiles, soft sightless eyes seemingly fixed upon you.

“I meant this to be more grand. You deserve the most grand of proposals but…” he reaches into his pocket producing a familiar small black box. Getting on one knee before you, he kisses the back of your hand.

“MC, I do not deserve it. I can only try my best each day to be worthy of you. But… I want to fall asleep every night with you and awake every morning by your side. I want to share my entire life with you. The good, the bad, and the mundane. I want to devote my days to fulfilling your every want, I want your dreams to be my dreams. MC, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” Opening the box he reveals a beautiful antique ring delicately made and set with a black stone. Taking his face in your hands you kiss Ominis freely shedding tears.

“Yes.” You whisper joysouly. Picking you up by the waste Ominis spins you around laughing and crying. Tenderly you are placed back upon the earth as you are peppered with happy kisses. He takes your hand, sliding the ring on your finger.

“I know this is not traditional, but my Aunt Noctua gave it to me when I was a boy, before she disappeared. If you do it like it we can…” cutting him off you proclaim,

“It is the most beautiful ring I have ever seen. Made even more beautiful by the sentimental value it holds. I will wear it with such pride.” Again and again he kisses you,

“I do not deserve this. I do not deserve you.” You put an affectionate hand over his lips.

“Ominis, I will not hear that anymore. If I say I love you it is because I think you do deserve it… I love you... Ominis I love you!” Your voice is pleading, willing him to see in himself everything you see. Embracing you, his forehead goes to yours. Your arms twine around his neck as you absorb the moment feeling as if you could die from happiness. Sebastian wonders out and groans in mock disgust at the twoof you,

“Back to the nauseating behavior I see.” Not even Sebastian’s teasing can dampen your spirits, lifting your hand showing off the ring.

“Now I understand why you wanted to hide this!” You call to Sebastian.

“You proposed already? We had a whole plan!” Sebastian chides Ominis.

“You knew about the ring?” Ominis moans his palm thumping against his forehead. Laughing apologetically you explain,

“Under your pillow is a terrible hiding place.”

“When we’re you in my room?”

“When your mother took you we searched your room.”

“And you thought I was under my pillow?”

“Well not exactly…”

“She was giddy to go through your things.” Sebastian rats you out. Shooting Sebastian a stern look.

“I did not know it was intended for me or for you to propose so it was still a surprise.” Bending down to kiss you Ominis laughs shaking his head.

“I guess I will have to love you despite you ruining my surprise.” Another groan from Sebastian.

“Anne sent me out here to tell you two that breakfast is ready. So when you are done snogging I will be inside.” Eager to tell Anne the news you pull Ominis inside mentally noting to make Anne sit and rest while you clean the dishes.

[mrcatfishing]

Grave Goods

A 2500 word historical fiction short story.

Wenna shoveled at the grave soil by the light of the moon. Her torch was snuffed out, and sat at the bottom of the burial mound. She uncovered her planks, and after removing them, she dropped down into the hole she’d made. She’d dug a pit up to her shoulders this past week, working silently every night. 

She was so close, she was sure. Dafydd had told her about a burial mound they’d stumbled on while digging a well a few years ago. These graves were the way pagans buried their kings, a thousand years ago. Wenna knew if she dug deep enough on this oddly round and short hill in this clearing, she’d find treasure.

She put her shovel into the deep, claggen soil. A crunch of something hollow broke beneath her. The air went foul and cold. She lifted fragments of bone in the spoon of her shovel, and tossed it overhead.

Wenna crouched to her knees and sifted through the dirt, picking out the bones. Three quarters of a shattered skull stared back at her. She had reached the burial depth. The treasure would be close. Her fingers connected with a thin and fine set of linked silver chains, no larger than her finest braids. She carefully lifted the chain, pulling slowly, and at the end of the silver necklace was a garnet the size of her eye.

She had what she needed. She pocketed it, and kept looking for more grave goods. As the light of dawn began to rise above the river Avon, she had found a wealth of goods.

An amber comb, a brass mirror, and three gold rings, all joined the necklace in her pocket. Her fingers ached from scrabbling in the cold and muddy clay all night, but she did not feel the pain, she could only feel giddy at the riches she carried with her.

She dragged herself out of the pit, brushing the dirt and bones back in and covering it with the wood, packing the last layer of soil on top, hiding her actions.

It was a hike to get back to her Aunt Gwyneth’s house. Gwyneth wasn’t actually her aunt, but a second cousin. She was sixty-seven, the same age as Wenna’s parents would be. Gywneth had known Wenna since she was a small girl, and played no small part in raising her into the woman she was today. Gwyneth spent every hour of the day with her drop spinner, making handfuls of thread to sell for a pittance. Every penny counted with the poverty they shared.

Wenna came off the road and towards the sad little hut she shared with the old woman, who was sitting on a small stool outside, spinning her thread with one hand while spreading a handful of wild seeds for her chickens.

“Gwyneth, you’re up early. Are your knees doing better this morning?”

“Oh na, Winnie, the ache kept me up all night. I could really use more of the rosemary oil the Chandler girl makes. It’s very good for my joints.” Gwyneth’s voice was strained, as she did her best to hide the severity of her chronic pain.

“I’ll keep it in mind, but you know money’s still very tight. I’m going to see the friar today, and ask for another kind donation from the church.”

Gwyneth tossed another handful of seeds, but the chickens stood alert, too scared to eat.

“Hmmm, what has you spooked, ladies?” Gwyneth mumbled, so invested in the well being of the birds.

Wenna smiled. Better that Gwyneth was focusing on the chickens today, rather than worrying over her aching bones, or what her niece was going to do.

The friar was the one man Wenna knew that had the money to spend on valuable goods, and the lack of scruples to get concerned where she had found them. She had given to him before a number of things found by her sticky fingers, like the signet ring of a drunken merchant, or a fine shirt swept downriver from the lord’s laundry.

The church was one of the only stone buildings Wenna had ever been inside. The only other was when she joined Prince Llywelyn’s coronation tour. The young man invited every young maiden he saw to come along for the final feast in his castle, and she’d managed to make herself look just young enough to pass. 

In comparison to that night, nearly a decade ago, this church was just another tiny shack in this poor little village. Inside it was stuffed with all manner of luxurious things. Fine carpets hung on the walls, embroidered with images of saints. Shelves were filled with gilded ebony goblets. Everything smelled of foreign spices and incenses, still lingering from the burning of the censer during the seasonal mass.

Nothing was more covered in opulence than the friar himself. The man had multiple rings on every finger, seven fine undershirts (one for each day of the week), and a belly that was always stuffed with meats and cheeses.

“Sneaking in again, are we Wenna?” he asked.

“Friar! I apologise, I’ve been up all night and my mind is no longer quite right.”

“Up all night, you say? That makes both of us. I was blessing the repairs to the grain house, forcing out the ghosts and leaving an offering for the bwbachod that were still lurking in the corners.”

“You believe in bwbachod? The little folk in the stories that play tricks on clergymen and missionaries?”

“Sometimes it’s worth giving something to a thief that may not exist, than to risk being taken advantage of by such a clever trickster. Speaking of,” he put out an open hand, “I believe you have something I might wish to purchase.”

“More than one thing, Friar,” Wenna said, as she collected everything from her pockets.

She pulled out the comb, the mirror, the rings, and finally, the necklace. The amulet still felt as cold as the grave in her hand.

“Where did you get these from, Wenna?”

“You’ve never asked that before.”

“There’s still grave soil on these. You disturbed the rest of the dead to take these. You don’t know what dark and demonic forces could be lingering in that terrible earth,” he spoke in a hushed and concerned tone, pushing the artifacts back into her hands.

“It’s just some mud. I’ll clean it off, and then you’ll see how it gleams. It’s a very precious gemstone.”

She took the necklace to the christening washstand, she poured a bit of water into the basin, and dropped the amulet into the dias of freshly poured water. The water began to boil, and Wenna pulled her hand away. The bubbles washed clean the dirt and mud, and made each tiny link of chain glitter by the candlelight.

“The water, what’s it doing?” she asked.

“There’s a demon trapped in that gemstone! It’s a phylactery, a vessel for dark sorcery. That’s why the holy water is boiling!”

Steam rose from the boiling water, and Wenna looked through the steam and saw a face hovering before her.

The face was formed from dozens of transparent layers. She could see the face of a bearded man, his face mutilated, and beneath the beard and skin, there was a skull, missing a fragment, staring back exactly as it had under the moonlight last night.

“It’s not a demon, it’s a ghost!” Wenna exclaimed.

“Grave defilers…” the voice spoke in a raspy voice, as though they had to break through centuries of silence gathered inside their chest.

“Ghastly spirit! I beg of you, leave this holy house and move on!”

“Christian,” the ghost said the word with disgust, “After I kill the woman, I will come for you. You may be spared, if you give up all your wealth.”

“What? No! I did nothing to earn this wrath. Christ compels you, lost soul! Begone!” he shouted.

“It was your greed that brought her to my grave. You have heard my offer, and you will know when I return for that payment,” the ghost said, vanishing in a blur of steam.

The church was silent, and a chill haunted Wenna’s bones.

“You brought a restless spirit into my home, a place of worship? Wenna, I would like to beat you myself if it wouldn’t hasten the wrath of that ghost!”

“Friar, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that putting it in the holy water would do that!”

“No, the ghost was already there. Lingering around the amulet. The steam of the water merely made its form apparent.”

“So if I put the amulet back, or destroy it in a fire, then it won’t be able to kill us.”

The friar shook his head.

“No, the ghost can choose to haunt you or I, instead of the amulet. When you feel a chill in your bones, that is the ghost rooting itself to your body.”

“What can it do, when it’s haunting me? How does it kill without a body?”

“Many terrible things. Illness, nightmares, haunting visions, and worst of all, possession of the sleeping body. Now leave, before you bring any other curses to me. I must prepare for a powerful warding.”

Wenna left. She wandered down the dirt road. She had walked as far as she could, when she became fixed in place. Her feet were lead. She looked over her shoulder, trying to pierce her gaze through the air and see the spectre. She saw nothing, just a clear sky that did not match the chill of the air around her. Yet somehow, she felt the ghost staring back at her.

“Ghost. Who are you, that you would spend eternity defending a few precious items stuck in the earth?”

“Gunter the Great,” the words echoed from inside Wenna’s skull.

“You spoke of the friar’s greed, Gunter, but your greed has lasted beyond the grip of death and the wear of time.”

“Take out the mirror. Look into it.”

Wenna took the hand mirror, polishing it with the side of her hand. In the reflection, she saw Gunter staring back at her.

“That mirror was my wife’s. It was the only thing she could bring here, when her father wed her to a Roman general. When I raided the Roman castrum with my band of warriors, she joined us, and soon after I married her.”

His face was distorted in the dented face of the mirror, and it was hard to see the fine details of his expression, but Wenna could see the softness in Gunter’s eye as he spoke.

“Where is your wife now? Was she buried somewhere close to you? Is she also a ghost?”

“I haven’t seen her since the first anniversary of my death. She never visited my grave after then. A year of mourning, and she was gone.”

  “I am sorry, Gunter. But it seems you are the one stuck lingering, when you could allow yourself to move on, and reunite with her in heaven. These worldly connections are overpowering the true love that binds your marriage.”

“Heaven, bah! A lie told so men will die with smiles and have their ghosts fade without a struggle.”

Wenna ignored his rant, and with great willpower, began moving again, her feet getting lighter as she walked back on the path to the burial mound. It was a long walk, and Wenna didn’t know what to say for most of it. She just wanted forgiveness, for the ghost to let her be. What did it get, from killing her? Was it to intimidate the Friar? Was it just the way ghosts were? She had no idea.

“So what’s the point of being a ghost, if you cannot be with your loved ones. What’s so great about living in a mound of dirt for eternity, that keeps you going day after day?” she asked.

“At first, I kept going so I could watch my sons grow into men. Each of those rings was placed by one of them with a blessing. My eldest, he already had a child of his own when I died. My grandson, who left me the greatest gift of all. His comb, the only thing in the world he had to give, and he left it in my grave. I had to see how such a kind and generous boy would develop with time.”

“What happened?”

“He returned many times. His father hunted with him in these forests and they always cooked the meat at the foot of the mound, so I might join them. However, when my eldest son passed away, he was not buried with me. He was buried with his wife. My sons had all married Christian women, and they were buried apart from me. I learned this when my grandson came to my grave for the last time. He said he wished he could hunt with his son and cook it by his father’s tomb, just as he did with his father as a boy. I tried everything to get him to hear me, but I could do nothing. He was the last person who I ever tried speaking to. Until you came here.”

They stood now, at the burial mound. A slight raise in elevation, in the middle of a clearing in a forest which only the prince could hunt in. Wenna uncovered the planks, and held the rings, the mirror, the amulet, and the comb.

“Gunter, you don’t want the gold of these rings, or the glittering of the amulet. Even if the Friar gave you every ounce of gold that ever passed through his hands, it wouldn’t be worth a fraction of what you really want.”

“You cannot bring back my wife, or my sons. They are dead, converted by your clergy so their descendants will never know they have an ancestor that waits for them.”

“But now there is someone who knows your name, and your story. Someone who can bring you flowers every week, and share a meal and conversation with. Me.”

“You do this out of a fear of death.”

“And so do you! You fear moving past this realm so badly that you have stayed alone here in this forest desperately clutching to the last connections you have, rather than either letting them go or forging new ones,” Wenna said the words breathlessly, desperation clear inside her eyes, hoping beyond hope that she could convince him.

“I’ll make you the offer plainly. Either possess me now, and toss me head first into that hole, or let me sell these things, and I will return in a week's time with a warm meal.”

Wenna’s bones froze, her limbs moved without her command. She stood at the edge of the pit, and dropped the comb. Then Gunter walked her away.

“Come back tomorrow, with the best feast that gold can buy.” Gunter said.

The warmth of the sun landed on Wenna’s skin. She felt alive in a way she never had before.

[senkothewarlock]

DWC #1

@daily-writing-challenge

A twin story about Sethrak and Senko.

Day 1: Casualty & Flirt

The buffering winds swept up the large cliff face near Teerakai. Clan banners of the Centaur swayed with each gust. The ethereal groan of the air blended in with the macabre howls of ancestors’ past in the burial grounds. A top of a small rock, sat crossed legged, was our titular character, Senko. Her butterscotch fur brushed back by the gales as the piercing breeze caused her amber eyes to get wet. She pulled her silk collar up, her only conscious movement as she withdrew into her meditation.

Senko was a brooder. While the others ate and drank around the fire in the camp, she remained on the outskirts. Gazing off towards where Amirdrassil had sprouted. Her robes, still caked with gore and dust from skirmishes past, offered her warmth in place of company. She had helped to lead this caravan for three, soon-to-be four years at this point. Yet her mind still casted the shadows of doubt onto her.

A hand had been placed on Senko’s shoulder, rocking the cold steel and emerald gem forward. It was the only person to offer inner warmth: her fiancée and guiding light, Oonee. Wordlessly, she nestled in by the side of Senko, two glasses in hand as she placed one quietly into Senko’s grasp.

“Ever the brooder.” She teased, running a spare hand up her ashen fur to warm herself up. “Darling, you better not be like this on our wedding night.”

“Perish the thought.” Senko stated, taking a long swig of whatever she’d been given.

Oonee’s claws scratched at the layer of visceral that had accumulated onto Senko’s purple robes. She gave a small tut-tut as she began to flick the dried remains off of her polished, ebon nails before dusting the debris off.

“I hope you gave as good as you got in that fight, my love. These are filthy.”

Senko’s stoicism broke into a small chuckle as she glanced down at her partner, who now lounged on her lap. She took a swig and clinked glass together. Senko looked at the cleaned part of her robes and back to her lover’s eyes. No-one knew, but she had dyed her robes to be the same colour as Oonee’s eyes, a piece of her to always be at her side.

“Well, you know me…” Senko started. “Filthy robes, filthy mind.”

A small smirk broke out on both of their faces. Oonee placed a thumb across Senko’s scars that flowed from her eyes. To the uninitiated they were nothing more than streaks of mascara but to those who knew her, they were the marks of fate. Oonee broke the smirk-off first.

“I also know that you’re dirty in words and deeds, darling.” She affirmed, taking another swig.

“And what’s that meant to mean~?” Senko pressed, canting her head to the side with a sly grin.

“It means,” Oonee began, gently tapping Senko’s head. “That I would always bet on you in a fight. All those nasty tricks of yours.”

Senko took a long swig; she wasn’t one to nurse a drink. Having Fel rampage through her system at least meant that most drinks would burn up while being digested, no hangovers for this Vulpera.

“What’s got you all broody tonight then?” She was asked. Oonee pulling herself up, arm around Senko as she snuggled into her lap.

“Reflection.” Senko started, placing the now empty whisky tumbler on the rocks. “Last time I was back home was about four years ago to the month. Seven if we account for the time we missed on our ‘excursion’.”

Oonee’s ears perked up as she held onto Senko tightly.

“When you-…?”

“Yep.”

SEVEN YEARS AGO, VOL’DUN

The sand, now superheated to the point of glass, broke beneath the hurried feet of soldiers. The roar of flames crackled in the night sky. Thunder deafened by the sound of the inferno and the crackling hiss of buildings collapsing. An entire village, one of many, that had shared the fate of hellfire that night.

Mass graves were in the process of being dug as the robed official weaved through the crowd of soldiers. His serpentine frame clenching a sceptre as guards and soldiers dragged away the desiccated husks of what were once Sethrak.

“How many?” The official asked, finally catching up to the Skycarver.

“Thisss marksss the fifth village. We’re up to a few thousssand dead.”

“Zandalari?”

“No. Not even the Devoted were sssspared.” The Skycarver said, rubbing a hand across his hood.

The pair surveyed the smouldering village, once known as a jewel in the Sethrak empire, Bhani Vissak now was naught more than collapsed burrows and burnt-out houses. The fire that danced in the air had a sickly, green tint to the tips. The empire had faced setback after setback – but to lose so many souls in one night would have finally put the boot down on the neck.

“Any leadsss?” The official asked.

“Not yet, but the printsss… They look like our sssslavess’.”

The official’s focus broke as one of the bodies was carried past. He stopped the guard before placing his hand on the withered remains of a hand and slid the bangle off. His fingers shook and whatever emotion a snake had would catch in his throat. He read the name to himself, internally and externally, several times. His daughter. Dead in his hands. The golden band had burnt with the pyres, burnt onto the emaciated finger. The faint letters, written in the damnable script of the Sethrak once read ‘Sakassith”.

“Sssskycarver,” the official spoke once more. “I want namessss. Headsss.”

The Skycarver looked around the ravaged lands. The Empire had little influence, even before being eviscerated. But now? With a handful of villages and a collection of deluded Sethrak, to find results would take ages. A lifetime, perhaps. The Skycarver had to think quick. Fast. He finally drew breath to respond.

“I will sssend my ssscoutsss to look at the Devoted, it may have been an act of incitement.”

“I do not care if it wassss! I jussst want thossse resssponsssible. Dead at my feet, hung from our rocksss.” The official said, ash now staining his crimson cape.

“Assss you wisssh, Viceroy.” The Skycarver acknowledged, bowing before he ran off into the dunes.

The Viceroy glanced at the mass graves. Huge pits had been excavated around the ruins, some as deep as the burrows that were once called homes. He watched, wordlessly, as his own heir was thrown into the pits. Glass cracked beneath his feet as he walked over the scorched surface. A burrow, collapsed, breaking the silence as plumes of sand billowed up into the air.

He would have his revenge.

[cosmicanger]

Why Must Palestinians Audition for Your Empathy?

I’ve moved back to the United States twice since my birth. Once as a child, after the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait. Then again for graduate school. I’d had the privilege of a youth — adolescence and young adulthood — in countries where being Palestinian was fairly common. The identity could be heavy, but it wasn’t a contested one. I hadn’t had to learn the respectability politics of being a Palestinian adult. I learned quickly.

The task of the Palestinian is to be palatable or to be condemned. The task of the Palestinian, we’ve seen in the past two weeks, is to audition for empathy and compassion. To prove that we deserve it. To earn it.

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve watched Palestinian activists, lawyers, professors get baited and interrupted on air, if not silenced altogether. They are being made to sing for the supper of airtime and fair coverage. They are begging reporters to do the most basic tasks of their job. At the same time, Palestinians fleeing from bombs have been misidentified. Even when under attack, they must be costumed as another people to elicit humanity. Even in death, they cannot rest — Palestinians are being buried in mass graves or in old graves dug up to make room, and still there is not enough space.

If that weren’t enough, Palestinian slaughter is too often presented ahistorically, untethered to reality: It is not attributed to real steel and missiles, to occupation, to policy. To earn compassion for their dead, Palestinians must first prove their innocence. The real problem with condemnation is the quiet, sly tenor of the questions that accompany it: Palestinians are presumed violent — and deserving of violence — until proved otherwise. Their deaths are presumed defensible until proved otherwise. What is the word of a Palestinian against a machinery that investigates itself, that absolves itself of accused crimes? What is it against a government whose representatives have referred to Palestinians as “human animals” and “wild beasts”? When a well-suited man can say brazenly and unflinchingly that there is no such thing as a Palestinian people?

It is, of course, a remarkably effective strategy. A slaughter isn’t a slaughter if those being slaughtered are at fault, if they’ve been quietly and effectively dehumanized — in the media, through policy — for years. If nobody is a civilian, nobody can be a victim.

***

In 2017, I published a novel about a Palestinian family. It was published by a respectable publisher, got a lot of lovely press, was given a book tour. I spoke on panels, to book clubs. I answered questions after readings. There was a refrain that kept coming up. People kept commenting on how human the story was. You’ve humanized the conflict. This is a human story.

Of course, literature and the arts play a crucial role in providing context — expanding our empathy, granting us glimpses into other worlds. But every time I was told I’d humanized the Palestinians, I would have to suppress the question it invoked: What had they been before?

A couple of weeks ago, in a professional space, someone called Palestinians by name and spoke of the seven decades of their anguish. I sat among dozens of co-workers and realized my lip was quivering. I was crying before I understood it was happening. I fled the room, and it took 10 minutes for me to stop sobbing. I didn’t immediately understand my reaction. Over the years, I’ve faced meetings, classrooms and other institutional spaces where Palestinians went unnamed or were referred to only as terrorists. I came of professional age in a country where people lost all sorts of things for speaking of Palestine: social standing, university tenure, journalist positions. But in the end, I am undone not by silence or erasure but by empathy. By the simple naming of my people. By increasing recognition that liberation is linked. By spaces of Palestinian-Jewish solidarity. By what has become controversial: the simple speaking aloud of Palestinian suffering.

These days, everyone is trying to write about the children. An incomprehensible number of them dead and counting. We are up at night, combing through the flickering light of our phones, trying to find the metaphor, the clip, the photograph to prove a child is a child. It is an unbearable task. We ask: Will this be the image that finally does it? This half-child on a rooftop? This video, reposted by Al Jazeera, of an inconsolable girl appearing to recognize her mother’s body among the dead, screaming out, “It’s her, it’s her. I swear it’s her. I know her from her hair”?

***

Take it from a writer: There is nothing like the tedium of trying to come up with analogies. There is something humiliating in trying to earn solidarity. I keep seeing infographics desperately trying to appeal to American audiences. Imagine most of the population of Manhattan being told to evacuate in 24 hours. Imagine the president of [ ] going on NBC and saying all [ ] people are [ ]. Look! Here’s a strip on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. That’s Gaza. It is about the same size as Philadelphia. Or multiply the entire population of Las Vegas by three.

This is demoralizing work, to have to speak constantly in the vernacular of tragedies and atrocities, to say: Look, look. Remember? That other suffering that was eventually deemed unacceptable? Let me hold it up to this one. Let me show you proportion. Let me earn your outrage. Absent that, let me earn your memory. Please.

I don’t hesitate for a second to condemn the killing of any child, any massacre of civilians — this of course includes Jewish life. It is the easiest ask in the world. And it is not in spite of that but because of that I say: Condemn the brutalization of bodies. By all means, do. Condemn murder. Condemn violence, imprisonment, all forms of oppression. But if your shock and distress comes only at the sight of certain brutalized bodies? If you speak out but not when Palestinian bodies are besieged and murdered, abducted and imprisoned? Then it is worth asking yourself which brutalization is acceptable to you, even quietly, even subconsciously, and which is not.

Name the discrepancy and own it. If you can’t be equitable, be honest.

There is nothing complicated about asking for freedom. Palestinians deserve equal rights, equal access to resources, equal access to fair elections and so forth. If this makes you uneasy, then you must ask yourself why.

***

Here is the truth of the diasporic Palestinians: They are not magically diasporic. Their diaspora-ness is a direct result of often violent, intentional and illegal dispossession. One day a house is yours; one day it is not. One day a neighborhood is yours; one day it is not. One day a territory is yours; one day it is not. This same sort of dispossession is grounded in the same mind-set and international complicity that is playing out in Gaza.

I’m a poet, a writer, a psychologist. I’m deeply familiar with the importance of language. I’ve agonized over an em dash. I’ve spent afternoons muttering about the aptness of a verb. I pay attention to language, my own and others. Being Palestinian in this country — in many countries — is a numbing exercise in gauging where pockets of safety are, sussing out which friends, co-workers or acquaintances will be allies, which will stay silent. Who will speak.

Here’s another thing I know as a writer and psychologist: It matters where you start a narrative. In addiction work, you call this playing the tape. Diasporically or not, being Palestinian is the quintessential disrupter: It messes with a curated, modified tape. We exist, and our existence presents an existential affront. As long as we exist, we challenge several falsehoods, not the least of which is that, for some, we never existed at all. That decades ago, a country was born in the delicious, glittering expanse of nothingness — a birthright, something due. Our very existence challenges a formidable, militarized narrative.

But the days of the Palestine exception are numbered. Palestine is increasingly becoming the litmus test for true liberatory practice.

In the meantime, Palestinians continue to be cast paradoxically — both terror and invisible, both people who never existed and people who cannot return.

Imagine being such a pest, such an obstacle. Or: Imagine being so powerful.

[hannibalslibrary]

(Warning, Horror) Beauty In The Orange Groves

Skip, Skip, Skip under the dying tree a sight of many sights as darkness watched upon thee.

The orange groves scents and beautiful blossoming flowers the rain that day came down as it seemed an everlasting shower.

The rain fell down caressing me as the clouds hung above giving an earthly shade, horrible news would bestow upon the town that very day. I walked through the orange groves every day with heavenly smells did I enjoy as the blossoms and leaves touched me in every way. Till at last I had arrived on the edge of the town it was then that I heard the very sound.

ding, ding, ding, the church bells sang townsfolk gathered horror in their eyes but a shattered mother to my surprise. She did not live very far from me I waved at her as she passed by her daughter in hand a smile I would give and bid them farewell almost every day. I had never saw her in such dismay. She was yelling a screeching reprise, the song that sang was nether hope nor faith but a beacon asking for help.

She at once drew a half composed look like a pensioner reading an obituary. I myself was started by her look it was as if her very soul had left her as white as feathers.

"I can't find her, I cant find her, help me please." her song sang for her daughter had vanished among the trees. How could I be so naive I was always amongst them and remember her that very day when the clouds collapsed and rain collected on the ground.

At once the townsfolk scattered to gather lamps and dogs of plenty. They spewed her name Alice, Alice, Alice, for it spread through those very trees running and hurrying searching from top to bottom left and right. We searched for hours men buckled out of pure exhaustion fell to their knees. Their face expressed such grimace, the mothers hope slowly creeping and in agony diminished the moon rose casting its web of light a nocturne upon the trees a serenade on the eyes.

The townsfolk eventually retreated to there homes nothing in hand a lost hope. In their minds she was lost to the mountains after that no one spoke. Day after day another child was lost six then seven. The town had gone mad, they pointed a finger at one another one then two. Accusations of plenty before sunset the silhouette's of men swayed shadows cast upon the ground.

Newer graves dug like the homes for the roots of the orange grove trees, families split apart from anguish and fear the town mayor stripped and hung that very next year.

I took it upon myself to solve this riddle. I went fourth among the trees a day in hand a purchase I might ad that he could help solve this riddle was promised me a bloodhound the best of the best was acquired by me. The sun hung brightly in the sky, cast upon me my bones felt so dry. My companion laid next to the orange grove tree. I went to pet him so delicately It was if out of a dream my brain so hazy as if it was smothered in steam, then darkness.

I awoke hours later the sun was setting, my companion was gone but something remained, a rope to which my companion was connected to. I must have let him loose I thought to myself in my delirium. As I stood I looked at the ground next to the trunk of the blossomed tree what I saw was red, so vibrant then as I squinted I saw a bow. The very bow of the girl that had vanished that year ago. I trembled with fright almost falling over landing on the fruit that the tree bore. It split open spraying red on me. This was peculiar for oranges as I knew it did not have red juice. I took the half that was split to taste it. A terrified look came across my face, for it was blood.

I dug at the trunk of the tree and horror was thrown upon thee.

Skip, skip, skip it was her indeed that very girl that was bestowed years ago that I did in fact see on that dreary rainy day. The roots of orange tree had sunk into her corpse the eyes collapsed the roots engraved into her the soul lost entirely to this very tree now producing the blood of its victim. I screamed and my knees buckled the oranges where her blood.

I rolled trying to get up from this horrific sight, as I did I heard I heard cries and screams for they were coming up the hill for me. I was frozen in fright the crowd charging as a river smashes upon rocks. In there hands ribbons from the girls that where taken. In an instant a wave of memories came to. I had taken those girls not of will but in delirium, the screams against my ears the feeling of my hands against their neck as they kicked and pleaded as the life was released from the body. To keep them forever I had buried them and placed the very trees I grew up with placed on top of there bodies, from what was dead could become new life, a life that was the orange groves.

As the noose tightened around my neck they lay the bows of the taken 7 in total I was not mistaken. For when they pulled that lever, I had thought I was so clever. From the orange groves I could see the young and delicate trees watching over me. She was my first creation standing free, my shadow was cast upon them as I swung my creation I called her for what I had done. The beauty in the orange groves

swung, swung, swung.

(Aniol Czelusniak 12-2-23)

[diedbutterflies69]

Obsession - Hwang Hyunjin

Synopsis - fooling the most powerful mafia for almost two years wasn't bad thing , but to get caught by him was.

Word count : 3.4 k

Contains: Hyunjin x fem reader, Dom! Hyunjin, angst, betrayal, smut, fingering, choking etc.

Minors don't interact.

Spying on the cruelest and most dangerous Mafia lord was thrilling, blood tingling and dead impenetrable. 'Cause even if you were a cunning master manipulator , Hyunjin was hundred steps ahead of you .

In your fifteen years career you only made huge mistake two times. Mistake that will lead you to your grave. Getting caught. You were caught once seven years ago by a group of stupid protesters and you had two options, kill or get killed.Again today, after all this years you were caught and you had no choice but to Die painfully slow.

" What even your dickhead boss was thinking when he sent such a delicate doll like you to me? Huh, the men their had no balls or pictured me as a fucking romantic?" Hyunjin spoke sitting on his comfy chair with your phone in his hand, his astonishment increasing more each second as he went through all your messages and recordings . Even if Hyunjin won't show, he was in awe of your immaculate spying skills. You were able to deceive him for nearly two fucking years . Now, the moment your mask fell, you were bought to this place, your nightmare. Hyunjin's warehouse, you wanted to rather die than be here because here you would get your bones relocated, eyes snatched off and fingers cut off .

Hwang Hyunjin wasn't known as cruelest mafia for nothing.

You had no guts nor energy to face Hyunjin. You were restrained on the wooden chair, every single muscle in your body screaming in agony, you were damnn sure that blood in your wrists were freezed, head hanging low , sweat and blood dripping from hair strands. The eyes of people who once adored and respected you now are staring at you with pure disgust, not trying to hide the betrayal they are feeling. You didn't felt guilty but little sad that you won't see your real clan ever.

" I have been framed... I have no fucking realation with those Bangs" you screamed the same shitty lie once again , clearly knowing not even the ants here would believe you but you weren't taught to speak the truth even if all the evidence is against you. Hyunjin stormed off the chair walking towards you, rage visible in his eyes, you know this day was bound to come but now that the small part of your is beating for him, it hurts you to know how much He despise you now. Hyunjin dug his fingers in your cheeks forcing you to look at him, lips pouting uncomfortably with eyes that held no remorse, just few tears from pain , having no emotions and pretending to just see him as opponent.

" Why do you have to do this? Why you too? I never sent my men to anyone's den then why do I have to get backstabbed every single time " Hyunjin screamed his head hurting by bitter reality, his powerful persona crumbling slowly, no where looking as a boss who caught mole in his team but a vulnerable man who got betrayed by everyone countless times and at the end by his lover too.

" I get paid for my job Mr. Hwang I have no grudges over you, you fellow little sad boi . Just kill me and I hope you will stop being stupidly in love with every women who looks hot and gives you a little too much love"

You let out everything with a smirk plastered on your face And that was it. This was where your story ends you thought. You yourself got feed up with proving your innocence, it wasn't worth it, you love Hyunjin and he loves you, but you weren't livin' in fairytales being happy forever is pure hoax . You were aware of the impact of your words, he must be regretting every moment he loved you. It was all coming together in his head, why after meeting you his life felt like rollercoaster and how you were always there to save him when ironically you were the one to throw him in mouth of danger at first place .

" You still smiling? Get out of it you failed your mission , I am still alive here and you are about to die " Hyunjin spoke, coming dangerously close to your face, getting more annoyed by your heartless behaviour while, his heart was tearing apart each second.

" I may have failed as agent Blue's mission but as Y/N your once lover I succeeded in making our love eternal, I may die once but you will be forever haunted by me and love we had"

This was the real you, the one who is sick in the head , the master manipulator and lover who everyone will fear to have. It was you who jumped on opportunity in spying Hyunjin and getting into his house when no one ever dared to even lurk around buisnesses he owns. It was your obsession with him, obsessed with idea of breaking heart with Country's most fearful mafia, awakening the sadist in him for your benefit.

" My regret wasting my emotions on slut like you" Hyunjin muttered from gritted teeth, controlling his anger, fully aware of how much of fool he became in eyes of his people, who was breaking down just because of a girl , the same guy who shedded zero tears on his father's funeral.

" Sushh , don't call me that I will get needy" you whispered loud enough for just Hyunjin to hear, futher fuelling his anger. He yanked your face away, wiping off his hand like you were most disgusting object ever .

" Everyone get out, if i see anyone near this area he will get killed "

Hyunjin howled and everyone scattered towards exit in fear and soon the warehouse was dead empty. Silence thick enough to suffocate one. Now you had no idea what Hyunjin had in stored for you but you knew it won't be anything good .

" So agent blue or I might say my slut, after thinking for awhile I got to conclusion that I love you, I love you more than guns and knifes , you dieing will obviously make me a lifeless man while you will be up there laughing at me So baby let's haunt each other forever " Hyunjin said circling around you and laughing like some kind of maniac.

You don't want to die but you don't also want to live , it was like you dug your own grave with your words.

"What the hell you mean?"you asked, wriggling on your chair and throwing draggers on Hyunjin's face.

" Don't stress about ropes i will untie them for you" Hyunjin said as he got on his knees pulling out a knife from his back pocket and cutting the ropes around your ankles , this was your chance to kick him right on his face, but that would be no use as your wrists were bound by handcuffs. While you were busy thinking of next step, you found all ropes around your body disappeared all at once but your wrists were still in those darn metal cuffs. Hyunjin held you by your arms helping you to stand up , his grip crushing your bones but if it wasn't for him you would have already kissed the ground due to your stuff limp muscles.

Hyunjin pushed your body to nearest surface, hundreds of boxes hitting your back painfully. A whimper making it's way out of your lips .

"Hands up" Hyunjin commanded and you obeyed a little too eagerly, to which he can't help but smirk. As your hands rested above your head Hyunjin undid the first few buttons of your shirt, not having to do much effort as the shirt was already torn from it's end. Your heart felt like it was on fire, his touch burning your skin with desire too powerful, lust visible in both of your eyes. Your black shirt completely undone, displaying your clothed tits . Your boobs were your man's greatest weakness and it looked like they still were, cause the moment he saw them , his hand cupped them in the most sensual, ete rolling way. Hyunjin was able to wake your sexual desires like no other. While his one hand was busy twisting and gropping your clothed nipple, the other one traveled further down below your ribcage, his soft and slow touch tickling your skin. You expected some kind of hard hate sex but Hyunjin was doing exact opposite, being so slow that he was memorizing your body but whatever he was doing you liked it. Maybe he was reminding you what gentle lover you once had because the way now his lips were sucking your neck like it's honey not minding the dried sweat and blood and treating like nothing wasn't there in the first place. Your moans and heavy breathing were the only noise overpowering the dead silence .

"Hyunjin please"

"Please what baby?"

" Ruin me please"

"Oh I will" Hyunjin smiled wickedly before moving his hands further down, halting at the button of your denim, you wondered why the hell you had to wear jeans the day you got caught, it would have been better if it was skirt cause that shit will took ages to get removed or so you thought Because before you know, the denims were resting at some corner of room along with your panties. You were almost full naked and already ruined while Hyunjin looked the most elegant and sophisticated mafia ever in his black clothes. It was humiliating but it was exactly what turns you on.

" how the hell you are so wet? I barely even touched you" he palmed your pussy , your juices sticking to his cold palm , his index and middle finger parting your folds ever so slowly. the thing about your body that Hyunjin liked the most was how reactive and sensitive you were , one touch and your breathe becomes unequal and body sets itself in fire. His fingers were going in and out of you painfully slow and it was exiting but you were always greedy for more .

"Hyunjin please, faster" you begged with tears threatening to fall from frustration . You knew Hyunjin himself won't be able to continue his slow pace, cause the tenth in his pants looked too painful to ignore, if your hands weren't bounded you would have grabbed him and give best handjob ever.

" As you wish agent blue" Hyunjin said your codename bitterly, and suddenly his fingers were exactly working at pace you liked hard and fast. Your soft walls were getting the tortured it deserved, thumb circling the clit, before pinching it in most crude way possible. Your moans were nothing compared to the squeaky wet noise your cunt was letting out. Your juices were dripping down your thighs and pooled below on the floor, you were close too close now, and the moment Hyunjin put his third digit inside you, you couldn't control yourself. He was scissoring inside you in most painful and toe curling way possible.

" Hyunjin i wanna cum, Can i please please let me" you begged your words hard to decipher between hiccups and moans. During this two years you spent with Hyunjin, you had rules he made in bedroom tattooed inside your brain. The first never to cum without his permission . His control freak behaviour did nothing wrong but turn you on further. Upon hearing your request, Hyunjin deliberately slowed down his moments before looking at you with evil smile and halting all his moments, removing his digits from your needy pussy, while you look at him with frustration and disappoint.

"Sorry baby, but punishment of betrayal isn't only a ruined orgasam" Hyunjin said before shoving his fingers inside your mouth and you sucked at them without further wait. He pushed his fingers even deeper making you gag uncontrollably while simultaneously pressing them harder on your tongue, spit dripping down from lips to chin, Hyunjin absolutely adored the mess he created out of you.

" Gosh Agent Blue have some manners, stop drooling like some dog , can't you right?" Hyunjin mocked you, his words travelling straight to your cunt , making your another hole drip too. Your head was dizzy, the only thing you wished was to Hyunjin dick you down right this moment , wanting nothing but for him to use your body all over again and again.

Hyunjin removed his wet fingers from your mouth, he smeared your saliva from your one cheek to another, making you looked fully fucked up , actress straight from hard porn . You asked him to ruin you and it was exactly Hyunjin did. He mumbled something like dirty little bitch , while his other hand choked you without any mercy , white. All you can see was white stars .

" Now let's gap you down there, shall we?" The thought of finally having Hyunjin inside you sent shivers down your spine, you had no idea how your knees still didn't gave out but now you sure that you will fall. Hyunjin lowered his pants and boxers, removing his cock, as you expected rock hard and dripping with precum. Hyunjin held you by your waist, while the another one positioned his cock head inside you, pussy already opening up from previous assult . He was just halfway inside you, and it felt like you would burst from the stretch, his size always leaving you grasping for air.

" Baby still can't take me full way in without crying like a little bitch" Hyunjin spoke to himself, grunting silently as your walls squeezed him up, the pleasure already spreading in his veins, with every thrust of his hips, your body was set to fire, his clothes rubbing against your bare skin , making it harder for you to stand still .

" Kiss me please" you said inbetween your hard breathing, just having epiphany that Hyunjin haven't yet kissed you. That was when Hyunjin himself realised how much his lips have longed for yours, he wasted no time before engulfing your mouth hungrily, swallowing your moans whimpers , them moment his lips touched yours, a wave of multiple emotions took over him, flashbacks of your first kiss, dinner kisses, how tenderly you kissed his forehead every morning as the first thing after waking up. Was all that love just for show? Did you ever loved him or used him? The memories of you saving him from grave situations also replayed inside his head, you had multiple chances of killing him in the easiest way but you didn't. His lips pushed harder against yours , tongue exploring each corner.

You felt a single water droplet on your cheek, mistaking it as sweat but after breaking the kiss, you saw Hyunjin crying. You never expected to be reason for his tears , it broke your heart, hating yourself for the person you are. Why can't you both stay happy like in fairytales? Happy forever.

" I am sorry.. I am sorry" you kept apologizing , bringing your cuffed hands lower, in attempt to wipe his tears. Hyunjin cupped your jaw again kissing you harder. Fear of losing you making him go insane. Your sex going from slow and sensual to rough to emotional and just ugly crying.

" You love me right? Please say you do . Please just one time" Hyunjin asked, his voice never been so vulnerable, he was sniffing down his tears but it was impossible for him to now stop crying. He patted your hair affectionately, while searching for answer he wanted.

" I love you, I really love you, it wasn't act I swear.. " you said sobbing uncontrollably. If you knew your obsession can turn something so pure like this, you won't have jumped here in the first place, rather than seeing Hyunjin like this , you will die a thousand deaths.

"I have a plan but let's first finish what we are doing okay" Hyunjin spoke after few seconds , his voice sounding little hopeful and exited like a child. You both were too busy crying that the sexual beasts inside both of you disappeared for few minutes.

" Oh yes" you said chuckling, your hands tightening around his neck. Looking in Hyunjin's eyes before resting your head on his shoulder, lips to close to his ear.

" Make me cum , you asshole" you seductively whispered, Hyunjin sweared, he could get off only by your voice. He positioned his cock back inside you, both moaning at the same time, his grip around your hips tightened as he thrusted all the way inside you.

" You will no longer work for Bangs, you will work for me" Hyunjin said, hatred laced up heavily in his voice, While his hand travelled down your stomach, pressing it down and feeling himself inside you.

" Yes i won't, i promise" you let out , words breaking , due to constant pleasure.

" Agent Blue is dead today from now on you are agent Hyunjin's wife"

[shreddedparchment]

A World of Our Own Pt.10

Epilogue

10/11/2020

Pairing: Bucky x Reader          Word Count: 1,615

Warnings: allusions to miscarriage, LOTS of fluff, past death

A/N: I know I haven’t replied to many comments or asks from the previous chapter but I wanted to get this out as quickly as possible so that the story would be truly closed. The ending was incomplete and now it is done and I hope you enjoy this ending as much as I do. It really made me so happy to write and this is the ending these babies deserve after being blown up and deserted on an island. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Life doesn’t happen like we think it will.

We can plan and schedule and arrange as much as you’d like, but things will just not go your way.

As the ship docks, you sigh with frustration, rising to your feet to look through the porthole.

“We’re late.” You grumble, glaring at the darkening sky. “We were supposed to be here by noon. That way we had plenty of time to look around and make sure it’s safe.”

“Kitten, come here.” Bucky holds his arm out towards you without looking up from the small tablet in his hands.

There’s a weather radar on one half of the screen and on the bottom, an email. Probably from Fury.

You make a reluctant beeline for him, sitting on his lap when he urges you to, wrapping his arm around your waist.

With a lick to his lips, he puts the tablet down on the small bedside table—bolted down to keep from moving in rough seas—and brings his other arm around you.

“What did you just tell me last week?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, pretending you can’t remember.

“Yes, you do, Y/N. What did you so passionately talk my ear off and insist that I remind you, especially on this very trip, if you begin to slide back on your newest and most important—your words by the way—resolution in life? What was it?” Bucky pokes your leg as he speaks, then wraps his arm back around your waist and gives you a squeeze.

“Not to stress about the things in life that I cannot control.” You sigh. “Out of all the damn things I’ve told you, why is this one the one you remember?”

“Because you wouldn’t stop talking about it for an entire day!” Bucky chuckles. “We’re a little late? So what? We have plenty of time. This is supposed to be our honeymoon. Let’s just let go of everything and enjoy our time here.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I just…I wanted everything to be right.” You nod.

“It will be. We bought the island. They’ve been working on it for a year. I’m sure everything will be perfect.” Bucky soothes you, reaching up to rub between your shoulders. “You approved all the changes. They said it was done. What are you worried about? Specifically. Help me to understand this anxiety you’re feeling.”

You grab Bucky’s face and pull his lips to yours roughly. He mumbles against your lips, a small huff of a laugh seeping through.

When you pull away, he laughs. “Ow.”

“I just…we haven’t been back here in years, Bucky. And I want it to be safer than when we left it.”

Bucky’s eyes are full of sudden understanding.

“I see.” He gets to his feet as the large yacht finally stops, helping you stand too before taking your hand in his own. “Come on. Let’s go see it. You kept the hut, right?”

“I kept everything.” You tell him, following him along the narrow white hallway, pristine wooden floors varnished and gleaming. “I just had them upgrade most of it.”

“I like your dress.” Bucky states, giving your outfit a quick once over even though you’d been wearing it for the better part of the day.

You smile bright however, pleased by the compliment before you stop, grab hold of the intentionally designed a-symmetrical dress and swing it back and forth. It’s navy with pink pansy florals and light green leaves, the top more modest than the one you owned before. Capped sleeves and a lovely heart neckline, a very thin strip of pink lace along the hem.

Bucky stops with you, smiling at the shift in your attitude with one simple acknowledgment of your reference to your first time on the island.

“How many times did we end up cutting off pieces of that first dress?” Bucky wonders, letting you think.

“Too many.” You acknowledge. “It was more of a shirt by the time we left.”

Bucky lifts your left hand up to his lips, kissing your simple solitaire engagement ring, your matching wedding band also on your finger.

“Well, we won’t have to cut any of this one off. I promise.” He assures you then pulls you along once again.

Bucky makes you wait. He makes you stay behind as the two of you reach the deck of the yacht—the Paradise Lost as you’d named it—while he steps onto the long and reinforced pier.

It stretches out on the same beach where the cabin of the plane had once stood, now relocated, and honored on another part of the island for the lives that had been lost.

The graves Bucky had dug had been remade, a small graveyard built to give the pilot and stewardess a proper resting place.

You can see it from the deck, a little farther inland where you’d had a cobbled path built to lead to it from the pier.

Making a mental note to tell Bucky you want the Stewardess’s family invited to give them a chance to say goodbye. You’re not sure if you’ll be able to get them here with the secrets surrounding the plane, but you can try.

Bucky comes back fairly quickly and waves you over. Eagerly you make your way to him.

“What happened?” You ask him but he gestures towards an older gentleman on the beach.

“Mr. Lara wants to talk to you about the chef’s supplies. Looks like there was a delay in the shipment.” Bucky tells you, then hurries past you. “Don’t worry, I’ll get our bags.”

“Bucky, we’re paying people to do that!” You call after him, but he waves you off and you turn to meet with Mr. Lara.

The island, while still massively private, has been built up like a small resort. There’s your hut, which the basic structure is the same but to it have been added a full chef’s kitchen. Several bedrooms. A living room. A master bedroom and access to the beach and a private pier.

There’s a beach barbecue patio and lounge chairs. Hidden behind the hut right in the spot Bucky built it, is the bathing pool, now with built in filtration, temperature control and more sustainable materials so that it will endure.

Your little island, the world you and Bucky created was given a full makeover. You’d always known you wanted to come back. You’d hated being stranded but the memories and the connections you’d formed here were special.

After assuring Mr. Lara that you have enough provisions on the yacht to last you until the grocery delivery arrives, you make your way back to see what’s keeping Bucky.

You’re nearly there when Bucky’s sweet chuckle stops you in your tracks. He takes the ramp onto the pier and with his hand still extended towards the yacht, you wait, your heart swelling.

“Careful.” You tell him, but he doesn’t need you to remind him.

Into view toddles a black-haired angel, eyes just as blue as his father’s. Just as you had when you’d thought about the possibility of a child with Bucky how beautiful it would be to see a mini version of him with your temper running around, it’s just so.

You wait with patience, his legs sure though slightly unsteady. His eyes scanning the area with inquisitive gusto.

He’s only just two years old but he’s already smart as a whip and when he spots you, he gasps with excitement and as soon as his little feet hit the pier, he releases Bucky’s hand and races for you.

You stoop down to scoop him and chuckle as he laughs, wrapping his arms around your neck.

“There’s my big boy.” You coo, pressing a kiss to his cheek before he can pull away. “Where are we, Robin? Do you know where this place is?”

As he straightens up, he points towards the shore. “Beesh!”

“That’s right. We’re at a beach. This is an island, Robin.” You explain, moving down the pier with him in your arms.

“I-wan.” He repeats, then giggles before squirming from your grip. “Woah, easy.”

Bucky moves forward and stops the little one before he can run.

“Hey bud, we can run down the pier and play in the sand, but you have to make me a deal, okay?”

Robin lifts his little hand up, bent at the elbow with his palm turned up as he shrugs. “Dew?”

“Yeah. We can run down to the beach if you hold my hand. Okay? The water is very deep, and mommy will cry if you fall in. You don’t want mommy to cry, do you?”

“No!” Robin exclaims, his little face suddenly angry, eyebrows drawn down on the inner corners in an exaggerated expression. “Mommy no cwy!”

“Then you’ll hold my hand?” Bucky asks, holding it out for him.

Without another word Robin takes hold of Bucky’s hand ad doesn’t wait before he’s pulling him along as fast as his little legs can.

“Be careful!” You call after them but they’re not listening anymore.

Life doesn’t function according to your plan.

While you were planning your wedding, Robin came as a sweet surprise. You postponed the wedding and instead celebrated the birth of your rainbow. Much sooner than expected but welcomed all the same.

Then you and Bucky took time to nurture your son and the wedding was finally held only two weeks ago. Honeymoon delayed to make certain the island was safe for you baby.

And although you’re saving the news for the right time, you hope that you can convince Bucky to stay here for a while, at least until your second little one comes. Just another seven months.

[mushroom-gt]

pushing up daisies

(more silly graveyard content! amari temporarily goes vegan. thana tries to convince her to Not.)

-

In retrospect, the first sign of trouble was that when Thana arrived at her assigned digging plot, Amari was nowhere to be found. No milk-white mushroom caps poking up from the grass, no tittering laughter as she laid out her supplies, not even a “Good evening, gravedigger,” that seemed to come from all around her. For the first time she could remember since meeting the eccentric little fairy, she began her work in silence.

And that was odd, certainly, but not enough to be cause for alarm on its own. Even though somehow Amari always knew where she would be digging each night, and made sure to plant herself not too far away so they could chat, it wasn’t like Thana knew everything going on with her. For all she knew Amari was busy with something tonight. Terrorizing some poor lost idiot with a bunch of her fairy friends. Sacrificing a rat under the moonlight. Whatever rot-fey got up to in their spare time. So she didn’t pay it much mind.

The second sign that something was off was the bouquet of flowers left before the tombstone just beside where she was digging. Not weird in itself, no, except according to the engraved date the person buried there had died nearly forty years ago, and it was seven months past the anniversary. It wasn’t impossible that someone had left them there, but if they were going to go to such an effort they could have at least chosen flowers that were less… wilted.

She really should have put it together then, looking back on it, but instead she dismissed it as none of her business. Wasn’t her place to judge how others mourned. She had work to do, and standing around wondering who left a dead stranger flowers wasn’t going to get the grave dug.

What actually tipped her off was a rustling noise from inside the bouquet as she unearthed the first layer of topsoil.

It was easy from there to connect the dots, but she really did not like the obvious conclusion. Or… any of the less-obvious ones, for that matter. Best-case scenario, it was a mouse. Worst-case… She braced herself and tapped lightly against the bouquet with the flat side of her shovel. “Uh, Amari? You in there?”

Her worries were confirmed when a small voice replied, “Yes. Why?”

Great. “Okay, could you come out, then?”

The bouquet giggled, and a tiny, pale figure stepped forth from the mass of drying petals, one hand raised trying and failing to hide an amused grin. “My, my, gravedigger,” she said, “did you really miss me that badly? I had no idea I was so important to you.”

“It’s not that, it’s—” Thana pinched the bridge of her nose and gestured towards the flowers. “What exactly were you doing?”

Amari stared up at her like she’d grown a second head. “What does it look like I was doing? I was eating. I had a craving for plant matter.”

“Right, I guessed as much, I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything worse—”

“Worse?” Amari tittered again, this time not bothering to hide her smile. “Now I’m curious what else you thought I might have been up to.”

“I don’t know, necromancy? Don’t change the subject,” she said, a bit sharper than she intended. Of all the “plant matter” the rot-fey could have chosen... “Look, I know you sort of do whatever you want around here, but you can’t eat the flowers folks leave, alright?”

Amari’s brow quirked, and she turned her gaze from Thana to the bouquet she’d clearly been enjoying for a while before Thana arrived. For a moment, it looked as though she was considering the point – until she reached out and placed one hand on the petal of a rose, and the entire flower shrivelled up and fell from its stem. “It would appear that I can, actually,” she responded.

Always with the precise wording. “Yes, okay, obviously you can,” said Thana, “but you shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” A few hyphae snaked their way into a bundle of hyacinth and drained the colour from them. “They’re already dead. This is what I do.”

Oh, gods, this was going to be a nightmare to explain. She planted her spade back into the dirt so she could work while she talked. There was a very real risk of her spending the entire night debating grieving rituals with a woman who ate corpses. Where was she even supposed to start?

“It’s… okay, it’s not really about the flowers themselves,” she began. “They’re, uh… symbolic. It’s a way of honouring the dead. Whoever left that bouquet did it because the person buried there matters to them, even if they’re gone now, and to show that they’re still thinking about them. So just, you know, eating them is… really disrespectful.”

“Ah, is that the issue? Don’t worry, then.” She pointed eastwards across the cemetery. “These flowers weren’t left at this grave, I brought them from somewhere over there. I doubt anyone cares about the carcass buried here.”

Thana sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Alright, that’s… That’s worse. You made it worse.”

“How so? They’re the ones using one dead thing to memorialize another.” Amari hopped up and seated herself on the paper cone holding the bouquet together, leaving the edges of her mycelial dress to fall among the flowers. “Rot is inescapable. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone or something else. Besides, isn’t the whole reason you put your deceased underground because humans are repulsed by the dead? I thought I’d be doing you a favour, getting rid of them.”

“Well, flowers are an exception, they’re…” She paused, lifting a shovelful of dark soil out of the grave. “… Pretty. Which I’m suddenly realizing sounds kind of terrible when you say it out loud.”

The fairy gave her a wistful smile. “No, no, I’m inclined to agree there. Death brings a natural beauty to anything it touches.”

“Riiight…” She cleared her throat. They were getting off track. “The point is, it’s not really for the dead people themselves, you know? It’s for the people who are still here. Leaving flowers, making the grave look nice, it’s comforting. And the people who visit the graves need that comfort, because they’re in a lot of pain.”

The hole was deep enough now for her to step around to get a new angle. “They know the flowers won’t last forever,” she continued, “but they don’t have to. They just need to last long enough to be soothing. Once they start to wilt, we have someone who collects them, because you’re right, the flowers are dead, and people don’t like being reminded of that. But we give them a week where the grave is beautiful, and they can remember their loved one a little less sadly.”

She glanced up from the earth, towards the dried-out bouquet. “Does that make sense?”

Amari deflated ever so slightly, her cap tilted to hide her eyes. “I suppose so,” she murmured.

Thana bit her lip. Poor girl sounded hurt. In an attempt to cheer her up, she added, “Aren’t you supposed to be this big, scary carnivore, anyways? I didn’t think you liked plants.”

“I am a saprotroph, for your information,” Amari huffed, raising her head and crossing her arms. “I feed on the spoils of death itself, no matter what form they come in.”

“Alright, alright, big scary saprotroph. I get it.” She tossed another shovelful of dirt to the side, trying to catch Amari’s eye with a half smile.

But the rot-fey looked away, and in a softer tone went on, “Regardless, I… do understand what you mean. Should I return this one?”

The unfortunate bouquet was, by that point, far too brown and wilted to put back, with half its flowers missing all their petals. It wouldn’t be beautifying much more than a compost heap. “I think it might be a little beyond salvaging…” said Thana, rubbing her neck. “But it’s okay. Accidents happen. Just… please don’t do it again?”

Directly asking a fairy for anything was probably a mistake, but to her surprise Amari nodded. “Very well. You have my word.”

“Thank you,” she sighed. “I appreciate it. Really.”

For a time, that was that. Amari descended from atop the bundle of flowers, instead choosing to lounge against its side, and the night was silent save the scrape of her shovel through the earth. Business as usual. Their conversations always hit a natural lull sooner or later, and Amari would relax and go quiet, just watching her dig. Sometimes she could even fool herself into seeing her as the harmless little button mushroom that she absolutely was not.

It was nice, in a weird way, knowing that someone recognized her work. She hadn’t exactly gotten into gravedigging for the booming social life, but still, having a friend around made it easier.

The grave was about halfway done, deep enough that she had to step inside to keep working, before Amari spoke again. “You know,” she mused, “it’s funny. I was honestly hoping you’d find this less upsetting than my usual fare.” She gave a small, halfhearted laugh. “How wrong I was.”

That made something click. She stopped digging and looked up at the fairy. “Wait, did you… Was this because you were worried that I was uncomfortable around you?”

“No!” came the indignant reply. But a few seconds later, after the pride that had no doubt leapt into Amari’s throat had been sufficiently swallowed, she mumbled, “… Not entirely. I did have a craving.”

Thana blinked, and a slow smile grew across her face. That was unexpectedly thoughtful of her. Even if she had more or less gotten over Amari’s diet by now, the fact that she cared enough to be concerned was touching.

“Am, that’s… really sweet,” she said. “But you don’t have to do that for me. You said it yourself, this is what you do. I’m used to it.” She leaned down in the grave to get closer to eye level. “I wouldn’t still talk to you if it seriously bothered me.”

Amari tilted her head and met Thana’s eyes, hesitance still written on her face. “Are you certain?”

She nodded firmly. “Positive. And, uh, if you’re still hungry…” She glanced around and grabbed the brown paper bag she’d brought with her from its spot near the grave. “I was about to break for lunch anyways, and I packed an apple. We could split it, if you want?”

At last, Amari was able to return her smile as she began pulling the mycelia of her dress out of the dirt. “I think I’d like that, gravedigger.”

[emmy-writes-sometimes]

End of the World

Pairing: Spencer Reid x female!reader

Summary: In an attempt to rescue Spencer from an unsub, you are both buried alive. You have five minutes of air left, and if nobody finds you... Title inspiration: End of the World by Rob Dickinson. Overall inspiration: That one episode of Bones where they get buried alive. 

Warnings: Guns, being buried alive, etc? 

-

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Hotch asked as you started taking off your vest, already having removed the holster at your side. There was a gun hidden in your pants, hopefully invisible behind your baggy sweater. 

“I promised him I’d get him out,” you replied. So no, you weren’t sure. But you had to. You had promised Spencer when he went into the scene alone that you’d be the one to find him and take care of him. You had promised him, and you weren’t going to give that up. He had never once broken a promise to you, and you weren’t going to do that to him. 

“Alright. Just be careful. I can’t lose one of you, much less both of you. And if you’re not back in fifteen minutes, we’re moving in. I have a feeling this one isn’t going to come with us alive.” That was Hotch’s weird, twisted way of saying that he cared about you and didn’t want either you or Spencer to die. This unsub was known for burying people alive after hours and hours of torture to mimic an abusive childhood they’d had. You were certain that you could talk him down, get Spencer out. If the unsub wasn’t the wild card that Rossi had been insisting he was. 

“Love you too, Hotch,” you joked. The man didn’t smile back, but he almost never did. You put your vest on the seat of the SUV and started walking, hands up, into the gates of the farmhouse the unsub lived in. You wanted to call out Spencer’s name first, just to make sure he was okay, but you didn’t. 

You proceeded into the house, wondering if the unsub was in there or if he was in the backyard, the killing field, as the locals had started calling it. You called out, but you got no answer. There was no use to stay in the dirty, nearly empty house, so you walked straight from the front door to the back door a few feet away. There, you spotted it - a light on in the shed, the door open, and inside was Spencer and the unsub. 

Spencer had a gun to his head - what was new there? - and the breath left your body when you saw the condition that he was in. His nose was bloody, and so was his lip. There was a gash that spread from his ear to his cheekbone, and his clothes were torn and tattered. He looked as if he was in a daze. Maybe to try and make the situation better, maybe because he’d been drugged or something. The unsub looked at you and your eyes moved up to him, your hands moving above your head. 

“Get down on the ground, next to him,” the unsub said. You weren’t scared, not really, at least yet. 

“We can help you,” you said. “I’m sorry this happened to you.” 

“Shut up!” The unsub snapped. You kneeled down next to Spencer, who just shook his head at you. He’d probably tried to reason with the unsub, too, and if Spencer couldn’t make something make sense then nobody could. The unsub turned to Spencer, holding a gun just a few inches from his eye. Spencer’s body didn’t flinch, but his eyes blinked rapidly for a second. 

“If you’re going to shoot someone, shoot me,” Spencer tried to reason with the man again. “She’s just trying to help you. I’m the one that came here to try to stop you.” 

“Both of you stand up,” the unsub said. You made no attempt to move, mostly wondering if Spencer even could move, and the gun’s safety clicked off. “Stand up!” 

You stood up this time, and let him lead you back into the field. There was a grave already dug. But only one. Which meant two things; either he was only going to kill one of you, or you were both going in. Either way, it wasn’t good. You looked over at Spencer as you walked, wondering what he was thinking. In the five months you’d been dating Spencer, or the two years that you’d known Spencer, not once had you ever been able to figure it out. The man was just too smart for his own good, and he was too good at hiding the way he felt. If he didn’t want you to know something, you didn’t. And now he wasn’t giving you any hints at all. 

“Both of you, get in,” the unsub instructed. You looked at Spencer, who didn’t hesitate to hop into the deep hole that had been lined by a box that resembled a coffin, filling the bottom of the hole. It was only there to torture you more, even though dirt in the lungs wasn’t exactly a good way to go. Asphyxiation was probably more fun, according to the unsub, at least. Spencer’s head stuck out, he was much taller than you, and the unsub moved the gun back to Spencer until he sat down, his long legs to his chest to properly fit. You gulped when the gun turned to you. You braced yourself as you got into the hole, next to Spencer. The bottom of the box was hard, but one of Spencer’s arms went around your back when the unsub couldn’t see. 

You wanted to say something, to try and bargain one more time, but the unsub shut the lid to the box. You heard what sounded like dirt being piled on top of it, leaving you and Spencer in total and complete darkness. You looked in his direction, able to feel a little of his hair against yours. 

“Hotch said if we’re not back in fifteen minutes,” you whispered. It sounded so loud in the box, but you knew it was a faint whisper that no one above you could hear. 

“We have five minutes left of air. Ten, really, but with two of us...” Spencer said as if he hadn’t even heard what you had said a second ago. “I’ve always wondered how the end of the world would feel. I never thought it would feel like this.” You put your head on your boyfriend’s shoulder, not quite able to accept the situation. Realistically, you were both going to die. Spencer first, probably, because he needed more air than you because he was bigger and hurt already. Your lip started to tremble at the thought of being in the world without him at your side, even for a couple of minutes.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry, pretty girl,” he murmured in the darkness. You flinched when his bloodied hand moved to your mouth, touching your lips in an attempt to cup your cheek. You leaned your face into his shirt, not even caring that it gave you less air, and started crying. 

“Don’t cry,” Spencer repeated. “You’ll run out of air faster.” 

“You need it more than I do,” you responded, “you’re hurt. There’s a gun in my waistband. Maybe we can shoot and they’ll find us.”

“We’d have to time it exactly right. Give me your hand.” You reached your hand over, wondering what he was going to do. But Spencer grabbed your watch and slid it off, looking at the time. 

“What are you doing?”

“You said fifteen minutes. It’s been approximately two. If one of us can stay awake and time it right, maybe they’ll be in the backyard and find the hole we’re in. They don’t have time to search all of them.” Your chest started to feel tight, and you figured that was probably a good time to remind Spencer, and yourself, that you were asthmatic. It never really affected you unless you were in a tight space with very little air, so you quite literally forgot it even existed.

“You have to,” you said to him. “I have asthma.”

“I’m hurt, realistically...”

“Can you stop being realistic for two seconds?” You asked in a frustrated cry, letting out a sob. “I don’t want to live without you, Spencer, can you not fucking understand that?” 

“Don’t yell,” he said calmly. “I don’t want to live without you either. But if one of us can survive, it’s you.” He was looking at the almost blinding light of your watch, trying to time it even though the watch was digital. You knew he was counting seconds in his head. 

“If I don’t make it, or if you don’t make it...” you started to say. You coughed and wheezed in a breath that sounded deafening in the box. 

“Come here,” Spencer interrupted. You couldn’t see him, really, but you didn’t need to. You had memorized how his lips tasted and they didn’t taste like anything but blood now. You cried as you kissed him, knowing that it was him or you, you or him. He was hurt and your lungs were collapsing in. Statistically, Spencer would say, there was no way the both of you could survive. 

“I love you,” you said softly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you.” 

“I love you too,” he responded. “Just put your head on my shoulder and rest, okay? If you can calm down a little bit that can save us some air.” Anyone else on the team would’ve yelled at you for crying like a baby, but not him. He was always just so gentle with you, even when you were both about to die because you couldn’t talk the unsub down. 

“Five minutes,” you murmured. You laid your head on Spencer’s shoulder again and one of his arms moved to your back, squeezing you to his body. You could feel your head getting lighter and lighter as he kissed your forehead. It felt like laughing gas at the dentist almost - light and airy and it almost made you smile. 

“Five minutes,” he said back. “The world ends in five minutes. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but with you.” You heard him tell you he loved you, one more time, and then the world started to fade away. You only woke up when you heard the gunshot. 

Spencer had timed it perfectly - the team ran to the pile of dirt where the bullet was lying, and they started digging with their hands. By the time they got to you, both you and Spencer were out. Spencer, somehow, was in worse shape than you were. He died in the ambulance for seven minutes and twelve seconds from blood loss and exhaustion. It only took you a few puffs of air to come back, and even though you wanted to wait for Spencer Rossi insisted that you get checked out, too. 

Eventually they let you in to see Spencer, who was already up and walking around again. You smiled when you saw him, you couldn’t help it. He just radiated sunshine, even when he had gone through literal hell. 

“You look beautiful,” he said when he saw you walk into his room. You rolled your eyes. 

“Spencer,” you groaned. “How do you feel? They told me...” You walked over to his bed and sat down right beside him. 

“I apparently died. And, you know, I don’t understand the obsession because I really didn’t see anything. Not like I saw last time, anyway.” You were careful not to block any of his breathing as you laid your head in his chest, trying to smell a little of what was left of his cologne. You couldn’t smell anything, though. 

“I really thought we were goners,” you admitted as you laid a hand on his waist, pulling him to you a little bit. You wanted to be close to him, always, but now you wanted to crawl into his skin. 

“Yeah, me too,” he replied. “You said you didn’t want to live without me.” His eyebrows furrowed, like he was confused, and he pouted a little bit. As if the statement shocked him, when it really shouldn’t have. 

“I don’t.” 

“So, theoretically, if we really did have five minutes left to live...”

“I’d want to be with you,” you admitted. You started playing with the scratchy hospital bed sheet. He smiled, wrapping both of his arms around you even though one of them had a saline solution in an IV. 

“Realistically, though?” He asked. 

“Don’t start with that realistically crap.” 

“I was going to say, realistically, we would be together. Because we’re together all the time. So I want you to stop worrying about five more minutes, okay? Because we have forever.” You wanted to cry at his statement, knowing that it was probably just to make you feel better, but you literally wanted to break down into tears over it. You loved Spencer so, so much, and he was right. If the world was ending, you probably would be with him. Or you’d do everything in your power to get to him. 

“Spencer Reid, that is the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you finally said. He just laughed and kissed your temple. 

“Yeah. But it’s true.” You giggled for a second before calming down, and this time when you fell asleep, you woke up right next to him. 

[handeaux]

Cincinnati Was Enchanted By The Weird & Mysterious Spell Of The Ouija Board

Every so often, a compulsion to contact spirits from beyond the grave possesses Cincinnati. For a time, séances were as common as church festivals here and the mainline churches fretted that Spiritualist cults would siphon away congregants. Card readers and crystal-ball gazers have occupied veiled storefronts as long as our city has had storefronts. From 1890 to 1920, the preeminent supernatural fad in Cincinnati was the Ouija board.

Although homemade “talking boards” had been employed in Spiritualist practice for many years, commercially produced Ouija boards did not became widely available until the 1890s.

From its first introduction, Queen City media tut-tutted about the talking board craze, predicting only two possible outcomes for participants: insanity or damnation. The Catholic Telegraph [19 August 1920] claimed both:

“‘Ouija’ is sending them to St. Elizabeth, the national hospital for the insane, by the score. At the Washington Asylum hospital, fifteen devotees of the spook board are now being watched by the alienists. ‘If Washington residents continue to ‘monkey’ with occult Ouija,’ said one of the physicians, ‘we will have to have an addition to the local staff.’ Do not imagine that manipulation of the Ouija board is only a harmless method of recreation. It is playing with fire—Hell fire.”

One of the first Ouija incidents recorded by the local media seemed to bear out at least the insanity option. The Cincinnati Enquirer [9 May 1892] spotlighted Mr. & Mrs. John Chapman from Liberty, Indiana and their outrageous, Ouija-inspired, misbehavior. Alarmed by screams and pounding noises, neighbors discovered the Chapmans carving circles on the walls and floors of their house, using hedge knives and scythes, while threatening to kill their own children and various relatives. They had chopped all their carpets to ribbons and smashed most of their furniture.

“Mrs. Chapman’s great delusion is that she wants to make every body a Mason. She claims Horace Greeley ordered her to do so and the Ouija board also tells her too. It is this Ouija fad that has caused the crazed condition of Mr. and Mrs. Chapman. Hundreds of these boards have been sold in this county and it will not be strange if there are other cases of insanity from its use to be reported from this city soon.”

A couple of years later, a whole community just outside Harrison, Ohio went on a treasure-hunting rampage, all because of a Ouija board. One evening, according to the Enquirer [23 February 1894] an apparently persuasive “prominent gentleman” of the area consulted his brand-new Ouija board and learned that substantial treasure was buried in Southgate, Indiana, just north of St. Leon.

“So impressed was he by the answer that he called a mass meeting of the citizens of that hamlet to organize an expedition to go to Southgate and endeavor to find the precious stuff. They started about three days ago, 50 anxious men forming the company, and from a report received here this morning, they have dug over a field covering seven acres, but without success.”

The Ouija craze produced celebrities and they visited Cincinnati. Among the most famous was Pearl Lenore Curran, who stopped by Cincinnati’s Grand Hotel, bringing in tow a spectral visitor named Patience Worth who claimed – through Ouija sessions – to have lived in England from 1649-1694. Dutifully transcribed by Pearl’s husband, John H. Curran, Patience Worth transmitted hundreds of poems, seven novels, some short stories and even a couple of plays via an apparently frenetic planchette. Cincinnati Post reporter Cynthia Grey published [13 November 1915] a “conversation” with the spirit of Patience Worth:

“Mrs. Curran is young and good-looking. There was nothing mysterious about her or the way she ‘talked’ with ‘Patience.’ She simply laid the Ouija board across our knees and told me to put my fingers on the pointer with hers. I felt a thrill when the pointer began to move swiftly from letter to letter.”

The Ouija fad really took off in 1920, apparently because many people wanted to contact relatives or friends who had died during World War I or during the 1918-19 “Spanish Flu” pandemic. Regardless of psychic potential, young people discovered that the Ouija board gave them an excuse to sit knees-to-knees in dimly lit rooms.

Cartoonists had a ball with Ouija-themed gags. Rube Goldberg portrayed people paralyzed with indecision until they consulted the Ouija board about purchasing formal attire or ordering dinner or making a telephone call. Walter Allman’s “Doings of the Duffs,” portrayed a sleepwalking wife frightening her husband by interrupting his Ouija session. Roy Grove’s “The Boys In The Other Car” portrayed a gang of commuters trying to get a Ouija board to tell them who among their fellow passengers was hiding some booze. All of these strips were syndicated by Cincinnati’s E. W. Scripps Company.

Throughout 1917, with the United States entering World War I, Cincinnati Post writer Alfred Segal invited readers to send reports of their Ouija sessions to be printed in his “Village Gossip” column. He ran dozens of reports, most suggesting a quick end to the war, a United States victory and horrible consequences for the German Kaiser. One of his correspondents claimed to have chatted with Abraham Lincoln.

Foremost among Ouija’s detractors, surprisingly, were the Spiritualist churches. After a century trying to gain respectability for their beliefs, the thought that their religion should be reduced to a parlor game was infuriating. The Enquirer [24 June 1920] reported high dudgeon at a Spiritualist convention:

“Inference that the Ouija board is controlled by spirits was resented by the delegates. Discussion today developed strong possibilities of a nation-wide movement to put down what one speaker referred to as a ‘slander against our religion’ for which the Ouija board was held responsible.”

It may have been too little, too late. The Cincinnati Post [7 August 1920] quoted eminent authorities assured that the Ouija board and similar activities were heading toward the dustbin of history:

“The popularity of the Ouija board and other forms of spiritualism is waning. Institutions for the feeble-minded have fewer ‘spook’ patients and fewer books on occult subjects are being circulated by libraries.”

If the Ouija board had anything to say about that, it went unrecorded.

[scarlett-hamiltonf1]

Smut w lewis hamilton please

Love is in the air and not even Lewis Hamilton himself is immune to it. Y/N Wolff is Toto's only child and a common face in the paddock. You are the mastermind behind the social media account and love to keep fans on their toes. Along with that profession, you ran a Public Relations company that contracted with F1 and most of the team used you along with many high-profile clients. With your father's knack for investing, you soon became extremely wealthy and successful.

Your life has revolved around racing for a long time. Of course, when your father took the reins at Mercedes you decided to stand by him even though you supported Redbull. Oh yeah, You and Max Verstappen are best buddies after the drivers got used to seeing you in the paddock all the time.

Everyone knew you as a really chill and friendly person, but the one driver you could not get along with was Lewis Hamilton. You publicly took Nico Rosberg's side in the conflict between the two and from there it went downhill. So here you are at the German Grand Prix watching Lewis meet Michael Schumacher's record. Something you had mixed feelings on.

"He's done it." Toto chuckled, while you huffed.

You wrapped your warm Mercedes jacked around you tighter. "Good for him," you muttered.

Your father looked up with a smirk. "You used to idolize Lewis, remember all the autographs you have framed in your trophy room back at home."

Your trophy room. The room held all your trophies from when you did Karting with the newer drivers. Your favorite was when you tied with Mick at a race, and your father's got in an argument over who really won. In the end, you and Mick decided that you would share the trophy and to this day every six months you take turns with it. Your second favorite was the first WDC Lewis ever won. He gave it to you, for your sixteenth birthday, six years ago.

"Maybe I did idolize him when I was a teen, but knowing him has proved nothing but he's just another rich arrogant F1 driver."

Toto laughed at you while giving you a side hug. "Well, let's go meet the champ and do our interviews."

You followed your father through the paddock to the podium where you met up with Mick.

"Hey, Mickie Mouse!" You exclaimed.

"Hey, Wolff!" he replied with a bright smile.

You basically grew up with Mick, and his family considered you an honorary Schumacher.

"Wanna go up with me?"

You looked over to your father who gave you an encouraging nod, so you followed Mick up to the podium. When you got to the door leading out to the podium someone stopped you and placed the first place trophy in your hands.

There was no time for you to protest as you and Mick were pushed onto the podium stage. You smiled brightly as the cameras landed on you.

Mick whispered a joke to you, to make sure you smile knowing you didn't like being in the direct spotlight for long periods of time...like now.

You stood behind Mick while he talked with Lewis before MIck stepped aside and let you walk forward with the trophy.

"Congratulations," You whispered to Lewis. "You deserve it."

Lewis smiled brightly at you. "Thank you Y/N." and he held out an arm to give you a hug.

You leaned is slowly and soon felt yourself wrapping your arms around Lewis's warm body. His scent seemed to draw you in closer as you felt like you were right where you belonged.

"Forgive me?" he asked while holding up his pinky.

You locked your pinky in his while smirking. "Let's get through this interview, and then we'll see," I replied.

The two of you split from Mick and went to an interview with Will Buxton. He already had a bit of a mischievous look on his face.

"Probably one of the strongest rivalries in the paddock, Y/N Wolff and Lewis Hamilton joining us," Will announced. "That hug up on the podium, was it coming to a truce?"

You chuckled. "I have a bit of respect for Lewis."

"Perhaps you need to learn to give more, Y/N." he quipped with a smirk causing me to look at him funny.

You smirked. "Would you excuse us for a second...I'm about to go save a few reputations," you replied before dragging Lewis to the Mercedes garage and into his driver's room.

"What' the hell!" he exclaimed.

"Teach me some respect? That's really classy Hamilton."

Lewis rolled his eyes before pushing your body into the wall and attaching his soft lips to yours. Your brain and body were telling you no, but your heart was saying otherwise.

"You've been in love with me for a long time." He whispered in my ear. "All I thought about was waiting in till you were eighteen to do this."

"I'm not in love with you!" you snapped.

Lewis dug his knee between your legs while rubbing against your throbbing clit.

"It is time you learn to respect a six-time world champion, soon to be seven." He stated. "But first...I need your permission."

You rolled your eyes. "I doubt you could do anything to make me respect you more, but I give you my permission."

With your words, Lewis through you onto the couch while stripping both your clothes off. He made sure to let you know, you were just there for the ride and had no control over the situation whatsoever.

For someone who was always controlling the drivers and trying to keep them from causing too much drama, you weren't used to being told what to do and not being the controlling one.

Lewis was quick to put a small kiss on your bundle of nerves before licking a long strip on your clit, causing you to elicit a soft moan, trying to be quiet as there were people in the vicinity.

"Lewis..." you breathed out, mouth agape as he sucked, bit, and licked your throbbing clit, already aching for a release.

You grabbed his curls harshly as you felt a bubbling sensation began to grow.

Suddenly there was a pounding on the door and Lewis pulled away harshly.

"Who is it?"

"Max, I'm looking for Y/N. She promised to go for a drive with me on the track." Max replied.

Lewis huffed. "Well, if I see her I'll tell her you were looking for her. Honestly, she's probably dealing with the press about my number of wins."

"Humble." I hear Max mutter in dutch. "Well, thanks! Congratulations again!"

Lewis turned back to me while I burst out laughing. A few moments later he began laughing as well.

"I think Max was divine intervention telling us this is wrong," Lewis stated and I agreed.

You smiled up at Lewis. "When you're off racing, I want you to remember that there's always one person rooting for you, who never stopped."

Lewis smiled as we got dressed, "To our graves?" he asked holding up his pinky.

"To our graves." I smirked.

Bonus:

You walked through the paddock to the Redbull garage. Max was waiting there with a nice Aston Martin, with a huge smirk on his face.

"So how long are you going to keep pretending you and Lewis aren't dating?"

I shrugged. "It's nice leading everyone on to think we hate each other, even my father."

Max raised a brow.

"I wouldn't be so sure, given Lewis bought a pent house in the same building as you, probably more than a coincidence." a voice send from behind you and you turned to see your father.

"Dad?" You exclaimed.

"Nor is it a coincidence that you have that ring around your neck!" he pointed out.

Well, there's the end to your little charade. You and Lewis started dating when you turned 18 but wanted to keep it a secret so you pretended not to like each other. You were even engaged, but you had been found out. Now you'll have to deal with your father, but that was for another day.

[det-loki]

poison & wine part four

And you will destroy anyone who would try to harm her

But what happens when karma turns right around to bite you?  

warnings: angst, cursing

pairing: detective loki x fem reader

word count: 3,000

A/N: I don't know why I struggled with this chapter so much but I did. I finally got it to a place that makes me happy though. Again, feedback is welcomed. Enjoy! 💕

1  2  3   ⌽  5  6 

You woke up feeling like death. Your brain was pounding against your skull, eyes sore, body aching, screaming for you to rest. You had no time to rest though. You sprawl your arm, reaching to the opposite side of the bed to hopefully find Loki but to no surprise, it was already vacant and cold. You rolled over to the bedside table, glancing at the clock, 5:46 A.M. You've got to be fucking kidding me. 

You stumbled blindly into the kitchen, your feet still heavy with sleep. Every step you took, your body screamed at you to lay back down, stars floating across your vision. You found David sitting at the kitchen table in his work clothes, sitting in silence, rigid. As you walked closer, you took notice of what was in his hands. A photo album. 

You almost collapsed on the spot, knees wanting to give out on you, your breath catching on your throat as you inhale sharply. Tears prick your eyes and your lip quivers as you step closer to David and the photo album. 

Reaching David, you lay a shaking hand on his shoulder, not daring to peer at whatever photo he was looking at. You knew which photo album it was, the bright pink making your brain foggy, the album stood out like a sore thumb in the minimal gray of the kitchen. You knew if you saw any of the pictures you wouldn't be able to get out of bed for a month. David jumps slightly at your touch, snapping the album closed, a hand coming up to wipe away tears that had fallen down his face. 

You moved from standing behind him to sit next to him, your hands finding each other as you sat down in the wooden chair, your body sighing in relief at the position.

"What are you doing, Loke?" Your voice came out as a rasp, crackling and chipping, sounding like sandpaper, disturbing the silence in the kitchen. Your voice sounded as broken as you felt.

"I needed to see her. Remember what we're fighting for. I-I was starting to lose her, her- I was starting to forget what she looked like. What kind of father is that, huh? What kind of father does that make me?" Loki's voice was rough with emotion, each word was a knife through your heart. He was the best father to your little girl, she had him wrapped around her finger since the day she was born. He was soft and tender with her, terrified of breaking her. After finding out you were pregnant, Loki went on a spiral of how he couldn't be a father, he didn’t know how. His childhood was nowhere near ideal, in and out of foster homes and juvenile detentions, his parents a figment of his imagination. He said he couldn’t be good and decent, claiming he was broken and corrupt. The first ultrasound appointment snapped him out of it, tears welled up in his eyes as the sound of your baby's heartbeat filled the room, his hand intertwined tightly with yours.  There wasn’t a thing in the world  he wouldn’t do for her, the line didn’t exist. You knew somewhere in that photo album there was a picture of him with a pink crown on his head as your little girl was in his arms laughing. The memory caused a fresh wave of pain to hit you. 

"That makes you a grieving father who is in pain, Loki. Don't- please don't do this to yourself. She wouldn't want that for you. Or for either of us." The last thing you wanted was for David to fall down the spiraling hole of self-hatred. You could barely keep your head above water and you didn’t want him to drown with you. He deserved better.

"I know. I know. I just miss her. So fucking much, Y/N." David’s voice broke, crackling like static on a radio. 

"I know." There was nothing else to say, your brain was a jumbled mess, thoughts not making sense. You knew. 

"I went to her grave last week. I wasn't planning on it, I just ended up there. I'm sorry for not telling you, but it felt like something I needed to do alone. And then this fucking case, it doesn't feel real, it can't be a coincidence. It's like the universe knew." His words didn’t upset you, if anything it made you happy, he hadn’t visited her in a long time, he just wasn’t ready and you didn’t want to force him. You visited her regularly, in hopes to apologize or make things right, you didn’t know. The fact that he went made your heart warm temporarily, the cold would creep back in again eventually. 

"David, I'm not mad at you for visiting our daughter. I think that's good. I just- this case is eating us alive. We have to make it out of this alive, promise me we will." You needed to hear it, your ears, and heart desperate for a lifeline. Desperate for a life to come back to after this case ended. If it ever did.

“We will. I promise you we will.” David brought your hand to his lips, kissing the back of it, brushing over the small black ink of a snake on your middle finger. You hoped he was right.

Hours later, you sat at your desk reading over the autopsy report of the man found in the priest’s basement. Nothing. Your phone rang loudly in front of you. It was David. You pick it up, nestling it between your ear and shoulder as you reread the report.

“Hey, I’m out here at a house on Fairmount Circle, the house the RV was parked in front of. It’s only been on the market a couple of months. I’m gonna track the owners down, see if they know anything. You got any new info on that corpse we found in the priest’s basement?”

You sighed into the phone, “No DNA, dental or fingerprint matches.”

“Nothing.” David replied in a monotonous tone, sounding fine, a stark difference than he was this morning. He was compartmentalizing, a little too well. You hated it when he did that.

“Priest is sticking to the story, too.” You had gotten report from a fellow detective who took the case, informing you about the priest’s questioning. 

Loki scoffed into the phone, frustrated, “All right.” 

You look up from your computer to see David walk into the station, walking to his desk opposite from yours. He sat down and immediately started typing. A few minutes pass before he looks over, eyes finding your hunched form, “Come here.”

You rose from your desk, your vision exploding with stars as you made your way over, leaving over his shoulder to read whatever he had been looking at. 

The headline read: “Conyers Boy Disappears” dated August 31st, 1987. Barry Milland, age seven when he went missing from his family home.

David spoke below you, “ Let’s go.” You already knew where you were going, to contact the mother of still missing Barry. 

You stood in the living room of Mrs. Milland’s home, Loki next to you as she sat in a recliner in front of a TV playing an old home video of Barry. Your fingers dug into your thigh and Loki’s hand was clamped over his mouth, the universe was playing with you, the tape that was playing was mocking the both of you, teasing you for the fact that you have done the very same thing as she was doing now, clutching onto the last good memories. 

“Same person who took him took those girls. I’m sure of it.” Mrs. Milland’s voice shook with age as she spoke, eyes never leaving the screen.

The tape temporarily faltered, screen going static before returning to normal, “Wearing out the tape, I guess. I watch it every day after breakfast. It’s the only video I have of him.” She sighs before continuing, “It was before your time. 26 years ago, August 19th. I took a nap in the afternoon, and when I woke up Barry was gone. No one could ever tell me what happened to him. He was playing in the front yard, just a few feet from where they sat that RV was parked.”

God, you wanted to scream. Playing in the front yard and then gone. You were familiar with the pain and shame in her voice, you felt the very same thing every single day. 

She speaks again, ripping you away from your thoughts, “What do you think that means?” 

Loki raised his eyebrows, shaking his head as he looked at the carpeted ground, “I’m more interested in what you think that means.” 

She shook her head, eyes still trained on the screen, “I don’t think we’ll ever know. It’s just like Barry. No one took them. Nothing happened. They’re just gone.” 

You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood, fingers digging harder into the jean covered flesh of your thigh. Gone.

You and Loki sat in the car silently, digesting what you had been told by Mrs. Milland. 

"Why are we doing this, David?" You weren’t referring to where you were, rather than what you were. How you got to this point in your life, why?

"What? Here?” David looked at you, confused.

"No. This. This job. This case. Is it to avenge her? Justice? Bring peace to other families like we couldn't have? I love my job, don't get me wrong, but I can't but help but question why is it this case? Why us?” You looked out the car window as you spoke, not catching David’s gaze.

"I don't know. I don't know, but we will get through this. I'm here, Y/N.” There was never a moment David wasn’t there for you, and vice-versa. You both knew each other better than you knew yourselves, able to take care of each other better than you could take care of yourself.

Loki’s phone buzzing in the cup holder made you jump, the bubble that had formed popping, David grabbing for the phone, reading whatever text he had been sent, “We might have something with the priest.”

You stood in the hallway, awaiting Detective Chemelinski to escort you to the priest’s interrogation room as David shifted his weight nervously. The fellow detective showed up, motioning for David to follow. Loki looked at you with mild panic in his eyes, silently pleading for you to follow. He didn’t want to face the priest alone. The memories would be too toxic for him to face without you. You nodded your head reassuringly, following David and Detective Chemelinski into the interrogation room Father Patrick Dunn was being held in. 

Loki walked in first, you next, and Chemelinski last. You leaned against the wall as Loki greeted Dunn, “How you doin’, Father?” 

“I’m...I’m- getting better.” Father Dunn avoided eye contact with everyone, eyes set on the table in front of him.

Loki sat across from him, “So Detective Chemelinski tells me that you have some specifics about the crime you claim that guy committed. The abductor.”

The priest nodded, “He was...waging a war against God.”

Loki chuckled, looking over at Chemelinski in disbelief and shaking his head, “Great. That’s great. I thought you said he had something specific.” Loki continued to shake his head, stammering at the other detective and gesturing in disbelief in front of him with his hands. 

Detective Chemelinski looked at Father Dunn, “Tell him how he took the kids.” If it wasn’t for David wanting you in the room, you would have avoided the conversation, rather having the information relayed than point-blank. This was too raw, images of Loki in the boy’s home feeling like a white hot poker in your brain.

“He said...he took them in the daylight.” You swore you were going to pass out, your hands beginning to tremble at your sides. You wished you were stronger, able to do your job without feeling like you were going to die from the constant resurfacing of horrific memories of your little girl. Broad daylight. Screaming.  

Why were you doing this?

The priest continued, “Sometimes...more than one child at a time.”

Loki rolled his eyes, “He said that?” The priest nodded. “-Did he say he was with anybody? He did it alone?”

“He...he said he had a family.” 

Loki sighed, “That’s it?” The priest nodded again. Loki stood from the chair, shaking his head at Detective Chemelinski, “All right.” He walked to the door, tattooed hand on the handle, glaring at the detective, “Informative.” He walked out, leaving you to briefly apologize to Chemelinski before you ran to find David. 

You found him in the locker room, sitting on the bench with his head in his hands.

You approached him slowly, “Hey, you okay?” It was a stupid question, of course he wasn’t okay. Neither of you were okay. 

He looked up at you with tired eyes, “Yeah, I’m fine. I just needed a minute. The candlelight vigil is tonight if you wanna go.”

“I do. It’d be nice.” He nodded along with your words, you turned around and walked out of the room to give Loki sometime to himself. Sometimes silence could be healing, yet you didn’t think all of the silence in the world could heal these wounds. 

You stood in front of the microwave watching your mug of coffee spin in circles. Coffee was now the main staple of your diet. It was late at the station, you and Loki being the only few still left. The temperature had dropped outside rapidly, leaving a chill in the air. Loki was outside turning the car on so it would be heating up as you poured coffee in a thermos. 

You walked outside with thermos in hand, pulling your coat tighter as the wind bit through your coat. Loki was already inside the vehicle, waiting for you. You opened the passenger door, plopping down as the thermos sat at your feet. 

“You sure you wanna go to this thing?” Loki asked gingerly.

“Yeah. Do you not?” 

“I just don’t want you to feel like you have to. If you’re not up for it we can go home. I don’t want you to push yourself.” Loki spoke softly as not to disturb the ambiance inside the vehicle. 

“I’m okay, David. I promise. It’ll be nice, show our respect, it’s not like we have to stay long.”

David nodded as he put the car in gear, pulling out of the police station parking lot. 

Loki pulled up to the vigil, outside of the Dover’s home. A group of people had already gathered, lighting candles, placing flowers, and teddy bears. 

You and David leaned against the car, watching in sorrow. You saw Franklin Birch double over, sobbing as his family held him. Your heart broke at the sight, you wished nothing more than to bring his daughter back unharmed. Each passing day caused unease to spread further and further in your body, day four setting a new record of turmoil.  

Time passed as people started to leave, the group diminishing slightly. Beside you,  Loki put on a stocking cap and rubbed his hands together for warmth. He still refused to wear gloves.  He abruptly pushed himself off the car, walking closer to the vigil, obviously taking notice of something you didn’t. You walked next to him slowly, unsure of what exactly he was doing. Then you saw it, a man crouched down with his coat hood up, stroking a teddy bear that had been placed, his gloved hand gliding over it in a manner that made you uncomfortable. He looked up, locking eyes with Loki, and then stood up stiffly, Loki’s eyes following every move. The man glanced at you and then turned away. Loki walked closer, trying to trail him as the man continued walking away. You had an inkling that he was going to run, so you turned around towards the car as Loki made his way through the crowd. 

Looking over your shoulder, you saw David take off in a dead sprint. Fuck.

You opened the driver’s side door of the car and sat down, grabbing the radio from the console. 

“Dispatch, this is 13-43, we have a police pursuit on foot, 13-40 is responding.  ”

The radio crackled to life, “10-4 detective, we have patrol rolling your way.”

“10-4” You sat the radio down, now all you had to do was wait for Loki to either come back or for him to call you to come get him.

30 minutes later, Loki came into view, slightly limping. He walked up to the car as you got out of the driver’s seat, “You should have stretched.”

Loki shrugged past you, “Yeah, fuck off. Now get out of my spot.”

You chuckled slightly as you walked around the car and pulled the door open and sat in your designated spot. Loki grabbed for the radio with his non-dominant hand, “Dispatch, this is 13-40. Pursuit has ended, the offender fled. Put a BOLO out, description will be given by an officer.”

Loki sighed heavily as he put the radio down, hand coming up to rub his right shoulder, “What happened, David?”

“The fucker jumped on me from a tree. I’m fine.” You rolled your eyes, Loki could be mauled by a bear and thrown into the ocean and he would still say he was fine. He was even more stubborn than you. 

You got home that night at 2 A.M., going to the station after the vigil for David to write up a media release on the guy that ran and to give a description. You tried to get David to let you look at his shoulder but he refused, claiming he was fine, even when moving it he winced slightly. 

That night you slept restlessly, dreams of hospitals and antiseptic haunting you. Making you question everything.

tag list: @lexie-wayland @whew-oh-em-gee @winterlavenderskysworld @buck-this-nasty @heeyirenee @pinkpunkdynamite

[kyber-queen]

Like Real People Do (Rex x Reader) Pt. 7

Summary: Jedi!reader and Rex fall in love but are separated by the war. They meet again two years later, weeks before the Siege of Mandalore. This chapter takes place at the end of the last episode of S7 of The Clone Wars. There is a 7-year time jump noted in the fic. Ahsoka is amazing as per usual. Rex finally gets his happy ending. 

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 900

Warnings: Mentions of death

Author’s Note: Oh my god I’m done with this series. I literally sobbed while writing this. Not to be dramatic or anything but I feel like I poured my soul into this and I hope you all enjoy!!

Previous

******************************

Rex didn’t cry when he buried you. He didn’t cry when he pulled your broken body from the remains of the ship. You were the last to be found. He didn’t cry when he held you in his arms for hours, shaky fingers tracing the lines of your face, knowing this would be the last time he would see you. The last time you wouldn’t be just a memory.

Ahsoka found Rex sitting against a block of durasteel, cradling your head in the crook of his arm. She approached him slowly, like he was dangerous. She crouched next to him, placing a hand atop his. Rex pulled his hand away like he had been burned.  When he turned his face to hers, Ahsoka saw desolation written across his grimy features, desolation that she knew she could not cure.

“I loved them, you know,”. Rex’s voice was eerily loud, echoing off of the broken walls of the wreckage.

Ahsoka nodded.

“I loved them, and—” Rex’s voice broke, wavering with the effort to remain composed. He looked away from Ahsoka’s face, back to yours. “—and I killed them,”.

“Rex, it wasn’t you, it was the chip,”.

“I don’t care,” Rex roared. Ahsoka jumped back, startled.

“Rex—”

“I’m sorry,”. With those two words, it seemed as if all the fight had been sucked out of him. Rex collapsed against the durasteel behind him. Ahsoka maneuvered herself to sit next to him, mindful of your body in his arms.

“I am, too,”. Rex looked to Ahsoka. Her eyes brimmed with tears and pity.

Rex turned to look before him, at the dust-laden scenery.

“We were gonna have a family. A house, on Naboo. And a table, for the brothers when they came to visit. You could’ve visited, too,” Rex’s voice caught in his throat. His brothers. All of them dead, except for him. “They were always too good for me. Too good for this,” Rex nodded to the remnants of war surrounding them. “I should have stayed away, should have kept my distance, should have forgotten all about them when I had the chance,”. The wind churned the dust at his and Ahsoka’s seated forms. “Maybe then, they would have lived,”.

“You have no way of knowing that,”. Ahsoka spoke calmly, channeling as much serenity into her voice as possible. For his sake.

“I was selfish, Ahsoka. Plain and simple. I was selfish, and they died, and now I have to bury—” Rex couldn’t finish the sentence. He shook, holding back a dam of emotions. He pressed his forehead to yours. You were cold.

“Now, you have to bury them,”. Ahsoka finished, standing up.

Rex looked up, and Ahsoka saw how he pleaded with his eyes. Begging for just a few more moments to hold you, to pretend that in just a few minutes, you’d sit up and tell him you loved him just one more time. Ahsoka shook her head.

“Rex, we need to go. We can give them a proper burial, but people will come looking soon. I’m sorry,”.

Rex sighed. He knew Ahsoka was right.

Rex didn’t cry when he buried you. He didn’t cry when he dug your grave. He didn’t cry when he pressed one last kiss to your forehead before lowering you down into the rubble that didn’t deserve to touch you. He didn’t cry when he placed your lightsaber next to you, the only indication to an outside eye that you used to be special. Ethereal in your movements, full of light and life.

Rex buried a part of himself, that day, but he didn’t bury you.

He carried you with him, let you haunt him, sought out your ghost. It took him seven years to truly bury you.

***

Seven years later, Rex finally lets you go.

The grass moves around him, green and golden-tinged, reaching to his waist. The sun kisses his cheekbones, like you had, so many years ago. He understands, now, why you had chosen Naboo. He sits himself, ankles crossed, in the center of the plains, letting the gentle breeze lift at the edges of his burdens. A good place to raise children, you had said. Rex agrees. He’s carried you with him—your words, your touch, your smile—since he’s met you. He carried you with him for two years, while you were separated by war. He carried you with him for seven years, while you were separated by death. He thinks to himself that he can let go, now. So he does.

Rex cries.

He cries for you. He cries for his brothers. He cries for the unfairness of the whole damn situation, that his childhood had been stolen by a war he was designed to lose. He cries for the window with a view, for the large kitchen table.

And through his tears, he sees you, one last time.

Your face appears, directly across from him, highlighted in blue and positively glowing. You are seated, legs crossed, right in front of him. You give him one of your soft, sad smiles, and place your hand gently on his knee. The touch burns, and Rex swears this is real. The way his heart hums in his chest confirms it. His lips part to speak, and you are gone.

Your face disappears into the whistling grass, and Rex smiles with watery eyes. You were here.

Rex sits there for a while longer, soaking up the warm sun and birdsong. He doesn’t think of you. He doesn’t think of anything at all. He sighs. 

It is there, among the grasses where your children would never get to play, where Rex finally lets you go.

**************************************

Like Real People Do Taglist: @pinkiemme @callme-eds @porgnugget @obi-robi-kenobi

[whumphoarder]

hi! sorry if you already have a rec list for this, but do you have any outsider pov fics? like i read this one series with peters physics teacher which was super cool so if u know of any others kinda like that or of civilians that spidey has helped? i also super enjoyed ur school nurse one lol

Five Time Faculty Members Had to Call Peter's Emergency Contact + 1 Time He Shows Up Anyway by kingdomfaraway

“Peter,” Jim started, “if you’re more comfortable with your Aunt, we can reschedule for another time.”

“Nonsense,” Tony said, speaking before Peter could. “She’s a very busy woman, I, on the other hand, have all the time in the world.”

Jim kept eye contact with Peter, who just nodded. “It’s fine, I’m sure he would show up anyway…”

Tony gave a very smug grin to both Peter and then to Jim.

Everyday Superhero by stoneage_woman

When a field trip to Stark Industries ends in disaster, Roger Harrington finds himself faced with an impossible choice. Suddenly, Tony Stark is shoving an NDA in his face while Peter Parker stares at him with terrified, desperate eyes. Nothing in his 13-year teaching career could have prepared Harrington for this, but he knows one thing for sure: ten years ago, he'd stared down into the sightless eyes of a seventeen-year-old girl, and he'd sworn to himself that he would never again lose another student. He's going to do everything in his power to keep that promise now…even if it costs him everything.

Set during and post Spider-Man Homecoming. A realistic field trip story that also explores the long-term consequences of trauma and responsibility, written by a real-life teacher.

Big Secrets, And Other Things To Talk To Your Therapist About by Aimael

How Dr Lauren McKinley, psychologist, randomly acquired not one, but two new clients of the superhero kind, because she was a little too curious to say no.

Mutants by sameuspegasus

All teachers dread parent-teacher night. This one's worse than usual.

Feat. Boundaries? I don't know this word. He's not my boyfriend! Flash Thompson's A+ parents Tony and Peter are enormous nerds Gym class is important Oh my God, what's that in the bio lab

IM Spotter by Gyptian

Floriana has headed up the IM Spotter club, New York branch for years, in a certain cafe with a very good view of Stark Tower. Never has she dreamed of having such a special guest, however.

Open for Business by @opal-earrings

Jake likes his night shift at the gas station in the middle of nowhere because nothing ever happens. The only reason he took the job is because nothing ever happens.

But then something actually does. A teenager comes in covered in blood and asking to use his phone, and somehow that’s not the strangest thing that's going to happen during his shift tonight.

research and disaster by blueh

The interns at Stark Industries have some questions about Peter Parker. The answers aren’t quite what they expect.

A Good Kid by kuragay

Ricky thinks that May's an exceptional woman, and he thinks that Peter's an exceptional kid. But there's no denying that the Parker household is full of mysteries, and most of them are centered around Peter and his supposed internship with Tony Stark.

“Is that a cat?” (no, it’s a kitten.) by zimnokurw

Mel, intern of Stark Industries founds a kitten, but if she wants to help her, she have to take Molly (yeah, so she named her already, problem?) to the company. But that's only four hours so nobody will even notice anything! Well, a kid noticed. And FRIDAY, and then Mr. Hogan and Dr. Stark. And suddenly she's screwed. Or is she?

When In Doubt, Blame Spider-Man by @ambivalentmarvel

Peter finds a ten-year-old friend out in the cold near his group home and decides to take action.

Peter Parker: Intern Cryptid by Karu_Ambrogio

The 5 college level interns, who actually interacted with Tony Stark himself on occasion, would be jealous of the 16 year old Peter Parker appearing from nowhere and being the obvious favorite if they weren't so busy being terrified by him.

Progress Report by sameuspegasus

Ms. Warren has some questions for Tony Stark regarding the exact nature of Peter's internship. She gets invited to the lab to see for herself.

Love, hate on by @madasthesea

She’d planned for this moment for two years, seven months, and eighteen days: As she’d stood above her daughter’s freshly dug grave, she’d decided that Tony Stark would die by her hand. And now was her moment.

She had only intended to grab Stark, tell him what he’d done that merited the punishment she was going to give, and kill him fast before anyone started looking. But here was this kid, an act of providence.

She didn’t have to tell Stark now, she could show him. She could make him suffer like she’d suffered, make him pay for his crimes. An eye for an eye, a child for a child.

Should’ve Stuck with Bed, Bath & Beyond by @whumphoarder

Having recently quit a high-stress job at the local ER, Patrick Carmichael—the rookie nurse at Midtown School of Science and Technology—is ready to settle into a nice quiet life of handing out band-aids and ice packs and collecting students’ mandatory sports physical forms.

Unfortunately, he's about to meet Peter Parker.

[threeeyesslitthroat]

So I watched Chaos Walking(2021)

Yeah, lucky for me, my local theater was open and showing(side note, I love my local theater so much. Like, not to brag but seven dollars for a movie and a snack is so great)

Anyhow, I watched Chaos walking. This is sort of my review. 

First off, I read The Knife of Never Letting Go and one third of The Ask and Answer, almost two years ago. When they finally dropped the release date and the trailer, i made the choice not to go reread the first book because i wanted to give the movie a chance and make an exercise of managing my expectations(in preparation for Disney’s Percy Jackson adaptation). Which means not only do I not have a complete understanding of the source material, but I also have a shit memory, so I don’t have a great shot at analyzing this films in adaptation terms, but i’m gonna try anyhow.

So first off, The Noise.

I found it a bit sketchy that they decided to make the make Noise have visual elements alongside audio but I decided it was fine, since it be pretty hard to bring this to life with only just audio and not make general audiences confused.

But they did try and do a solid job. Minus not letting us hear the Noise of animals, which sucks. we do see the Noise of a Spackle, but briefly.

The part that really pisses me off is the final confrontation, when the Noise is treated like a Super Power. we see this when Todd scares Davy’s horse by conjuring up an image of big snake, when Mayor Prentiss tricks Viola into a false trap, when  Ben tricks everyone by pretending to give Viola up when in fact he’s buying Todd and the real Viola time to get away, and in the final, Todd distracts Prentiss by conjuring up the image of his mother(complete with bloody wounds) and the various women that died when he was a baby, which caused Prentiss to fall to his death.

I don’t know how the Noise is depicted in the later books, if it was anywhere remotely like this, but i know for sure it doesn’t happen in the first book, which the film is based on.

(Also, how the fuck does Todd know what his mum looks like, or any of the other women and how is he able to bring up their images so perfectly how is ANYONE ABLE REMEMBER SOMEONE WITH THAT MUCH DETAIL That goes beyond photographic memory)

Second bit, the Spackle.

 The design is boring. Its clearly an alien, buts its dark grey, tall, holds its own when Todd attacks it in the film, has zero impact on the film as a whole and pretty boring. I do recall reading the book and imagining them to have faces similar to real world lemurs or Sloths, with big expressive eyes and such, but the CGI monster doesn’t emote for shit in this film. Todd comes at with a knife with every intention of killing it and it shrugs him off and walks away like it wasn’t fucking attacked my gods.

But in short, they only brought up the Spackle because they’re a thing in the world and it teased the bigger concepts of the next books with like, one measly exchange between Todd and Viola. (it went something like this)

Viola:We’re the aliens, though. They’re the natives.

Todd: huh.

Third bit, New World itself. Not a big deal, It looked like how i originally imagined it, no mention of swamp apples, though we see Todd Hewitt use a knife to stab a big ass bug thing for food. i hear some critics consider it lame that the planet isn’t actually alien but eh, whatever, Didn’t really feel an alien vibe reading the book so it doesn’t matter. 

Now there’s one bit i have to acknowledge in passing. At one point Todd decides to go get lunch by going into the water with his knife and wrestles with some big ass thing with tentacles. Which is fine, just have a couple of questions.

A: is this in reference to the books? Where there big ass tentacle creatures in the novel that are hunted for lunch?

B:if not, was this the film makers deciding to remind the viewers that yes, they are not on planet earth and to make Todd look cooler and justify why he’s useful for the quest and show how much Viola doesn’t know?

I kinda have to acknowledge the thing.  In that scene, Todd and Viola take a break, and Todd removes his clothes (all of them) and decides to go hunting in the water naked as the day he was born. You may have noticed that the Tom Holland stans are all over this scene because One) the camera focuses on Tom Hollands muscles when he takes his top off and Two) one can see his bare ass in the distance. 

Not a big fan off this, just find it interesting because its the most recent example of a Male being objectified by the camera when this never happens once to any of the female characters in the film, including Viola. Also, a touch of weird character detailing because haha, get it? Boy’s never seen a girl before in his life and doesn’t know what modesty means.

Also, very weird because Todd Hewitt in the book was so fucking self conscious that he would never have done that. 

Now I gotta talk about the characters.

( i understand why they aged them up, i truly do, better to get established actors instead of child actors that could more easily break to movie than sell it. its easier to make movies with legal adults instead of working with child labor laws. but damn it you lose so much of the fucking nuance of the novel when you age them up. There’s so much shit that makes an impact because of how young they are. Around the ages of eleven and twelve is when ones understanding of good and evil has its foundation, to me it was like the story was grappling with Todd Hewitt’s very soul and you lose so much of that when you change it to them being older because instead of being just kids in fucked up situations its younger adults in messed up situations. Like ugh. and aging them up leads to even more problems but we’ll fucking get to that)

Tom Holland’s Todd Hewitt is not the Todd Hewitt of the novel. He just ain’t. There is nothing there that reminds of the boy. The acting is solid, don’t get me wrong, but it just ain’t the Todd Hewitt i remember. Neither is Daisy Ridley’s Viola Eade.

(excuse me while i get Percy Jackson flashbacks)

Now, I have to acknowledge the fact that neither actor(actually none of the actors in this film) slouch on the job. They bring solid and at times very good acting.(If Tom Holland is in the film, its not going to be complete waste of time. He brings quality.)

Honestly, respect to Mr Holland because he was basically the main character, not only acting but also doing voice  and various stunts(also huge credit to the stunt coordinators and stuntmen) and I heard that filming wasn’t that great and bloody broke his nose how many times like damn boy, hats off to you.

But here’s the thing. I don’t want to say that Holland was playing himself or just a version of peter Parker, because i really don’t think he wasn’t but it just. Didn’t feel like a legit character? Especially when compared to the novel. Like Todd Hewitt in the novel is such a raw force of emotion and such a smartass and i was so looking forward for Holland to own this role but in the movie he just? Awkward dude going through some stuff?

but yeah, Holland works his ass off and there are some scenes and moments in the movie that work just because this fellow is just that charming, so (shrug emoji) like i said, He doesn’t waste your time at least.

Ridley....sigh. i know this woman can act. But next to the character who’s thoughts are heard constantly she’s very boring. And it hurts so much because Viola has an actual personality in the novel like; I’m ninety percent sure that Viola hits Todd with a big stick and I do remember that there were multiple moments where she lets Todd know when he’s being a dumbass.(seriously, i may have a shit memory of the book, but i do remember that they play off each other well and hugely entertaining seeing two twelve-year-olds handle the shit getting thrown at them)

Like, Viola in the film doesn’t really have much going on. We see the crash, we hear about the graves she dug herself, we see her be sad, we see her look at Todd like weirdo, we see her look horrified or shocked. (its so sad that I only remember the facial expressions more clearly than the actual dialogue) We really have no idea what the hell is going on with Viola Eade. I don’t think we can blame Ridley, only the film makers, because how can you see Viola Eade in the novel and then turn her into that????

i do have to talk about the relationship between Tom Holland’s Todd Hewitt and Daisy Ridley’s Viola Eade, even though its painful. In the novel, them is just two kids on a really tough adventure.  Because they aged them up, its not two kids old enough to run for the playground when recess starts. Its Teenagers. 

First question, HOW OLD ARE THEY??? Is Todd sixteen? Eighteen? Seventeen? He sure as hell ain’t Thirteen in this. What about Viola? I mean, big shout out to the hair and makeup team for making 28-year-old Daisy Ridley look so much younger but how. OLD. IS.SHE? Nineteen? Twenty? Twenty-one? Pretty sure she’s older than him in this? I ask because it MATTERS.

The way they play off each other has a vastly different energy to the novel because they are aged up. Its pretty obvious pretty fast that Todd’s feelings are basically a big crush, though not all of it is superficial as the film progresses. And Viola is clearly not receptive to that in the film. (honestly i cringed so hard at the “daydream kiss’ and whatever the hell that was in the Farbranch mayor’s house)

The relationship in the film just doesn’t have the nuance or the energy that the novel had in depicting their relationship which is depressing for all the Todd x Viola fans i’m sure. There’s some adorable bits though, like Viola seeing Todd’s dream of her playing with Manchee, and not so adorable canon bits like when Viola read the diary to Todd.

I’m just grateful that the film at least ended with them being friends instead of trying to force the romantic relationship. That right there is why I like the movie. It’s a crush, its used for a couple laughs, they’re friends, its fine. Even if you didn’t read the novel that’s really great for a movie in this day and age to not end with forcing two opposite sex characters into a relationship. To be honest, I like the idea that the film leaves us thinking that yeah, maybe these two could be real friends one day.

I just want to touch on Manchee real quick.

Manchee’s Noise is not seen or heard in the film. It is briefly acknowledged by Todd ins their first scene but other than that? Nada. Which is a low blow in comparison to the novel because Manchee was a character in his own right, which is why the death hit so hard. 

Todd?” he barks, confused and scared and watching me leave him behind. “Todd?” “Manchee!” I scream. Aaron brings his free hand towards my dog. “MANCHEE!” “Todd?” And Aaron wrenches his arms and there’s a CRACK and a scream and a cut-off yelp that tears my heart in two forever and forever. And the pain is too much it’s too much it’s too much and my hands are on my head and I’m rearing back and my mouth is open in a never-ending wordless wail of all the blackness that’s inside of me.”

in the film, it takes place in white rapids, So its chaotic, its awful, the veiwer’s all stressed out because Viola can’t swim, everyone's getting separated and Aaron’s there and he is seen drowning Manchee. 

Dude, its brief, but not pretty. Because you can see Manchee’s legs trashing above the water, struggling to get free. Aaron is drowning a dog, letting its lungs fill with water. For the folks that don’t like watching dogs die in graphic detail on screen, this isn’t great. 

Personally, I love this scene in the novel. Its the first time i had to put the book down and take a moment. It hit really close to home for me, because i watched my own dog die in real life. It was emotional and horrifying and had such a fucking impact because we could hear his thoughts. Todd had to make the choice to leave him behind to keep Viola safe. To be honest, i think the death is better in the novel, since Manchee basically dies instantly instead of drowning, which takes time(I’ve always assumed that his neck was snapped but I’ve heard others say it was the psine but whatever) it would have been easy and necessary for them to not show that on screen. I personally just think that in terms of depicting a violent death, the novel did a lot better.

Anyway, on to the other characters

(I had to choose the one with the big orange fluffy coat, and i couldn’t find a good pic og Ben and Cillian on google images.)

As for Mayor Prentiss, he’s played by Mads Mikkelsen, and he delivers. But for the most part, we don’t really know why he’s the bad guy, he just wants to get Viola because “she’s the key” which isn’t really explained, and at the end he tries his hardest to kill Todd. 

Because i only read the first book, I don’t know what exactly his character arc is. And since its been a really long while, I don’t remember what he’s like in the novel regardless, other than the cliffhanger ending.

I did take a quick crashcourse  through the wiki and it turns out that Todd and Prentiss have a relationship in the later books, which the film sort of touches on, because Todd looks up to Prentiss in the film from the get go. 

To be honest, I knew that the trilogy was a lot more complex, and even though I didn’t read the whole thing I knew it would be really disappointing for the fans to see the mayor be hollowed out to almost unrecognizable and not getting to see the whole picture on screen.

As for Davy Prentiss Jr., he was an asshole and stayed an asshole. I know he improves and gets killed off in the novels, so yeah, exhibit B of character foundations not being laid down because there isn’t gonna be a movie after this. Also, why is he played by Nick Jonas? Did they actually have more in mind for him when they decided to go with a Jonas brother or was it just star power? 

As for Aaron...don’t have much to say about him, other than just being pretty weird fit to the film. I think he’s after Viola because he’s just that full of delusions but other than that, his character is just flat and useless. (I wish to the gods that writers would actually think instead of going with “religious delusion” to explain insanity) He only brought tension in a few scenes for the most part. I’m pretty sure that in the novel Todd and Aaron have a confrontation, like the final fight of the novel, and I’m 90% sure that its where the Novel gets the Knife of never Letting Go as its title, because the knife is big deal at that point. But I guess they wanted Viola to have a quick boss battle for the ending and set him on fire. 

Ben and Cillian were fine. They did a good job, the actors were pretty great, I liked Cillian, and i like how they acknowledged that these dudes were family(i know that they’re gay and a couple but the film doesn’t say it outloud beyond letting them sleep in the same bed, be Todd’s parents, and having Ben hold Cillian in his arms) I get a kick out of the fact that the official reviews by Movie Critics are openly curious about why the film doesn’t make it more obvious that they’re gay, but whatever.

As for the overall plot, this is a fine example of mashing three books into one film and not having good results. Instead of going to Haven, the movie decided to shortcut the ending and go to the original ship that somehow has working tech but whatever, Viola needs to communicate to her ship. So not only do we not get the great relationship between Todd and Viola, not only do we not get the Spackle, Not only do we not get to see the noise of Manchee, not only do we have poor character adaptation, we also don’t get to have a plot that matches THE ONE BOOK THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO ADAPT. THEY HAD ONE FUCKING JOB AND THEY COULDN'T ADAPT THE ONE BOOK-

Its only so sad that they decided that this was going to be a one-shot deal because they didn’t have faith in the film and chose to have all the threads tied up. I mean, its so sad for the fans because the movie makes it very clear that we are not going to have anymore movies. sigh. 

slight respect towards the film makers for tying up all the story threads instead of leaving them hanging. they did a neat job, even if it wasn’t a great one.

Anyway, maybe later on when google images has more than the promotional material I’ll do a review of only the good stuff this movie did, even if its a sad pathetic failure of an adaptation. Anyway this review is a bit of a mess and already so long so i’ll stop now. 

May the gods give us strength against all the Tom Holland stans that will inevitably clog up the Chaos Walking tag with their Todd Hewitt x reader fanfics.