#i imagine a wheat blond and not yellow or white blond

[vcendent]

*to the tune of mr brightside* it started out as a sketch, how did it end up like this? it was only a sketch, it was only a sketch

(aka: i did not intend for this to end up as a finished piece when i started it, but somewhere along the line i got possessed by the ghost of finished art pieces and now here we are)

[smolvenger]

Stella of Essex or The Vicar's Wife Betrayed (A Fix-It Fanfiction of The Essex Serpent), Chapter 16: Volkamenia

Series Summary: What happens to the woman left behind? The Essex Serpent is reimagined to be told from the perspective of the sweet and sickly Stella Ransome, giving her a different ending from her canon fate. After her priest husband William cheats on her, despite devastating heartbreak, she searches for freedom, happiness...and revenge. And even new love.

Prologue//One//Two//Three//Four//Five//Six//Seven//Eight//Nine//

Ten//Eleven//Twelve//Thirteen// Fourteen//Fifteen

Chapter Summary: Stella enjoys the honeymoon and bliss of her second marriage to Harold Cavaradossi. However, her past continues to haunt and torment her.

Pairing: Stella Ransome x Male OC: Harry Cavaradossi, some Stella Ransome x William Ransome (but with the angst of his cheating actually discussed)

Chapter Warnings: Major Character Death is discussed, as Discussions of sex and masturbation, discussions of being cheated on, and of babies and children.

Chapter Word Count: 3K

A/N: This was going to be the last chapter and then I wrote over 8K words so I decided to split it in two to make it digestible!

COMMENTS AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED, THANKS!

The next morning, I kissed my new husband on the top of his forehead as he slept. Even his snoring I found a sound as peaceful as the patter of raindrops. I put my white nightdress back on and with a dressing gown, it was blue. I could wear my blue again. I was relieved. I went to the living room and saw some of my things were moved there in suitcases- my dresses as well as my mourning. There was an empty box with the address of a store written on a tag.

I gathered my widow’s weeds and placed them into the box. One phase of my life was now over, and a new one was beginning. I said a silent goodbye to the blacks, greys, and lavenders as I sealed the lid. I then got some paper and wrote a note on top of it.

“Dear Shop Manager, I am now remarried and do not need these anymore. Sincerely, Mrs. Stella Ransom-“

I stopped mid-writing. That was no longer my name. I had signed “Mrs. Ransome” or “Stella Ransome” for years and now a new name was in its place instead. Something I had to get very used to. I scratched it off and replaced it with my new last name, carefully making sure I spelled it right in its lengthiness.

“Sincerely Mrs. Stella Ransom Cavaradossi.”

That name was still new. I had to let it sink in that it was me. It was as if maybe that old Stella had died back there and here was a new, happy Stella in her place. Or maybe it was like a caterpillar finally released from a long time in its cocoon to be a beautiful butterfly and fly into the openness, to the sky at last.

I heard a yawn and looked behind me. Harry awoke with smugness in his grin as he stretched his arms out. The rosiness of his skin and the low cut of his white shirt, showing a bit of his beautiful chest, were evidence enough of last night’s events. The top of his curly head made his hair look yellow like a field of wheat promising a bountiful harvest, seeming more blonde than auburn or reddish at that moment.

“Good morning, Stella, my beautiful wife,” he greeted.

I smiled warmly at him, and I let those words- a phrase I had not spoken in over a year-form out of me like flowers blooming from their seeds in the ground.

“Good morning, my husband.”

We took walks, played cards, read aloud stories and poetry, ate sweets, and made love all that week. By the time it was over, he gathered my things and we took the carriage back. He helped me step out and walked me back into the little room.

“I’ll start moving the children in. I know they’re all good ones, but I hope they like me, I hope they see me as a father already…” he fretted.

“They will, Harry. Don’t worry about it- just give James some chocolate and let Joanna read her books and they won’t mind you in the least.” I advised.

He smiled. I couldn’t imagine suddenly becoming a parent of three children who were not your own. But from the shine in his eyes, I could tell he saw them already as his own blood. It would take time and figuring something out, but we would all be a family again like normal. We sat on the bed and held hands for a bit.

“I’ll about your collection of blue things. I’ll talk to your brother and may even write over to Aldwinter. I’ll insist they send it back here, my love,” Harry promised.

His gloved hand cupped my cheek and I leaned into it.

“My dear, you’re almost there. I can tell… Stay strong.” He wished.

“I’ll try to be…” I sighed.

“You always are.” He assured me. ▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬ I was in the last phase. I was eager to not only sit for my air baths but to move. I was prescribed long walks with the other patients at my level. They also instructed us in certain exercises to do outside and to be out in the sun whenever possible and then to rest in bed.

Harry visited every week, bringing the children. We all talked so much, I would hardly notice the hours passing. James’s face would be smiling as he recounted the quips that his stepfather gave him. Joanna and John would both have books in their arms that he had given to them to read on the train. They loved living with him and had already enrolled in schools in London. Harry would recount whatever play it was he saw last and then he’d kiss me on the lips before I went back to my ward.

All through summer I watched the greenery bend with the wind and the rumble of the tree. My dresses were lighter and in blue, no longer was I a widow sweltering in her black weeds. Cool breezes kissed me, and I found I could walk around the gardens and grounds longer and longer.

Finally, finally, those blessed words arrived at me. I heard them in that August of 1894.

“Mrs. Cavaradossi- your symptoms are now mild enough that you may go home…” the doctor announced with a smile through his white whiskers.

“I’m cured?” I asked, gripping the arms of my seat. The words spun in my head, making me dizzy for a second.

“There is no cure. I don’t know if there will be one so soon. I don’t think you will be back as normal or in full health as you were before. You will always be weak and cough out a little blood. You may relapse and must return. It’s very likely you will live with this for the rest of your life. But you have gained some strength and health back, and you can re-enter society, Mrs. Cavaradossi.”

He wiped his glasses and put them back on. Yet his brown eyes were focused on me.

“I say in the meantime, you still eat healthily, consider moving to the countryside, rest plenty, and exercise as much as you can,” he advised.

Smiling, blinking tears, I took his hand. I could have kissed it.

“Thank you, doctor.” .

Joyous letters and telegrams were sent out in a heartbeat. Harry said he would meet me there and help me travel back to his home in London. So many of my fellow patients congratulated me. Elvira made me promise to write to her and visit and I said I would. A few nurses cried as I put on my white kerchief over my hair, my cream-colored vest covered with flowers sewn on it, and one of my favorite old blue dresses. I wasn’t a patient in a nightgown or a widow in black. I felt like myself.

There was a knock on the door, and it was Harry in his traveling hat and jacket.

“Hello Stella, are you ready to see your home?” he asked.

“Then take me there, my love,” I answered.

I gathered what belongings I had left and he carried the bags with him. I said goodbye to each and every person I was able to. The sun was bright and the sky was full of large, white, puffy clouds as we walked out and stepped into the cab. It was a beautiful trip to watch from the window together- both the cab and then the train to London.

Once we got there, to that beautiful white and grey brick house full of windows with laced white shades and green bushes, he opened the gate for me, practically skipped to the door, and knocked a few times.

“Jojo! Jimmy! Johnny! Guess who’s here!” he announced.

The dog began to bark and there was the familiar cry of “mama!" My own children ran down the hall, the dog at their heels. I noticed John had even gathered a few blue flowers in a blue vase that he handed to me as a welcoming gift.

“Please, everyone- let me hold all of you!” I cried, overcome with happiness.

I stretched out my arms and hugged all three of them, and then me. I felt those three little heads and the softening of their limbs. Harry even embraced himself over us, so we were nothing but a circle of warmth.

Harry then took my hand.

“Here, come see our room- there’s something for you up in our room!” he encouraged.

He took me by the hand and led me there. He glanced at the other children and winked at them.

“It’s a surprise!” Joanna announced. She placed her hands over my eyes so I could no longer see as Harry led me forward. Slowly, we all walked.

“Alright…now open!” he announced.

Joanna removed her hands, and I gasped in the room.

My old blue collection in its entirety was sent over and all organized. Every pillow, pebble, and plate- even all of my journals filled with flowers, my hand mirror, and sewing threads. Even the ones left behind in Aldwinter.

“Oh, Harry, you did it! Oh, thank you!” I gasped.

“And we helped as well!” John remembered, cutting in.

“Of course!” I replied, reaching for an arm around him to kiss the top of his head.

The bed was the softest, warmest bed I had ever laid on. Far more comfortable than the hospital mattress I had to become accustomed to when I Sat there to catch my breath.

At a dinner of chicken, roast potatoes, and fresh, green salad, my children boasted of the various attractions in London that there were. Joanna especially loved the museums to see around town, John the park where he could bike around, and James of course had a fondness for all the sweet shops he could choose from. And how their new Stepfather promised to take all of them to see a play next week. All was laughter and joy.

“I shall tell you-On Saturday, who would like to join your papa to see work? Maybe one of you could become a banker when you’re old enough.” Harry suggested.

“You know I don’t want to be a banker, Papa!” Joanna refused, as she cut up her chicken with a knife and fork.

“And you don’t have to if you don’t want to, Joanna” Harry replied kindly.

“I’d like to see it, please!” John said quietly.

“Then Saturday, we’ll see it, son,” Harry replied.

We all went to church as a family. Though a shock ran through me to see a figure in familiar white robes at the main chapel again, when I looked up, it was a kindly old man with spectacles and a bald head with a shaven face. I still gripped Harry’s arm, hardly letting it go. And he let me. Though he could not recite any of the creeds or prayers to save his life and I had to speak first, his own monotone whispers right after me. ▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬ A month later, when I woke up from that soft bed, I saw that my husband was gone. When I went downstairs to see the housekeeper, she explained that there was a robbery at the bank and some families were in trouble. Harry had rushed over to see what could be done. He would be back later.

As I sat to dinner, I then received a telegram from Harry. Another disaster struck. His brother’s house caught on fire. It seemed that though their home and property were destroyed, and the family safe, the brother himself was injured and had to be rushed. He sent telegrams for three days as he managed the crises. At least I could be there to look after the children and assure them all was well. And I felt in my stomach that he was honest. He was at the bank, with his brother’s family, and at the hospital. Once it was assured that his brother and the families affected by these disasters were safe, he’d return.

But as I laid down to bed on the third night, I had another dream of my first husband. And I shall do my best to be honest, despite the indelicacies of the content of the dream. I understand that those reading this are far blunter and less embarrassed about openly discussing sexual acts than I was raised to be.

In the dream, I saw him in the water. I saw his bare back, but I knew it was him. William. He was swimming naked in the sea, the secret hobby he confided in me early in our marriage. His head emerged from the waters- the curls wet and clinging to him. He then stopped swimming and paused, wading in the water where the tides were low for his feet to touch the ground. He stood there for a while.

He was… pleasuring himself in the water. And I heard a name on his lips in between grunts of his self-pleasure. A name escaping his smooth, baritone voice. Not my name, her name. Her, her, her.

With a startle, I woke up at once. My breathing quickened. I felt clammy. All was dark, yet I felt something on the bed next to me. A weight, a presence. I checked the wallpaper- in Aldwinter, it was a light blue wallpaper with a pattern of white, rounded crosses all over it. Here, it was a creamy, white background with some plants with green stems and leaves where blue blossoms opened up all over our four walls. I wasn’t back in that small Essex town- I was in London!

I turned around and my blood was cold, and a terrified gasp came out when I saw who was lying down next to me.

It was William’s face! I’d know that beard anywhere- I saw his face and he was asleep next to me! The cheekbones, the high forehead, and the large nose. I felt panic surge through my veins. Oh God, he was back! Back from the dead! I let out a scream. The face woke up. A groggy voice started to rumble from the face.

“What, Stella-“

I slapped his face as hard as I could and leaped out of the bed, retreating to a corner. My hands fumbled around and felt for anything I could use as a shield.

“Will! Will! Why do you haunt me? Forgive me, Will! I had no other choice! Will, I’m so sorry! Haunt me no more! Leave me- we are done, Will! I don’t want you back- I’m so sorry! Please! Have mercy!” I begged.

The bearded face jumped out of bed. My eyes darted down to observe his clothes.

I dreaded seeing the dark blue sweater my first husband enjoyed wearing or the black suit and pants with the tiny speck of white at his neck, the clothes he died in. I saw neither. The bearded face wore a white nightshirt with a jaguar stitched over the breast. None of Wiliam's nightshirts had that!

“Stella, I’m not Will! It’s me! Harold! Harry!” the face spoke.

I paused and then realized…it was indeed Harry. Only in the past few days, the light scruff he had grown become a beard.

"You have quite a good hand- I might need to see a doctor!" he mused as he rubbed the reddened cheek from my attack.

“Oh, Harry…oh thank God, it’s you…I was terrified…I thought you were…you were…” I whimpered, slowly sinking to the floor.

There was a rush of footsteps and the door burst open to show Joanna.

“Mama, what’s wrong??” she cried, looking around in her nightgown with braids draping down, it whipped as her head turned around to look at the scene.

She turned to see her bearded Stepfather and froze. Her face went stark white and beneath her nightgown, her legs were shaking.

“Papa!?...Papa?! I thought you…you…”

“Everyone, I’m not William! He’s dead as a doornail! I just grew a beard, that’s all! And it scared your mother, Jo!” he appeased, his hands up.

“But…but with it, you just look like…look like…” she mumbled in awe.

She let out a huge sigh of relief. She helped me up. Then she hugged me tight, and I smoothed her head. I saw quiet tears in her eyes.

“It’s alright, we were both only scared…” I comforted.

Even Harry stepped forward to make it a hug between all of us. I felt my daughter relax.

“It’s all right. The place isn’t haunted, everything’s fine, Jojo.” He assured her.

He kissed the top of her head and she left. Once the door was closed, and there was none of my children in need of comfort, I turned to him.

“I’m so sorry…I…I was spooked…” I apologized.

“Stella, I should be the sorry one…I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It was an accident, Harry!” I insisted.

I went forward and this time leaned against him, and he embraced me, letting me cry into his chest.

“You look like him, Harry…remember? Where is that photo I have of him…here, there’s this journal.”

I went to one journal where I kept a photo of William. It was on a page with some flowers he gave to me that day when I pressed them. For our whole marriage, William had a beard. He only cut it down to scruff when we were married, but he preferred to not completely cut it off. He would say it made him feel mature, manly, official, and confident. It was a more formal photo from an earlier scene in our marriage, him in his black and white sitting on the chair and me standing up next to him. I showed it to Harry and his eyebrows shot up as he glanced between them and then checked it in the blue hand mirror.

“I see…well, shit- you’re right!” Harry cursed.

“I thought he was back. He was going to punish me. He was going to torture me again…” I confessed.

I then sat down on the chair and lowered my head, tears welling up. I then looked up. It struck me- among my things returned to this house was that safe with the letters inside.

“Their letters are here! The ones in the safe! Please promise me you won’t read what they wrote between them! It was too humiliating!” I begged.

“Alright, I won’t” he replied.

He patted my back.

“You’re safe, Stella…you’re safe, you're with me, nothing will harm you ever again…”

I continued ranting.

“Do you know what I dreamt? I dreamt he was…he was…doing…doing…you know, what men do to themselves when they’re full of lust…”

“Masturbating? It’s a word, Stella, I know what it is.”

“But not over me, for her! He was never satisfied with me. I loved him so much, but he never loved me at all! All that time, all that work, that whole bit of my life for nothing! I wasn’t good enough for him. I wasn’t as good as her. I was going to die so soon and he…he…he…” I mourned.

He held me as I cried into him again, letting it wash over.

“Here…I’ll get you some water and wine. I’ll start a fire- you can sit here and later lay back on the bed…” he said, wiping my tears with his thumb.

He got two glasses with each drink, handing them to me. He rubbed my arm and leaned his head against my neck. I gulped down the water quickly. I turned to look at him and saw a few tears in his eyes. Gentleness, lightness- love.

“Tomorrow, I’ll go to the barbers. I’ll get this shaved off.” He promised.

I began to pick up the wine, nursing it over the dryness of its flavor and how deep red it was. If it wasn’t for the light, it would have seemed black. I got into bed, cupping it around my hand as I slowly finished it. I felt the effects wash over me, relaxing my senses and mind after that great fright. Harry got into bed next to me.

“What are you thinking hard about now?” he asked.

“Harry…I’ve taken a life. A human life. The life of someone I loved and trusted. I said the confession to God after I did it but…do you think God has really forgiven me?” I asked.

“Have you forgiven yourself, Stella?” Harry questioned.

He looked at me with gentle eyes and I looked back at him. I found I could not form any words to reply.

He kissed the top of my head and pulled me to his warm, solid chest. I felt one of his hands running through my hair, like a gentle comb. I let the wine and his embrace seep me into sleep, repeating that prayer silently.

I forgive myself; I forgive myself; I forgive myself.

The next morning, when he returned, Harold was clean-shaven.

“Here, how’s that? Am I handsome, eh?” he asked.

“You’re the most handsome man in England” I agreed. ▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬ I had to visit Edith and her husband, Edgar, for the arrival of their little son. My new nephew was so tiny, but with soft rosy cheeks and filled with the scent of a clean baby on him. He had a large smile that no one, least of all his aunt, could resist.

“Oh, little Eddie’s the sweetest boy!” I said, handing him back to her.

“His father and I couldn’t be happier…I only…I only hope you can be happy again, Stella, I really do…” she wished.

“I think I will be. You won’t hope in vain…” I replied.

Though once I got home and went upstairs, there was silence. It was too quiet, even though the children were at school by now. Even as the housekeeper was bustling about. The door to Harold’s study was closed and normally, he tended to leave it open should anyone ask for him.

When I turned the unlocked door to his study, I saw my husband reading the affair letters between William and the Woman. He had the little safe placed on the desk and wide open. His eyes scrunched to study the pages closely.

[words-after-midnight]

Find the Word Tag

Thanks for the tag @primroseprime2019!

I'll tag @frostedlemonwriter, @rsdan, @arijensineink @calicojackofficial, and anyone else who wants to do this. You can either use the same words I used or midnight, moon, carried/carry, joke, banana.

All lines from Life in Black and White.

Tree:

“Can you tell me why?” she asks.

“Because I’m not supposed to be talking about this.”

“Says who?”

I look carefully away from her, out her little office window, where I can see sunlight peeking through the clouds, the red and yellow leaves on trees, and two little black birds, sitting beside each other on a power line. I’m feeling something that I can’t quite name - not yet, at least. After a short pause, I respond, simply but truthfully, “Me.”

Mirror:

(cw: self-harm mention)

Blind rage takes over and I take it out on my journal, tearing out entire pages, off-white clumps of sheets, words, and angry red scribbles I like to imagine are cuts on my skin when I draw them. The paper in my shaking fist, I get up off my bed and move to the adjoining bathroom. I sit in front of the mirror, my own distorted hazel gaze staring back into my soul.

Footstep:

I ignore her. Past couple times, she’s walked away hopelessly after receiving no answer, leaving me once again to the dark confines of my room and of my mind. I’m starting to doubt she even cares. But when this time her footsteps come closer and I feel her hand on my shoulder, shaking me, I feel irate. I wish she’d just leave me alone.

Hand:

We went back upstairs, and I joined Daphne again at the bottom of the staircase. His hand brushed mine as he took his candle back and went back to sit at the window seat, watching the storm as though it was of his own creation. I tried to focus my attention on Daphne, as she began telling me about a time there had been a power outage at her parents’ place for three days straight when she was in middle school because of a massive ice storm one February. Unfortunately, I was trying so hard not to look at him that I probably couldn’t tell you about three quarters of what she said if you held me at gunpoint. I stared into the dancing flame of her candle as I listened to the comforting flow of her voice, holding onto it like a lifeline.

Hair:

Finally, a tired but kindly-looking woman in about her fifties shows up at the door, a messy bun of elegant wheat-blond hair perched atop her head. The worn peach-colored nightgown and simple slippers she’s wearing make her seem like something straight out of the nineteenth century.

[woundfound]

THE DRUNKEN BOAT — ARTHUR RIMBAUD

As I descended black, impassive Rivers,

I sensed that haulers were no longer guiding me:

Screaming Natives took them for their targets,

Nailed nude to colored stakes: barbaric trees.

I was indifferent to all my crews;

I carried English cottons, Flemish wheat.

When the disturbing din of haulers ceased,

The Rivers let me ramble where I willed.

Through the furious ripping of the sea's mad tides,

Last winter, deafer than an infant's mind,

I ran! And drifting, green Peninsulas

Did not know roar more gleefully unkind.

A tempest blessed my vigils on the sea.

Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves,

Those endless rollers, as they say, of graves:

Ten nights beyond a lantern's silly eye!

Sweeter than sourest apple-flesh to children,

Green water seeped into my pine-wood hull

And washed away blue wine stains, vomitings,

Scattering rudder, anchor, man's lost rule.

And then I, trembling, plunged into the Poem

Of the Sea, infused with stars, milk-white,

Devouring azure greens; where remnants, pale

And gnawed, of pensive corpses fell from light;

Where, staining suddenly the blueness, delirium,

The slow rhythms of the pulsing glow of day,

Stronger than alcohol and vaster than our lyres,

The bitter reds of love ferment the way!

I know skies splitting into light, whirled spouts

Of water, surfs, and currents: I know the night,

The dawn exalted like a flock of doves, pure wing,

And I have seen what men imagine they have seen.

I saw the low sun stained with mystic horrors,

Lighting long, curdled clouds of violet,

Like actors in a very ancient play,

Waves rolling distant thrills like lattice light!

I dreamed of green night, stirred by dazzling snows,

Of kisses rising to the sea's eyes, slowly,

The sap-like coursing of surprising currents,

And singing phosphors, flaring blue and gold!

I followed, for whole months, a surge like herds

Of insane cattle in assault on the reefs,

Unhopeful that three Marys, come on luminous feet,

Could force a muzzle on the panting seas!

Yes, I struck incredible Floridas

That mingled flowers and the eyes of panthers

In skins of men! And rainbows bridled green

Herds beneath the horizon of the seas.

I saw the ferment of enormous marshes, weirs

Where a whole Leviathan lies rotting in the weeds!

Collapse of waters within calms at sea,

And distances in cataract toward chasms!

Glaciers, silver suns, pearl waves, and skies like coals,

Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs

Where giant serpents eaten by red bugs

Drop from twisted trees and shed a black perfume!

I should have liked to show the young those dolphins

In blue waves, those golden fish, those fish that sing.

-Foam like flowers rocked my sleepy drifting,

And, now and then, fine winds supplied me wings.

When, feeling like a martyr, I tired of poles and zones,

The sea, whose sobbing made my tossing sweet,

Raised me its dark flowers, deep and yellow whirled,

And, like a woman, I fell on my knees . . .

Peninsula, I tossed upon my shores

The quarrels and droppings of clamorous, blond-eyed birds.

I sailed until, across my rotting cords,

Drowned men, spinning backwards, fell asleep! . . .

Now I, a lost boat in the hair of coves,

Hurled by tempest into a birdless air,

I, whose drunken carcass neither Monitors

Nor Hansa ships would fish back for men's care;

Free, smoking, rigged with violet fogs,

I, who pierced the red sky like a wall

That carries exquisite mixtures for good poets,

Lichens of sun and azure mucus veils;

Who, spotted with electric crescents, ran

Like a mad plank, escorted by seahorses,

When cudgel blows of hot Julys struck down

The sea-blue skies upon wild water spouts;

I, who trembled, feeling the moan at fifty leagues

Of rutting Behemoths and thick Maelstroms, I,

Eternal weaver of blue immobilities,

I long for Europe with its ancient quays!

I saw sidereal archipelagoes! and isles

Whose delirious skies are open to the voyager:

-Is it in depthless nights you sleep your exile,

A million golden birds, O future Vigor?-

But, truly, I have wept too much! The dawns disturb.

All moons are painful, and all suns break bitterly:

Love has swollen me with drunken torpors.

Oh, that my keel might break and spend me in the sea!

Of European waters I desire

Only the black, cold puddle in a scented twilight

Where a child of sorrows squats and sets the sails

Of a boat as frail as a butterfly in May.

I can no longer, bathed in languors, O waves,

Cross the wake of cotton-bearers on long trips,

Nor ramble in a pride of flags and flares,

Nor swim beneath the horrible eyes of prison ships.

[moonyasnow]

A BUNCH of small OC things

Exactly what it sounds like A bunch of small facts about my OCs

Including: some of their favorites, voice-claims, and some short Puella Magi Madoka Magica AU thoughts. So beware PMMM universe spoilers

Tomoe

Fairy Tale: The Tale of The Bamboo Cutter Movie: Wolf Children Album: Raindancer (Erutan) Song: Remember Summer Days Artist: ABBA Book: Journey to the West Tv-show: Kimetsu no Yaiba Game: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Flower: Sunflower Weather: A pleasant day in late Spring, around +20°, with a light breeze Color(s): Poppy Red, Navy Blue, Baby Pink

Her Color Scheme: Black, White, Red

What I imagine her voice to sound like: whoever the feminine-voiced singer in 'FUKUSHU BAND' is

Extra - Puella Magi Madoka Magica - Tomoe's Soul Gem:

Wish: To become a history teacher Power: Gains automatic knowledge of each Witch she encounters' past, time as a Magical Girl, as well as what lead to them becoming a Witch in the first place Weapon: Bow

Irina

Fairy Tale: Cinderella Movie: Lilo & Stitch Album: Traumatic Livelihood Song: Fairytale Artist: Mitski Book: Breakfast at Tiffany's Tv-show: Shiki Game: Diabolik Lovers: More Blood Flower: Clover Flower (both white and purple) Weather: After it's snowed a lot and the ground is covered in thick snow Color(s): Amethyst Purple, Green

Her Color Scheme: Amethyst Purple, Baby Pink, Orchid Puple, Magenta

What I imagine her voice to sound like: SynthV TETO

Extra - Puella Magi Madoka Magica - Irina's Soul Gem:

Wish: For someone, anyone, to love her Power: She can 'talk' to Witches, and make them less hostile, lulling them into a false sense of security Weapon: Dagger

Spike

Fairy Tale: Jack and the Beanstalk Movie: Pride & Prejudice Album: Death of a Bachelor Song: The Real Folk Blues Artist: Skillet Book: Oliver Twist TV-show: Beastars Game: Stardew Valley Flower: Daisy Weather: Grey and cloudy Color(s): Grey

His Color scheme: Black, Oxblood Red, Grey

What I imagine his voice to sound like: Patrick Seitz (in his performance of Franky from One Piece)

Extra - Puella Magi Madoka Magica - Spike's Soul Gem:

Wish: Revenge Power: Razor-sharp spikes Weapon: the same spikes

Junia

Fairy Tale: Rapunzel Movie: The Sound of Music Album: Legally Blonde The Musical (Original Broadway Cast Recording) Song: Do-Re-Mi Artist: Kikuo Book: She can't read :( TV-show: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Game: Project Diva Future Tone Flower: ALL OF THEM Weather: When the rain has just let up and you can see a rainbow, and the sky reflected in puddles on the ground Color(s): Bubblegum Pink, Moss Green, Canary Yellow

Her Color Scheme: Hot Pink, Pumpkin Orange, Seafoam Green, Teal

What I imagine her voice to sound like: Saori Hayami (in her performance as Yor Forger from SPY X FAMILY)

Extra - Puella Magi Madoka Magica - Junia's Soul Gem:

Wish: To be free to sing Power: Shockwave echo voice Weapon: Giant sewing needles & thread

Lisle

Fairy Tale: Sleeping Beauty Movie: Catch me if you can Album: Picaresque Song: My Way Artist: The Beatles Book: Narnia TV-show: Downton Abbey Game: Princess Maker 2 Flower: Easter Lily Weather: Sunny weather in general Color(s): White, Gold, Green

His Color Scheme: Wheat Gold, Green, White, Blue

What I imagine his voice to sound like: John Rubinstein (in his performance of Subaki from Fire Emblem: Fates)

Extra - Puella Magi Madoka Magica - Lisle's Soul Gem:

Wish: To shine as brightly as the sun Power: Blinding lights Weapon: A sword that resembles Excalibur

Veronica

Fairy Tale: The Snow Queen Movie: Jennifer's Body Album: Coyote Stories Song: I'm Still Here (Treasure Planet) Artist: The Crane Wives Book: Vagabond (manga) Tv-show: The Originals Game: Fear & Hunger Flower: Yellow Tulip Weather: Dry and hot Color(s): Gold, Dark Blue, Black

Her Color Scheme: Yellow, Black, Amber, Dark Blue

What I imagine their voice to sound like: Barret Wilbert Weed (yes that is where her name came from)

Extra - Puella Magi Madoka Magica - Veronica's Soul Gem:

Wish: To be able to protect the people she loves Power: Giant diamond-shaped barrier shields Weapon: Sword - specifically a Swiss Saber

Victor

Fairy Tale: The Three Little Pigs Movie: Freaks (1932) Album: The Black Parade Song: Danse Macabre Artist: The Oh Hellos Book: House of Leaves Tv-show: Gravity Falls Game: Pikmin Flower: Rafflesia Weather: Thunderstorms - the more violent the better Color(s): Blood Red, White

His Color Scheme: White, Blood Red, Papaya Orange, Midnight Blue

What I imagine his voice to sound like: Antony del Rio (in his performance of Silas from Fire Emblem: Fates)

Extra - Puella Magi Madoka Magica - Victor's Soul Gem:

Wish: To be able to cut his abusers open and take them apart piece by piece Power: Can separate a living being's 'layers' (skin, organs, nervous system, etc) without killing it Weapon: Surgical Instruments

Artemisia

Fairy Tale: Beauty & The Beast Movie: Howl's Moving Castle Album: Kalafina All Time Best Song: Tsubasa wo Kudasai Artist: Kalafina Book: Frankenstein TV-show: Violet Evergarden Game: Rule of Rose Flower: Ipomoea Alba (Moonflower) Weather: A clear, full-moon night Color(s): Pastel Turquoise

Her Color Scheme: Whisper White, Rose Quartz Pink, Sky Blue

What I imagine her voice to sound like: LUMi (example 1) (example 2)

Extra - Puella Magi Madoka Magica - Artemisia's Soul Gem:

Wish: A pair of white wings on her back Power: Flight Weapon: Spear

[arlenianchronicles]

Eyyyy time for the rest of Finwë’s grandkids! These definitely turned out more aqua-y than I expected. I actually hoped to come up with different colour schemes for them (like with the Fëanorians, not relying too much on their old portrait designs), but I ended up doing quite a bit of colour-picking for these ^^;;;

But, y’know, I’ve made up a reason for it! XDD I imagine that Fingolfin and Finarfin’s families are quite close-knit, so their colour palettes work well with each other to reflect that while still being different for each member. Their branch-ears also have flowers/leaves based on their tree-bodies. Speaking of that ... 

I’ve decided that the mask wood will be different to their actual tree-based bodies. Because, y’know, it would probably feel weird to carve a mask out of your own wood type loll Plus it makes more sense for them to be based on the same tree since they’re related ^^;;

On that note, the Fëanorians will now have Ash tree bodies (I had to change Maglor’s mask wood to spruce due to that)! Don’t worry, y’all don’t have to remember any of this loll it’s just for me to keep track of the nit-picky stuff. More design details below!

Nolofinwëans -- Oak

Fingon

Mask: alder wood

Hair: braided black cotton cloth with gold embroidery

Clothes: sky-blue cotton cloth and silk

Turgon

Mask: beech wood

Hair: layered black satin and velvet

Clothes: white and grey-blue satin

Aredhel

Mask: birch wood

Hair: layered black velvet

Clothes: white silk and velvet

Argon

Mask: rowan wood

Hair: braided black cotton cloth

Clothes: various shades of blue cotton/velvet, with orange embroidery

Arafinwëans -- Hawthorn

Finrod

Mask: holly wood

Hair: layered gold/yellow silk and cotton cloth

Clothes: pale gold and blue satin/silk

Angrod

Mask: maple wood

Hair: blonde fur

Clothes: blue/turquoise velvet layers

Aegnor

Mask: chestnut wood

Hair: bushels of wheat

Clothes: turquoise/aqua-green and yellow velvet/cotton cloth

Galadriel

Mask: elm wood

Hair: pale gold / cream-coloured lace (like those fancy tablecloths XDD)

Clothes: pale turquoise / white silk and lace

[kpopchangedme]

Sun-drenched [M] - Youngjae

Every time you opened your mouth something outrageous came out but unfortunately, your new dorky step-brother seemed to be immune. You couldn’t tell if Youngjae was actually that clueless or if your reputation preceded you. 

Protagonists: Choi Youngjae & You

Word Count: 4.6k

Genre: NSFW - Cringe Fest - Smut - slight exhibitionism - f*ckgirl - Stepbrother!au || [One Shot]

[The Pleasure Chest: A Cringe Fest]

GOT7 | M.list

Your mother was doing that thing with her hair again, slightly shaking her head every time her new beau spoke. Every single bob invariably made her blonde curls spring. How disgusting. You had asked to be bleached once, a few years ago, and she had the audacity to claim it would look cheap on you. So unfair. 

She hadn't met her fourth husband for more than 6 months before she did just that. She thought it made her look younger, but Miami-midlife-crisis was more like it. It wasn't pretty wheat blonde, it was white yellow-ish banana buttercream. On-sale daffodil... Much like the sad ones Youngnam had gotten her from the convenience store yesterday.  They were now awaiting certain death in a crystal vase husband-number-two had gotten her for God knows what occasion.

You rolled your eyes when your latest stepfather started going over safety rules again. At your dad's there was never a need for them and if you correctly remembered the last time you had lived with your mom... You smiled, imagining how Dr. Top Surgeon would react if he found out his perfect church-going wife used to pop pills like candy and store a very impressive bong in the third drawer of her kitchen.

That would make for a fun scene. 

The goodbyes seemed to stretch half an eternity in the living room, after which you got dragged to the hall where the speech began all over again. Your mom gave you a short hug, more of a shoulder squeeze, then she pulled back and frowned with intent as much as her botox allowed. You shrugged off her silent don't-screw-this-up warning, already waving goodbye to her husband. Shoo shoo, you thought, sending the adults off to a far far away location. 

As soon as the door shut behind, you squealed in excitement. 

Summer had officially begun! 

Moving half across the country to fake “house sit” their new place while they honeymooned in Boca wasn't exactly what you had scheduled for your vacations. But when Youngnam accidentally let the words infinity pool and cars – as in with an S – slip out during the weekly video call, not even the dread on your mother’s face could’ve deterred you from flying over. 

As it turns out, Dr. Choi was loaded. 

Something you probably would’ve figured out earlier if you’d bothered showing up for the ceremony at all. Unfortunately, the wedding hadn't matched your Spring Break’ schedule and you decided having been present to the many previous ceremonies should be considered enough daughterly care for a lifetime. 

As you bent to the freezer for a celebratory parent-free popsicle, you felt the eyes of that gift-that-came-with-the-house glued to your ass. He briefly glanced down at the flash of your stomach’s skin when you jumped to sit on the counter. 

Surprisingly enough, your mother’s many rings had never once come with a step-brother before...

Usually, she went for the bachelor or womanizer types and those had the decency to never have baggage. Dr. Choi was a break of pattern and the news came with complete horror on your part.

For as long as you could, you had made a duty of never meeting his son, pretended he didn't even exist. So when the bubbly blended trio came to pick you up at the airport yesterday, you had been shocked.

They had said soloist of the local Choir and you’d heard; loser. Piano lessons? Dork. All-boys school graduate? Stuck-up. Computer Science Major? Nerd alert.

No one had talked about… That.

As a matter of fact, Choi Youngjae himself had not spoken much either, but he was certainly looking... 

And there were few things you enjoyed more than having a man's undivided attention.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen in all his glory, your new step-brother was staring, as usual, watching intently as you sucked your popsicle. You made sure to make a show of it.

“So… What about lunch?” He finally asked even though it was barely 9. Just to rattle him you hummed on the sugary treat as a reply. Mission accomplished. “S-Should I order pizza?”

“Don't worry, I’m easy...” Youngjae’s gaze fluttered down to your belly ring again. Boy, if he liked that one he had a few things coming. “I’ll eat anything if it's on you.”

Gaze widening, he pretended to look at something over in the living room and walked away.

Wait no, the poor guy literally bolted out of the kitchen to escape to safety. So fast one could wonder if this whole first exchange was the fruit of your devious imagination.

Oh no, you had just traumatized your babyish step-bro.

It made sense, you were one scary bitch.

All-boys school graduate? Virgin, you mentally took note. 

Or perhaps your mom had said something about you devouring the souls of poor innocent men. They said the apple never fell far from the tree. Grinning like a shark, you discarded the melting popsicle in the trash.

This promised to be one Hell of a summer break. 

______________________

“It’s been more than 10 minutes...” Chimlin flipped the phone over to yell unintelligibly at her demonic baby twin sisters. Despite the protection, you winced. “No DMs.”

“Then he hasn’t seen it yet.” Artlessly reporting for BFF’ duty was a lot more fun face to face, but for a few months, video calls would have to do. “Trust me.”

“I don't know,” she whined, going on all over again about how her boyfriend hadn’t picked up the phone since their nightly routine fight of yesterday. 

Sometimes you wondered if you’d even follow her back on Insta if you met this current sad version of herself. Kinda hard to tell, but she used to be the coolest baddest chick on campus. Then she was partnered with that Italian exchange student for a Statistic class, disgustingly dripping pheromones, cash and European pizzazz. Yes, Statistics. The most boring course ever, let's be real. But Chimlin was a genius, the deadly hot kind. No matter how shit-faced she was, that girl could track the B-52s and Gin Tonics’ calorie count of each respective member of your girl squad, not that she'd ever had to care herself.

Then Massimo came. At first, he was just a casual hook-up, but he managed to worm his way into her brain and grew there like a tumour. By the end of last semester, they were full-on steady-going together like in cringy 90s rom-coms. He was always stuck to her like a parasite.

Gone was your favourite 4 feet 11 party animal.

“Do you have any idea how many bitches Mas could meet this summer?”

You snorted, “Not even close to the number of dicks you could have in Pattaya if you wanted to.”

“Phatthaya,” she corrected automatically with a dramatic eye-roll. “That’s the thing, I don't want to. I only want one dick and he's miles away.” She waved her hand to brush it off right as your mouth opened in protest.

Her Italian barnacle did want to remain with her on campus for summer, but Chimlin thought she had better plans that involved a lot more beaches and fruity drinks. She simply couldn't live with her own poor life choices now and you were just about to tell her so when a flash of skin on the screen distracted you.  

“What else have you been hiding?” You sing-sang, impressed by the view. 

She glanced over her shoulder, “That's my uncle. Like... He’s literally my mom’s lil’ brother. Gross.”

“I know what an uncle is and that's a very hot one if I’ve ever seen one. You can look.”

“We’re not all depraved sluts like you.” She only half-teased with a sharp laugh. “How's the cute new brother doing, by the way?”

“No idea.” You flipped the camera and zoomed on Youngjae's bedroom window like to prove a point. The curtains were drawn, concealing anything worth mentioning from view. You were lounging by the pool on one of those fancy long chairs, much as you had been for the past week. Margarita, sunscreen, repeat. If this boring routine went on, you’d be so tanned by the end of summer no one on campus would recognize you. Sometimes you did think Youngjae's curtains were wobbling, maybe he was spying on you but it could all be your imagination. “Typical. He's been in hiding from me since day one.”

“I don't blame him.”

“Don't blame me for wanting him either. He's a good boy in a bad boy’s body.”

“I don't even know what that means...”

“No one does. But he's not cute, he's hot. I need him all over me and I've been telling him so, but he's strangely elusive. I think he hits the gym above the grocery store on the corner, I should join.”

“Stalker.”

“I don’t stalk, I live in his house.”

“No wonder the poor guy doesn't go out of that room, I bet he picked up on all your slutty energy.” In the rectangle screen, Chimlin switched to tan the other side and you did the same, laying on your back.

“Ha ha. He'd have to be moronic not to,” you were holding the phone above, casting a partial shadow on your face.

“Your legend precedes you. He's scared you're gonna trap and fuck him.”

“What else am I supposed to do when you've abandoned me and flew to the other side of the world? You know I need a summer project.”

“And of course, it had to be a guy.”

You were so glad she stopped whining about Mas for a minute that you let that one slide. “Well, I am not a needlepoint kind-of-girl.”

“Right, hey maybe it isn’t the incest that’s creeping your brother out. Maybe he's gay.”

Someone snorted out loud at that – not you – and you sat up in alarm.

Two guys were standing by the edge of the pool.

“No, he's not,” said the one on the left, a smile in his voice. They were directly in your sun, so you had trouble making out their features. One silhouette was slightly slumped, the other tall and all limbs. You suddenly felt very exposed, dropping Chimlin to fasten your bikini top in a hurry. This show wasn't for strangers to enjoy.

“Who are you?” The second man asked, clearly lost.

“She's it,” the other echoed.

“Who are you? I live here.”

“We're your brother's social life,” the frisky one smiled largely, kind of in a dangerous way that you immediately recognized for your own. Friends, they were Youngjae's friends and they very clearly overheard your embarrassing banter with Chimlin.

Flushing – a rare occurrence – you brought a hand to shield your eyes from the sun while you corrected; “Step-br–”

A sharp voice cut in, “She's not my sister.”

Behind, Youngjae was standing awkwardly by the patio door, a stern look on his face. He didn't seem surprised his people were there. He didn't even glance in your direction before disappearing back as you blankly stared after him. 

“Well, thank fuck,” the you-guy turned to wink, following him inside. “Good luck with your summer project! I’ll root for you!”

In a daze, you picked your phone back up. Chimlin was still there, waiting dilligently to be briefed on what just transpired. You puffed your cheeks, mentally preparing for what was to come.

______________________

Swear to God, Youngjae had not come out of that room for two days.

Two.

Fricking.

Days.

Maybe he had a fridge in there.

Maybe he only came to life after midnight like a vampire to avoid the whore squatting his dad’s house. 

Whatever his annoying friends told him had certainly made a lasting impression. You just hoped he wasn't the type to go cry to parents whenever something happened. You had no intention of going back to your tiny dorm all alone and sad for the summer just because you hurt his feelings by finding him bangable. Or worse, at your father's.

What was he even thinking?

You had not done anything wrong. Pushed a bad joke a little bit too far perhaps, nothing to get all worked up about. No reason to get shunned out of your mother's life again. 

Youngjae's reaction, or lack thereof, was way out of line.

It's not like you had actually done anything to him. He was such a prude. A prude that eye-fucked you all the time!

Church baby boys were the worst.

What an ass.

.

.

.

Three days?!

Three days of an overly empty house. The atmosphere had gotten so heavy, the air so tense you couldn't even think about anything else. There was nothing left to do. Just sit on the couch inside or by that dumb infinity pool, starring at the drawn curtains of your step-brother's bedroom. They weren't wobbling anymore.

Which was what you were actively doing this afternoon, ruminating your dark thoughts for hours. You didn't even notice you were getting dangerously warmer. When your timer went off, announcing it was sunscreen time again you nearly fell from your chair. 

Doing the legs was the easiest part, your favourite to be honest. They were one hell of an asset of yours. You were massaging the thick lotion on your right calf when something at the corner of your eye caught your attention. 

For a heartbeat or two, you thought you were hallucinating. 

Youngjae had finally reappeared. 

He was standing at the end of the pool, a knapsack thrown over his shoulders. His thumbs were hooked in the straps, hands dangling to his sides like dead weights. If he looked like a young boy at first glance, the heated look on his face was one of a man.

Frozen still, you gulped. True to form, he kept staring for a long moment before turning to the house and you thought he was about to go into hiding again – but oh no, fuck – he was actually pacing towards you. 

“I’m back.” Youngjae blurted out awkwardly, mouth twisted. 

Yours was opened in a mix of disbelief and shock. He was actually addressing you. “Back?” From where the corner store?

“Yes,” his eyes ghosted over your poor excuse of a bikini before anchoring themself back to safety in yours. Again, horny eyes. If you were warm earlier, now you were burning up. “I thought it'd be better if I stayed away at Bam's for a few days…”

Right? No one could actually stay between four walls so dilligently. It made sense. You were so dumb.

Apparently, your confusion was evident. “Didn’t you notice I was gone?” No, you had not. So your step-brother was so freaked out being around you that he actually moved out for a few days. Had you gotten that bad? Jesus. “Anyway, I’m back home with you now.” 

Youngjae took a step closer, kindly getting in your light so you'd stop squinting at him. He looked even hotter in the bright light of day, sweat pearled between your breasts. He frowned and bit his lower lip waiting for a reaction. The things you'd do to that perfectly proper mouth. 

Of course, what came out of yours at the moment was less than appropriate. He was right to be scared, you weren't safe at all.

“Wanna do me?”

Yes, you were that bad. Terrible indeed.

“Do I-I,” he gasped for air – oops, “w-what?”

“My back,” you clarified smiling like a prisoner that hadn't been fed a good meal in days, “sunscreen.” The poor man should've stayed far far away from you. 

You weren’t crazy or desperate, but you couldn't resist. You had been patient and unusually upright so far. You deserved a treat. You were hungry and you knew your step-brother wanted you too, he wouldn't have felt the need to hide away otherwise. Youngjae had an interesting duality, shamelessly thirsting over you one minute and getting flustered and embarrassed the next. He must have been deeply unsettled by your open invitation because before you could flip over, he had claimed possession of the bottle. 

Or maybe he just didn't need to be asked twice this time. He knew. He wanted to give in to temptation. Why would he even come back here otherwise? 

Laying down, you reached to undo the bikini strings, pressing your loosely covered chest against the rough towel on the chair. You waited.

“You must really hate tan lines,” Youngjae said in your back, sounding tormented, “it seems you're never properly wearing clothes.” He sat down in slow motion like an obedient little boy as you grinned. 

“Are you ever gonna put your hands on me?” You teased once more, it was like a string was tugging up your insides through that dirty mouth of yours. You wanted to keep pushing him, wanted to find out what it'd take to make him break. And just fuck you really. It was fighting the inevitable by now. 

Every guy you met wanted to have you.

Usually, you didn't have to beg.

“I'm trying not to,” he admitted the obvious. “I promised I would never touch you,” Youngjae grumbled and you jerked in surprise when lotion spurted on your lower back. “Promised my father I’d treat you well.”

It made sense, a good boy would never disobey and do his dirty step-sister. If your legend preceded you, his golden son’s reputation certainly did too. Honestly, this promise made the taunting easier and even more tempting. It made for a funnier challenge and the spark in Youngjae's eyes when he looked at you hinted you could break him if you really tried.

You were about to defy his ethics again when words went back down your throat, letting way to a sharp sigh. He had suddenly fully committed to applying your sunscreen, fingers exploring your skin. You asked to be touched and he had risen to the occasion, firmly rubbing the lotion on your naked back. 

Earlier you had every intention of teasing him further by enjoying this a little too much, but you weren’t sure it was entirely voluntary when the first moan escaped. If he wanted to keep it PG, he probably should’ve stopped right there, but it didn't seem to deter your step-brother. He kept going, massaging you along the way. His thumbs traced circles up your spine until one of his palms cupped your nape. 

Perhaps this is what an erotic massage was supposed to feel like, heaven. Every stroke was totally appropriate, very perfect boy-ish, but still, your toes were curling. After a few minutes, Youngjae's breathing was heavy, he was enjoying this impromptu contact just as much.

You both had made yourselves obvious these past weeks; him with the eye-fucking, you with the open-truths. Clearly, the forbidden nature of your desires would make for an even more intense experience. You couldn't even imagine how it'd feel to take it further now. 

“I've never had a step-brother before,” you mewled, mentally following the downwards path of his hands.

“I bet you love messing with me,” he replied, barely audible. 

His pianist’s fingers were now haltingly sliding up your ribcage. He wasn't rubbing in anything anymore, just caressing all he could reach. 

He was right, but you wanted more. That was the sexiest thing that happened to you in forever. Having a guy want you bad enough he had to hide away to resit, and now having his hands on you. You wanted him everywhere, all over. You didn’t care; step-brother promises or not.

Giving in to temptation, you turned around, resting on your elbow. Your untied bikini had not followed so you watched as his face fell in realization. Youngjae's mouth opened in awe, eyes glued to your bare perky breasts. At the moment, there was absolutely nothing going on in that male brain of his. He didn’t move; you helped.

As soon as you put one of his hands on your chest, he came back to life. 

“Jesusfuck,” he breathed out, completely winded.

Wow.

Church baby boys were the best.

Entertained, you reached for the sunscreen, pouring lotion on yourself again. “You aren't done.”

“I…” Youngjae swallowed back his protests, cupping your boobs with both hands. He couldn't even look up anymore, enthralled by your nakedness.

No matter what their intentions were, it seemed good guys were still guys after all. If you had known he was this easy to overwhelm, you would’ve walked around topless sooner.

“The neighbours will see us...”

He didn't seem to mind that much, seeing as his thumbs were stroking your pierced nipples relentlessly. If those middle-aged housewives you only caught glimpses off looked over the edge now, they’d have a pretty impressive show. 

“Let them,” sitting, you snaked a hand to his dramatic bulge. Your mouths got so close you felt his breath ghost over. Beaten by your expertise, his shorts’ button came undone first, his fly was even more compliant. 

The moment of truth.

Youngjae's whole body shook when you took his cock in your palm. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Fuck, he was so hard and flushed for you. He pinched your erected nipples in response and you felt a familiar vivid jolt of pleasure and pain down to your toes. Not a virgin, after all, no doubt he would handle you just fine. 

You pressed your mouth to his neck and sucked, right where his Adam's apple bobbed.

That's it, all for you. You were so going to eat up that good boy.

“Mmmm, I’ll tell daddy you’re treating me so fucking well...”

Of all the filthy things you had said so far, this was the one that got the strongest reaction. The wrong one. Youngjae jerked up to his feet, tugging at his shorts in panic. He swore a dozen of times, out of his mind as you stood there, frozen still.

“Sorry,” he offered at last, pitiful before running for his life to the house. 

Fuck.

No.

Surely you were feverish. 

Having a heatstroke.

You had imagined the whole thing.

You had not just being left out cold by a man.

This type of shit never happened to girls like you. 

It took a few minutes to gather back your thoughts and when you did, you decided this wasn't even close to completion.

Without wasting a second more you stormed inside the house, almost flying upstairs to that mythical off-limits bedroom of his. You didn't bother banging, he was in such a hurry he forgot to lock behind, so the door flew open. 

Like a scene straight up from a bad porno, Youngjae spun on his computer chair, a hand still wrapped around his fully erected dick. You couldn't believe your eyes.

“Are you jerking off?” He was already pulling up his shorts again to cover himself, caught red-handed, blushing as though you hadn't been doing it yourself a moment ago.

“I’m sorry, I don't think you–”

“Please don't stop on my behalf,” you waltzed in, confident, and sat on his well-made good boy's bed.

“W-What?” Youngjae blinked, even more, rattled by the sight. 

He didn't leave because he didn't want you, he clearly did. He probably only left because of his father and that dumb promise he mentioned.

“Is this how you've been dealing all along?” You laid back on the comforter, smirking and remembering all those afternoons by the pool you’d thought you’d seen his curtains fall. He certainly enjoyed spying so it gave you an idea. He could try to resist you all he wanted, you'd still made him cave. “You don't want to touch me, right?” Your step-brother nodded, spellbound. “Because you're the perfect son.”

He swallowed hard, “But you keep… Saying those things, sunbathing… And to my friends...”

“Yes, you’re right... So let's start over.” You sighed in fake contrition, “I'm sorry, I've made this so hard for you. I’ll be good too from now on.”

Youngjae scoffed in disbelief, “You are sitting topless on my bed.”

“Oh,” looking down at yourself, you cupped your breasts. “I thought you liked the looking.” His cock was standing up, glorious testimony to this mess. “Don't worry, I get it. I promise I won’t let you touch me...” Throwing your head back without breaking eye contact, you moaned and lightly twisted one of your pierced nipples. “But I’ll make you watch...” Out of his mind, Youngjae did just that as you caressed your own chest for him. Somehow his eyes on you now burned even better than his hands earlier. 

You were so turned on, so worked up by all the days of teasing and loneliness. Your hips started swaying on his bed, craving some fiction and release. 

“You're crazy,” his voice was laboured but he had yet to escape again. This time you wouldn't have followed.

“I-I'm so wet, Youngjae...” Giving in, your right hand fell to your sex, rubbing your last piece of clothing. He was captivated. 

“Fuck it,” he immediately breathed out in surrender, hand wrapping around his dick. That was it, you finally had him. He was all in, playing along with your new favourite family game.

No touching, just innovative teamwork.

You had to establish ground rules, but pushing them was what fun was all about.

“I want you so bad...” You mewled, slipping your middle finger inside your bikini bottom.

Stroking himself, Youngjae groaned, “So you’ve been saying baby, but now you have to show me.”

Oh shit. You were going to come so fast if the golden son had other surprises like that. In a hurry, you wormed out of your panties before he could change his mind once more. In front of his fully clothed self, you laid back, touching your damp slit while he observed intently. The whole experience was surreal, your mind was buzzing, overwhelmed by the wrongness of it all.

It felt so amazing though.

Touching yourself for your step-brother was the sexiest thing you’d ever experienced, and you were very accomplished. You would’ve done anything he'd asked of you, and Youngjae knew that but he abided by his dumb rules. Standing up he came closer, boxer messily shoved down from his earlier haste, one hand was in his hair, the other working hard. You kept rubbing your clit repeatedly letting him see, hastening the pace until you were numb all over, panting. 

“Youngj-jae, I-I–”

Moaning, you broke faster than you had ever with someone, then again no one knew how to make you reach your own high better than yourself. Paroxysm made your thighs jerked as the pleasure waved through you, annihilating all sense of your surroundings.

When you came back, your step-brother was giving up too, bursting in thick spurts of hot cum all over your body and chest. His eyes were wide opened in black elation, intense, not missing a second of the show as he came on you. His whitish-gray seed painted your bareness in ribbons until he was completely emptied.

In silence, Youngjae dropped next to you on the bed, hands covering his face as you both caught your breaths. His now softening dick was still protruding out of his shorts and underwear for the world to see. It probably made for quite a view; your naked body covered in semen right by your respectable step-brother’s way more humble cock.

If your parents came home early, they would both have a stroke.

Youngjae sort of kept his word though... For today at least. 

Because now that you had him all over, you knew you were going to crave him under you.

And no man had ever resisted your charms before.

Step-brother or not.

[The Pleasure Chest: A Cringe Fest]

GOT7 | M.list

[dragon-fics]

DOS: (Reign of Fire) Lone Survivor (Dragoness & Hatchling X Human Reader)

Chapter summary: You are part of a small band of survivors that are collecting food two years after the first attacks. While your scanning the skies, you notice something roll out of a cave. You realise it's a dragon egg, but what will its mother do to you while you stand so close to her home and her baby

Warning: swearing ahead.

I scanned the surrounding area, dressed in my dark fireproof vest, jacket and trousers, carrying my sniper rifle while I looked at to the bright sunny sky. As always, we looked to the sky, looking out for the fowl beasts of the sky, the ones who took everything from us.

Dragons.

They first started attacking two years ago. I, like many others, lost my parents and younger brother to them, along with the rest of my family. And I’ve been hiding with our small band of survivors ever since.

Today we were harvesting our food. It was wheat, potatoes, strawberries, tomatoes and some other vegetables like carrots and cabbages. They were easy to grow and didn’t take long to germinate so we could keep planting them.

Beside me stood Kyle, a blonde stubble bearded, freckle douchebag who thinks he’s God’s gift to our burned, apocalyptic society. He was always trying to talk to me, trying to act smooth... It was torture. Sometimes I imagine tossing him at a dragon when it next attacked. Though our leader wouldn’t allow it... But accidents can happen.

I can imagine these things all I want, but they’ll probably never come through. I smirk to myself as I thought of ditching him to an angry, blazing dragon after getting lost in a cave--that was one of my favourite scenarios to imagine.

But then something caught my eye. It rolled into my view. I looked towards it. It was rugby-ball shaped and semi-transparent with a yellow hue. I walked closer to it, scanning the surrounding area. I hunched down beside the ball-shaped thing, examining it. It was about a foot long and was wider on one end than the rest.

An egg? I thought to myself in surprise. A bit off, I could see a small cave entrance. I picked up the egg and held it to the sun, seeing the silhouette of a curled up dragon inside.

A dragon egg.

I placed the egg back on the ground gently. I heard a low rumble come from inside the cave, almost like a dragon’s growl. I heard Kyle shout my name, though it sounded more like a squeak. I stood up slowly, picking up the eg and rolled it back towards the cave mouth like a bowling ball. Just not as hard. I slowly walked away from the cave and climbed back up to Kyle.

“I’m here!” I called back, holding my rifle in hand.

“You find something?” He asked, jogging over to me. I muttered to myself.

“No,” I responded and looked to the sky again.

When we wake, keep both eyes on the sky. When we sleep, keep one eye on the sky. When we see him, dig hard, dig deep, run for shelter and never look back.

I glanced back over to the cave. I saw a scaled wing creep out of the yawning cave mouth and take the egg back under the wing, rolling it on the ground under its boney wing finger. Kyle looked in the direction I was looking.

“You found an egg and didn’t take it!” He accused in a hushed tone, arms held wide.

“It was innocent!” I retorted in just as quiet of a tone.

Kyle scowled and went to run for the cave, his own rifle in hand. I pushed him back.

“Don’t!” I scowled. “It hasn’t attacked yet! If you attack, it will not only kill you, but it will kill all of us.” Kyle looked away, as if he was thinking--that was a first. “Just leave it and be on high alert, in case it does attack.” Kyle sighed and nodded, turning back towards our crops. I followed suit.

The others stayed harvesting while we looked over them, making sure nothing came in our direction. I was forever glancing from the sky to the cave. As the day went on, clouds gathered in the sky, gloomy clouds. Storm clouds. We had just finished picking the harvest when rain spilled from the sky. We all pulled on our rain jackets as soon as it started, though we were all pretty wet before we could slip them on.

Our driver, Michael, hopped into our pickup truck, and we got into the flatbed with the produce. Micheal turned the key in the engine. The truck shuddered and spluttered but didn’t start. Michael tried again twice more before getting out of the car, the rain spilling off the hoods of our jackets.

“What is it, Mike?” One of our company asked.

Michael sighed. “She won’t start,” he said in an obvious tone above the sound of falling rain. Michael lifted the hood of the engine and turned on his flashlight, sighing. He’d have to get a better look when the rain had stopped so the engine wouldn’t get damaged. The rest of us got out of the bed.

Michael looked around. “(Y/N),” he started. “Go scout that cave,” he ordered, pointing to the cave that had the dragoness in it. I looked at it and reluctantly followed the order, jogging through the rain, mud and puddles. I slowed my pace when I got near the entrance and raised my gun, ready to shoot at that anything came forward. I edged my way into the cave, finger on the trigger as I scanned the cave.

I was about to turn on the light on my rifle when I heard something big fall from the roof and land in front of me. And that’s where I looked, right in front of me. Then I saw two burning amber eyes. I yelled in surprise. The dragon before me shrieked in response. It was deafening. I heard the others scream outside, and the dragon looked up. Its navy head rose and looked out of the cave, releasing a torrent of fire. The others scrambled and Michael miraculously got the truck running. After skidding around in the mud for a bit, they zoomed off, spraying water and mud in their wake.

I ran out of the cave, calling for them to come back, but they didn’t look back

“Shit!” I swore, placing my hands either side of my head in despair. Then I noticed the rain had stopped hitting my coat, but I could see rain falling around me. I looked up, seeing the semi-outstretched wing of the navy dragoness covering me as she watched the others leave. She looked down at me with soft amber eyes and gestured to her angled head towards the cave.

Maybe these creatures were capable of more than killing millions.

I walked back to the cave, and she walked backwards to keep me dry. Once I was inside, she turned around; I turned on my torch, taking it off my rifle. There was a large indentation in the floor, it almost looked like a giant bowl. Inside was the dragon egg I had seen earlier. Then I saw the egg bounce and roll around. That was probably how it had escaped its mother the first time. The dragoness nudged me inside to the bowl with her flat head. I slid into it as the egg bounced again and rolled around.

Thunder rolled, and lightning crackled outside, making me jump in surprise. The dragoness wound her way around me and lay down, trapping me and the egg in the middle of her large scaly body.

The storm lasted three days. The dam dragon went to get food for me every day, which I would cook over a fire, or--which wasn’t the best alternative--she’d scorch it with her fire breath, burning to a crisp--I’d usually give all the burnt bits to her while I dug for the edible meat.

After the storm had passed, she wouldn’t let me go home, so I stayed, hoping the others had found an alternative place to plant their seeds.

One day while she went for food, a chirp came from the egg as it bounced again. The egg had gotten even more active as the days went on, but this was the first time I heard something. I looked at the egg as it rolled again inside its nest, rolling around and around. It made me dizzy just watching it.

It came to a slow stop before it bulged in a few places at once. And then it did again. And again. I walked over slowly, watching it.

I then saw a small snout pierce the eggshell and the egg’s membrane. I looked on, sitting at the edge of the bowl as the slimy, scaly head took its first breath. It took three more before it expanded its wings and shattered the eggs, sending eggshell fragments flying. I yelped in surprise, looking away as an eggshell fragment almost hit my face.

I looked back at the hatchling, the egg membrane still stuck to most of its body. I came closer, tearing off the white membrane that stuck to it like a skinsuit. Soon the little dragon was free, and it hopped about, shaking its blue scales free of slime. It released some puppy-like sounds as it did so. It was about the size of a grown house cat--perhaps bigger, and its wingspan was as long as its body.

It then looked up at me with the same amber eyes of its mother. Our eyes locked and I could understand it. He/She/They saw me as his/her/their mother. He/She/They rubbed his/her/their head against mine. I laughed a little.

“I’m not your dam!” I insisted. I heard wingbeats in the distance. I looked back at the cave entrance as late morning sunlight poured through it. “That’s probably her now.”

I then heard a harpoon being released and the excruciating cry of a dragon roaring in pain.

“FOR (Y/N)!” I heard someone shout as a loud thump. The ground shook a little as a thump surrounded the area.

“Oh, no!” I gasp. I look at the hatchling who was curled up, scared, whimpering. I scooped up the bundle of scales. Grabbed my fireproof vest, gun, torch and rain jacket and hid in the back of the cave, in case the others came looking for me or if Kyle had told them about the egg. I curled up in a ball, the hatchling in my lap, and threw my jacket over me and tried to soothe the scaly bundle.

***

It’s been two years since (D/N)’s dam died at the hands of people I would have called family. We don’t live in that cave now. We live in a closed-down shopping centre that has been abandoned for years and the two upper level are completely rubble, while the underground parking lots and ground floor are fine, apart from a few cracks.

(D/N) is now the size of an average dragon, standing about a storey tall and about twenty feet long. He/She/They do most--if not all--of the hunting and has quiet the keen sense of hearing, so he/she/they can ward off other dragons before they can see or smell me--though the odd time he/she/they come back with bite and claw wounds.

It’s not the best scenario, but it’s a lot better than being huddled underground hoping a dragon doesn’t try to smoke 80 people out of their bunker every night. I just hope this all ends soon and that we don’t have to hide anymore.

[leswansong]

Marichat May - Kitty Cats & Ballet Shoes

Day Nineteen: Flowers

[ A03 ]

   She stared out at the plants on the balcony one last time as she drank the final cup of that horrible murky green juice that she had made him drink all that time ago, the overpowering taste of vanilla made her want to throw up but with some inner strength she stopped herself long enough for the juice to settle in her stomach.

   She wished she still had Mullo put the Kwami had been too badly hurt and needed some time to heal and keeping the Kwami would only further harm her, so one of Marinette's closest had been taken from her. Chat had promised that she would be able to see the small grey Mouse again but she highly doubted that, the old man that had first healed Chat had returned and had been the one to take her away and he didn't look like he was going to ever allow her to see the small octagonal shaped box that the necklace had come in let alone the Kwami; and she didn't blame him, she wouldn't want someone who had hurt a creature so precious to see that animal again.

   So she accepted her fate, she wasn't going to have a Kwami to assisted her as Chat did, she was going to have to rely on her own strength and abilities.

   She hid her disappointment well away from Chat and just like she always did when things got too tough for her she ran from her insecurities, much to everyone's disappointment.

   A fresh set of snow fell from the thick clouds above, the glass sliding doors protected her from the freezing air that sat on the other side. She huddled up further into the fur blanket to try and shield herself from the cold slowly seeping further into the room towards her. Her eyes focused in on one of the plants as it was slowly covered in a thin layer of white powder. The sun was covered by the cloud layer providing very little light to what normally would be a bright and sunny afternoon in Paris.

   She was alone in the strange apartment, she had called out several times only to get no response and she couldn't bring herself to venture out from the bedroom, her muscles hurt far too much for her to even stand but if she tried hard enough she knew she could. She remembered helping Chat pick it out the apartment, she had long since stopped correcting herself, he was always going to be Chat to her and there was no use trying to correct the learned habit now.

   She settled back into a comfortable position under the bedding in an attempt to keep herself warm. Everything hurt and Marinette just wanted the pain to stop, the murky drink had helped a little but it in no way stopped the pain. She tried to fall back to sleep, it was the only thing she could do in her injured state.

   Dreams of spring and flowers in full bloom danced across her sleepy mind, she was wearing a white sundress in a field of tall yellow wheat, a giant oak tree sat a few hundred yards away from her atop a steep hill. Her bare feet carried her towards it, small dainty white flowers surrounded the tree in-between the dark green grass, they tickled her feet when she walked over them, the thick leaves gave her shelter from the warm sun sitting high in the sky.

   With her palm against the thick-barked trunk of the oak tree, she rounded it and a red and black polka dotted picnic blanket was spread across gently across the grass, the flowers poked out from under it. A brown woven basket sat atop it and tray with grapes, various other fruits, cheese and crackers and a wine bottle with a flute glass also sat atop it as well as a small collection of pillows.

   Her feet couldn't carry her over to it fast enough, she arranged the pillows perfectly around her before she dug into the food in front of her.

   The view from atop the hill was amazing, she could see for miles around. To the ends of the wheat fields and the barn, the silo and the farmhouse. The dirt road that led away from it all and the hills full of tall fern trees that lead into tall snow-capped mountains.

   She had no idea where she was but she knew that she never wanted to leave, she wanted to spend the rest of her days there, she could just imagine small little black and some blond haired girls and boys running around her playing games and suddenly like magic they were. She smiled brightly from ear to ear as she came to the crushing realisation that she was in a dream and the sight before her probably didn't exist, a single solitary tear rolled down her face.

   The Sound of the front door being shut awoke her with a start, she instantly shot up in bed, the dream still clung tightly to her mind she laid back down at tried to will herself to back to the dream but her attempts were futile, she sighed and swung her feet over to the side of the bed only to hesitate when her feet brushed against the wooden floor.

   "Marinette?" Chat called but Marinette stayed frozen in place, "I'm home."

   She groaned internally, she whispered a few words of encouragement to herself and slowly she and steadily rose to her feet. Her legs shook with each step, she used the wall for support all the way to the enclosed kitchen where Chat was putting away several bags of shopping. He opened a cupboard and jars upon jars greeted her sight, she squinted to try and read the labels as she got closer to it.

   "Hey…" he said handing her the bottle of milk to put in the fridge next to her since she was closer, "I wasn't expecting you to be out of bed."

   "I'm-" her vision blurred and she clutched desperately to the handle on the fridge door.

   "Marinette!" his voice was filled with concern, his blurred face was the only thing she could see, "Are you okay?"

   "I'm- I'm fine," although she knew she wasn't.

   Earlier that morning she had pushed herself too far but the endless days she had seeming spent in bed were starting to get to her. She loved to be productive and being alone without anything to do… she was starting to go stir crazy, constantly staring at the yellowing paint on the ceiling above and Chat's apartment walls that were devoid of any colour. And on the odd occasion, she had dreams, they only served to remind her of what she was missing.

   "You don't look it," he commented, "Here, how about you-"

   "No not the bed, anywhere but that," she complained.

   "Okay then but you aren't standing up any longer," he replied.

   She nodded in agreement, her vision cleared up slightly, he took the bottle of milk from her and then she was in his arm being carried bridal style into the living room.

   A small blanket and a pillow greeted her when he set her down on the white leather lounge, he handed her the TV remote and quickly headed back into the kitchen to put away the rest of the food items.

   She flicked through channel after channel but nothing piqued her interest long enough.

   "So? What are we watching?" Chat asked placing two cups on the coffee table and sitting down next to her, ignoring the fact that she had jumped at his sudden appearance.

   She shrugged through a yawn and handed him the remote so he could pick something better than the cooking channel she was currently watching.

   "I brought coffee," he offered.

   She nodded as he flicked through the channels eventually settling on a movie she hadn't seen before.

   Slowly he pulled her closer and she rested her head against his chest, the characters on screen didn't interest her, she tried to drink her coffee silently as to not disturb Chat.

   "Oh!" he exclaimed, "I almost forgot."

   She sat up and looked at him in confusion as he ran towards the hallway that led to the front door. She placed her cup back on the coffee table and prepared herself to follow him to investigate.

   "Close your eyes," he called.

   She rolled her eyes but did as he asked.

   She could hear him carefully creeping towards her, not by his footsteps but the rustling of the plastic he was holding. He took his time returning to her side, enough time for her to wonder what on earth he had gotten for her. He was standing in front of her when one of his hands slowly tracked down her left arm, a gesture for her to hold her hand out so she did, her palm open for him to place whatever he had in his own hand in it only for him to turn it and push what felt like a small bundle of sticks into her open hand.

   "Open," he commanded.

   Her eyes slowly fluttered open and the small bouquet of pink roses greeted her slight. She lifted them up to her nose so she could smell their sweet smelling scent. She brought them down at smiled at Chat.

   "Thank-you," she whispered before clearing her throat and saying it louder for him to hear, "Thank-you, they- they're lovely." She slowly rose to her feet and tried to head off to the kitchen to put them in water but Chat stopped her. She frowned at him and tried to pass him again but she once again stopped her, "Chat…" she whined, "let me pass, please."

   He shook his head, "later okay, once you get your strength back."

   She crossed her arms in an attempt to be stubborn but as if on cue her she felt herself grow light headed and she started to see double, she allowed herself to fall back on the sofa. He took the flowers from her weakened hand and placed it on the coffee table beside her half-drunk coffee.

   "You okay Marinette?"

   She slowly nodded her head.

   "I'm going to get more of that juice okay."

   She groaned but complied with his request, she understood why she had been bed bound in the first place, she was definitely regretting watching the sunrise now. Chat disappeared back into the kitchen as she tried to quell the pounding headache that was slowly getting worse.

   She didn't know how long Chat had been gone but she graciously took the cup from him. It was cold to the touch, she sloshed it around slightly and blended ice bounced around the inside of the glass.

   "I have to blend it anyway so I thought I'd still experiment a little with the taste."

   She slowly raised the cup to her lips and mentally prepared for the worst taste in the world but was happily surprised when she tasted caramel on her tongue. She drank it a lot quicker than all the other times the drink had been placed in front of her.

   "I'm guessing it tastes a lot better?"

   She nodded and handed him back the empty cup which was quickly placed on the coffee table beside all the others. He settled back in beside her and she re-entered her position in his arms for the remainder of the movie. Her eyes occasionally flickered down from the TV to the pale pink roses and a small smile spread across her lips each and every time she saw them. The temptation to reach over and touch the delicate petals constantly re-surfaced but she ignored it, she was like a kid who just got a new toy for Christmas but had to wait until she finished breakfast until she could play with it or maybe it was because nobody had bought her flowers before, it was all new and exciting.

   She looked up and Chat before she snuggled deeper into his embrace, she felt like she was back at Alya's apartment with him before a giant stone monster had attacked the city and the people of Paris were scared to go out onto the street. She longed for those days to return because of how simple they were but that was just wishful thinking, she turned her attention to the TV to try and focus on the rest of the movie before it ended.

Made for @marichatmay

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[the-empires-blog]

Different

Summary: Major Edrington met Lieutenant Archie Kennedy aboard the minesweeper, HMS Renown as he and his battalion were being rescued from the danger of impending Nazis. They had an exchange and, now that the war is over, Edrington hasn't been able to get the Lieutenant out of his mind. Feeling lost and missing the man he had only known for a night, he invites him to his home. Edrington soon comes to find the importance of an ally in the peacetime, which is, perhaps, an even greater battle than war.

tw: nazis, the holocaust, ptsd, depression, smoking, alcohol

There was much for Major Lawrence Bram Edrington to blame such a foolish idea on. Shellshock, for example, or perhaps a mite too much brandy to celebrate, or even the wild jollity that accompanied the end of the war, or perhaps the tidal wave of melancholia that set in deep in his veins before he knew what was happening. Confetti still blew down the streets with the fallen leaves, caked in dirt and misshapen with footsteps. Major Edrington didn’t know what to make of it, and his boot ground a soggy remnant of the “V.E Day” newspaper into the mud between cobblestones. The letter in hand, however, was pristine.

He had fought to locate the ginger - haired lieutenant aboard Renown , the minesweeper that had rescued him and his battalion from the misery of Dunkirk. Archie Kennedy was his name, and his eyes sparkled like sapphires in the wake of Hell. You can share my bunk . It was a fine trade for being coerced back into the metal depths of what very well might have been Edrington’s grave. It was only proper for a Lieutenant to surrender his berth to a Major, but both men knew that was not the primary drive behind such generosity.

They shagged like animals.

Major Edrington regretted the letter he penned to Archie Kennedy once he placed it in the mailbox. Edrington Manor was a quiet perch in Berwick - Upon - Tweed, a ghost of what it had been back in the 19th century in the age of high nobility. It was just Bram Edrington and his mother, Mary, that resided there now. The mansion was ancient and out of style, sporting the elaboracy of the Victorian Era, with long running rugs and great portraits of family members long passed hung on the great corridors. Was it too gaudy, too old - fashioned? Or would it be overwhelming? Bram hardly cared whether or not when he brought back old partners and lovers from university or otherwise. Archie Kennedy was different, he figured.

He watched the Lieutenant walk down the steps of the huffing train that dropped him off at the small station ( nothing more than a raised wooden platform and lamppost beside a wheat field ). Had it not been for the breeze running across the lowlands, Bram might have thought Kennedy’s locks of auburn hair were rays of sunlight brushing across his brow.

The seaman had little with him, just a rolled up newspaper and brown canvas duffle bag in one hand, the other holding onto the metal railing as he stepped down onto the platform.

It was then that Bram realised he had given no thought to what he would say, what he would do, when he saw the subject of his dreams, from both day and night, before him once more.

“You look different,” Archie said pointedly, dropping his bag by his side. The train gave a metallic groan and the smoke puffed once, twice, loud and dictated, and the wheels began to slowly turn.

“What’s that mean?”

He shrugged. “You just look different. How do I look?”

Bram drank him in. “Different.”

Archie’s lips quirked. “What’s that mean?”

He shrugged. “You changed your clothes.”

Archie’s smile grew into a grin and he closed the gap between them in a single stride. Instinctively, Bram tensed, nearly flinched, and a terse remark crossed his mind. Archie would never understand the plagues that ransacked every facet of Bram’s life, and nor would Bram to Archie.

Archie enveloped him in a hug, though. It was not joyous or bittersweet or sensual, but rather a grasp for life. Archie’s fingers curled at the nape of Bram’s neck, kneading through the curls of blonde hair that sprouted there. His body was warm and solid and human. Bram let out a shuddering breath, trying to still it to no avail. They were not inches from death any longer. They stood a fair distance away from war, but wasn’t that what they fought for? A false semblance of peacetime and Britain? From Bram’s pessimistic experience, peacetime was simply a handful of years from war to war to let the human supplies replenish before they could be thrown away again. But now, for however long, they had life and they had Britain, as damaged and fatigued as they were.

They pulled away. A thrush rustled and a fox screamed somewhere in the field, and it sounded nearly human.

“I parked the car just a ways away. Do you care to drive, or shall I?” Bram asked, directing them to where his Standard Nine rested along the boundary of the field.

“You drive,” Archie said with a grin. His gaze cast ahead, the Lieutenant was handsome, auburn hair spilling over his forehead and the corner of his mouth twitching again like he was thinking of something funny. He looks different , Bram decided. But again, this kind of different was not the same as before or even when they had first cast their eyes upon the other.

The drive was uneventful, as most things in Berwick - Upon - Tweed were. Children walked along the side of the street, worn footballs just a kick away from their feet. Sheep grazed in the fields worn down by the harvest. A half destroyed sentinel of a windmill stood upon a hill still burnt black. The rumble of the car engine could have been an incoming bomber. His forearms cramped and he realised he was gripping the steering wheel with such a great intensity, his knuckles were white. Self - consciously, he glanced at Archie, whose blue eyes looked away as he did. The seaman had enough respect for the soldier to not say anything of it.

They turned at the unbecoming mailbox with a fraying yellow ribbon wrapped around the wooden post. “Isn’t that what the Yanks do?”

“My mother finds America admirable,” Edrington said.

“I’m going to meet your mother?” Archie exclaimed.

The car slowed at the turn just in front of the mansion. Bram took the key out of the ignition and turned to Archie. “She’ll be impressed by you, I promise.”

“I don’t know,” Archie swallowed, “if I am the right sort of person for this.”

“Nonsense. We are more than prepared to welcome unfashionable company,” he said, and waited for his reward to manifest itself into a smile on Archie’s lips. It never came. Bram let them into the house, just as his mother came around the corridor from the kitchen, a platter of finger sandwiches propped against her hip.

“I made some treats before supper; I didn’t know if you boys would be hungry!” Mary Edrington was a grey haired woman with little spectacles perched on the little bridge of her nose. She was fond of argyle and paisley and a great equestrian, as well as financial wizard and master gardener: a widow with too much energy. She was much more sensible than a woman of her station would be, limiting herself to cotton dresses and shoes she had worn for years.

Bram cracked a smile and, instinctively, he glanced at Archie to see that he was smiling as well. It seemed so silly to be reduced to nothing but a target, an animal, a survivor, and return to finger sandwiches with cucumber and apples slices. It seemed silly to murder and destroy and still be referred to as a boy.

“Oh, now, what’s so funny?” Mary protested.

“Mother, you’ve no need to stoop.”

“I’ll have you know I do . I sent Mafalda and Jerry home early, and I didn’t want to see our guest ,” she said pointedly, “to be neglected.”

“I’m quite fine, ma’am, but your hospitality is refreshing,” Archie assured politely. “And your home is more beautiful than I could have imagined.”

Mary glowed. “Don’t flatter me or me house, Mister...?”

“Fourth Lieutenant Archie Kennedy, ma’am,” he took her hand and shook it vigorously.

“Sit down, both of you, and I’ll pour out.” For a moment, as they both went to the sitting room and reclined on newly upholstered seats, Bram thought maybe the expression had been nothing more than an empty expression of goodwill, that she would set them a pot of tea and go about her business. Mary stayed, however, and asked how Archie’s journey in was. It was fine, ma’am, but you get used to one form of transport or another in the navy. If it’s not a B-52, it’s a minesweeper, and if it’s not that, it’s a transport truck or destroyer. I was tempted to ask to borrow a carrier and sail her round the backside of the lowlands instead of taking a train . Mary gave a great snort of a laugh at that. Archie poured her another cup of tea with a wink and she took to him even more. He had that way with women, with people in general. He’s different , Bram thought again as he sunk into the loveseat and spectated.

Archie told stories of the war as the day drained into night. They were lighthearted and thoroughly watered down, of course. They were the versions for children and parents and civilians and bartenders and even other veterans. Bram only talked about what happened when he was with Archie. He tried with his mother, once, but she only wished to discuss the broken fence or the bitter weather or the business in town, as if he was on some weekend holiday in France. She seemed to take well to Archie’s tales, however, but she knew her son was safe, and Bram had never been a great storyteller.

“ … we were firing at the U - boats and Nazi destroyers from the promontory like we were throwing darts! The other Lieutenants and I would discuss our shots, running back and forth, perfecting the angles as if we were all three sitting here in this parlour. Sitting ducks, they were…”

“Stop going on so much about the war,” Bram reprimanded gently.

“I don’t mind it one bit,” Mary assured before Archie could get a word in. “I don’t mind being entertained, anyway. As long as you don’t go on about military tactics and makes of aeroplanes and German cars, and oh , those terrible camps .”

A note of tension as tangible as barbed wire and concrete walls stung the room and simmered low. Genuine anger bubbled in Bram’s chest. Or perhaps it felt like anger. Maybe it was guilt, pain, upset, disturbance, and the selfish realisation that he would eternally be ostracised for what he knew and saw, forever misunderstood and misjudged and hailed as a hero when he felt like nothing more than a man responsible . Skeletons haunted his mind.

“Sounds like Bram,” Archie smiled, but, as he glanced back at the major, he might have taken his hand and pulled him onto the Renown and offered his cabin.

“Oh?” Mary giggled, knowingly. Bram light a fag and puffed to himself.

…

A pot roast was served for dinner. A large cut of roast beef was arranged on a great orange platter and placed in the middle of the long wooden table, ornamented with bowls and plates of potatoes, gravy boats, rolls, and a large carafe of ale. The grandfather clock struck seven as Mary said grace. The pearl handled silverware felt strange in hand. Bram thought he would grow accustomed once more to it after a few days of being home again, but days turned into months and they felt just as foreign.

He forced himself to eat slowly. Paranoia seemed to creep up on him when he ate, if for no other reason than to remind him that his sense of security was false. Bram put his fork down between bites and sipped at the alcohol with deliberation.

Mid - meal, Archie spied the well tempered clavichord hiding beneath the black cover in the corner of the dining room. Without excusing himself, he went to it and tapped at the keys.

“Can you play?” Mary asked.

In response, he began tapping out a tune from Gilbert and Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore . “Things are seldom what they seem,” he sang, “skim milk masquerades as cream, highlows pass as patent leathers; jackdaws strut in peacock's feathers.” His voice was adequate, though whatever talent Archie might have possessed was marred by his attempts to roll ever ‘r’ in the gaudy, operatic way whilst doing the bass and soprano parts of the duet and play the right notes on the well tempered clavichord. “Though I'm anything but clever,” he went on, “I could talk like that for - ever, once a cat was killed by care, only brave deserve the fair.” The Lieutenant went on to finish the song and Mary clapped enthusiastically.

It was almost embarrassing to Bram that Archie thought he needed to earn his keep somehow within the house; he was a guest. As Bram was determining whether to tell him now before he could neglect his dinner for a show, or later that night, he faced a realisation. Archie stood and gave a flourishing bow, pantomiming the removal of a hat, sweeping it across his body as he bowed deeply. He’s an entertainer , Bram thought. None of this was for them, but rather for Archie to be liked, to be seen and heard, to be adored, and to be laughed with and at. To be remembered.

Bram retired later that night, though a great deal earlier than he usually did. He had not gotten adequate sleep the night before, yes, but he was eager to hole away in his room.

“That is terribly rude to your guest, Lawrence,” Mary insisted. Archie looked uncomfortable, as he always seemed to be when mother chided son. Bram was well into his twenties, but Mary would only relent when she herself was dead and gone. Archie would have to get used to it.

“Believe me, I’ve been far ruder to Archie,” he said, beginning up the stairs.

“Then we shall see you tomorrow,” Mary said. She turned to Archie. “Is he so awful to you, Lieutenant Kennedy?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t grown to like.”

…

Sleep evaded him. The curtains blew back and forth with the cold night air drifting in through the window thrown agape. Mary would have a fit if she knew the power from the furnace was being wasted. Bram snuggled beneath the covers, feeling much younger amongst the relics of his adolescence. Photographs from university, letters from his secondary school mates, medals from mathematics competitions all littered his bedroom. He might have been a child again. His eyelids drifted low and his breathing slowed.

Bram jerked atop his bed, eyes flying open and turning quickly to see who was at the door. Nothing but shadows. He wished he had his rifle to cradle; stuffed animals no longer gave him security.

He sat up and lit another cigarette. The moonlight gleamed in through the open window, pale rays almost making the smoke dissipate into nothing. His lips pursed and he tried to blow a smoke ring.

Bram threw the covers back and stood. His limbs were sore with fatigue. His skin prickled with gooseflesh and he abandoned his room and quietly snuck down the hallway. Light bled into the corridor from one of the rooms. He entered without knocking and saw Archie sitting on the floor, back to the bed, reading a book by flashlight.

“I hoped you would be asleep,” he said, not looking up from the dimly lit pages.

Bram took a long drag on his cigarette. “Me too.” He padded to the four poster bed and curled on the side closest to Archie, looking down and reading over his shoulder just to find that he couldn’t. “What book is that?”

“Hamlet,” Archie said as he closed it and looked back at Bram. “By Shakespeare. Have you heard of him?” Edrington wondered if this was how Archie survived the leftover hardships of the war when he wasn’t performing.

“I missed you,” he said sincerely.

Archie turned fully and rested his elbows on the side of the mattress. His hand ran through Bram’s hair. “I know.”

“I missed you so much,” Bram’s voice dropped to a whisper as it broke.

“You daft bastard, why didn’t you write me sooner?” Archie queried, pressing kisses to any bare flesh he could find. Bram leaned forward and kissed his lips softly, tenderly. Between horrifying dreams of shrapnel and fire and walking skeletons was the rare feeling of Archie Kennedy’s lips upon his, moving slow as hands grabbed and bodies pressed.

Archie climbed on the bed and straddled Bram, whose hands settled on his waist beneath his shirt. Archie abandoned his post at Bram’s lips and settled at the crook of his neck, nibbling and biting there and breaking capillaries. It would bruise, no doubt, and Bram thought as much. Archie’s hand went to the hem of Bram’s pyjama pant, but the Major caught him. “Wait, Archie, I don’t want - ”

“Tell me what you want, then,” breathed the seaman as he kissed Bram’s cheek, close to his mouth.

“I want to sleep.” Archie slid off of him and reclined beside him. He knew what he meant.

“Okay,” he said, and Bram noticed his lips were swollen. Bram’s arm rested on Archie’s waist as he turned, fitting his own body with Bram’s. He was warm and solid, heart beating just as unsteadily as Bram’s. The major wondered how long it had been since Archie had sleep. He might have asked, but a yawn overcame him. Archie pulled the hand that rested on his hip over and laced his fingers in it. Their cold legs intertwined and Bram smiled into Archie’s hair.

Bram had dosed on the battlefield, longing for the stillness, the regularity, that home would grant him. It was a strange thing to go from the coddled state of adolescence to the animalistic desperation for survival, and back to normal life. For some reason, he thought that once he smelled the marigolds in the garden and wandered through the streets of the township, it would come to him. Bram was never to return to that life again, and he was alone in that knowledge. He was different.

Well, almost alone.

Perhaps the closest he would come to that sense of innocence was with Archie Kennedy by his side, in his arms. The man that tells war stories as if they were naught but tall tales. The man that made light wherever he went. The man that sacrificed himself again and again. The man he chose. The man that chose him. The man that was different. They both were.

“Goodnight, Bram.”

“Goodnight, Archie.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[pjstafford]

Smoke Rings Chapter 2

A couple of people asked to read more of my first attempt at a novel which I wrote in the nineties.  Read the first chapter: https://pjstafford.tumblr.com/post/165247149659/smoke-rings

A thought pops into my brain.  Why do I spend so much time partying and so little time studying.  I pushed the thought away as intrusive and worthless since  I knew it was a behavior that wasn’t going to change.  “Hey,”  my brain jumped to its own defense “I work full time.”  Sure, but I wasn’t married and I didn’t have children.  There was no excuse for not being better prepared for the end of the semester, but every semester was the same -playing catch up and beating myself up for having to play catch up.  

I often thought about giving it up.  I was taking one class a semester.  I was never going to earn a degree.  In this familiar thought monologue a voice from my favorite high school teacher would interject that I shouldn’t compare myself against anyone else but myself.  Did I know more today than I knew a day, week, month, year ago?  Typically this voice gave me inspiration to continue.  

This is why I was in the city library on a Sunday afternoon.  Despite the fact that it was late May the snow had returned to the Rockies and the library, which was heated to capacity, was still cold.  This semester was harder than the others.  Accounting sucked the life out of me.  However, I was a city clerical specialist and if I knew accounting I might get a transfer to a job that would suck the life out of me a little more but would pay a little better.  So, I studied accounting.  

Feeling like an icicle, I walked over to the wall of newspapers.  I loved the physical feel of a newspaper from another place.  With a newspaper in my hand from New York, I could imagine I was in Manhattan and would be leaving soon to catch the subway to see the traveling art exhibit or i was in London and later in the pub would say to someone...”Did you see that thing in the paper about that person who is so British and did this shocking thing?”  Never read the local paper- only the ones from places I would never visit.  On this day, though, even the papers would not keep my attention.  I was restless and bored to tears with my existence.  So I wandered the library in search of warmth.  

Beside the newspapers was a set of stairs which led to the basement.  I walked down there now and find a computer room, a microfiche room, archived offices closed on Sunday.  The floor was almost abandoned and colder than upstairs.  I crossed the floor to the West Wall, passed a set of bathrooms and found a flight of stairs back up.  About half way up the stairs was a landing.  A sign pointed to another set of stairs to the main floor.  To my left was a large alcove, noiseless and refrigerator cold.;  a space designed into a building by a designer who thought libraries should have hidden rooms and private places..  Three tables were in this room and despite the noiselessness was full of university types; serious students who had found the space by the stairs that almost no one knew about.  I started to walk right by and then something caught my eye.  

Bare feet!  Bare feet with bright purple polish on the recently pedicured toes.  Damn snow storm outside and here were bare feet, sandals lying beside the feet under the table.  Jeans were above the feet.  Above that was a t-shirt with a slogan for world peace, a red flannel shirt open over the t-shirt and a windbreaker over the flannel.  Her hair was still the long, blond, silky hair from  the Buckhorn bar.  Her face was devoid of make-up, large light brown glasses covered the eyes and she was reading a book of poetry.  If this had been a TV commercial she would be munching on a bowl of organic wheat flakes, but instead she was chewing on a pen.  It was the same girl, but she was different in this different environment.  I went backed to the main floor to my book on accounting and was able to focus until the library closed.  

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday - I spied on Trisha.  Of course, I was at the library anyway so its not like I went there intentionally, but as long as i was there...I spied.  Arriving at 6 p.m. I would take a ritualistic walk over to the newspapers down the stairs, across the basement to the West Wall past the bathrooms, u p the stairs and passed by the alcove landing half up the stairs.  Each night Trisha was there in her bare feet with the sandals beside the feet.  Every night a different t-shirt - green peace, green vote and, on Wednesday, a bright yellow shirt with a picture of Jimi Hendrix on it.  Her hair remained the same.  One night she wore Southwestern jewelry over the t-shirt.  

Trisha became my escape into another world the way the newspapers once were but no longer sufficed  Who was this exotic creature really?  What life did she live?  I began to look forward to the fact that I would catch a glimpse of her each night.  However, I would remember that night at the Buck and hate myself for the compulsion to spy on her.  On Wednesday I stopped before I got to the alcove and started to turn around.  Then I heard the voices.  They were soft spoken but seemed to vibrate off the walls- loud in the otherwise noiseless space.  

“Here are the notes you asked me for, but I don’t think you can understand the book without reading it.”  Trisha’s voice was matter of fact  

“I just don’t understand why this class isn’t called American Literature no one wants to read.  i thought I would get a grounding on classic American literature, but the teacher went “diverse.”  The only white guys we’ve read are these beatniks and were they really that popular even in the fifties?   Why do I need tto read his stuff?” 

“Why did you enroll in the class to begin with?” Trisha asked.  

“Oh, my dad thought if I took a graduate level class I would develop some “depth”.  I’m majoring in pre-med and he thought I was taking too much science.  He wanted to be sure I had some balance and he is paying the bills, but really, who has time for “depth” in today’s job market?” 

There was silence then until the man’s voice, bored and uninterested in the subject, asked a question “So why did you take the class?  Are you a graduate student in literature?”

“Our world is becoming smaller and we see on television and read in the papers selective viewpoints,”  Trisha’s voice was rich with emotion.  “In the literature of the United States are the strong and vibrant voices of the worlds within our world.  The woman contemplating suicide because she doesn’t want to be a housewife, the black man asking why he should vote just because now he can, the native american who asks why we are so sure everything is linear.  The wanderer and outcasts who live beyond society’s norms.  During the section on the beats, I spent an entire night walking through Denver looking for Dean Moriarty’s father or at least his spirit.  Neal Cassady inspired Kerouac to write the character of Dean Moriarty, but then Cassady also appears in Tom Wolfe’s book and he inspired the Dead to write songs.  How can we say we know America and Americans if we can’t fathom Neal Cassady’s existence?”

I didn’t know who Cassady was.  I had never read Kerouac or Tom Wolfe.  I suddenly hated that I was studying accounting to progress to another job and a small step increase in pay and not exploring the worlds that were around me.  I wanted to know Trisha.  Then, I stopped and reminded myself of how disgusted i was with her at the Buckhorn.  I did not want to know her. I heard the sound of chairs sliding and quickly went down the stairs into the restroom, past another woman and into a stall before Trisha could see me as she also entered the restroom.  I stayed in the stall, heard a toilet flush, and then heard a conversation between Trisha and the other woman in the restroom.  The other woman was a little older.  

“Aren’t you in my history class?  I’m heading home to finish that paper now.”

“Oh, yeah.  I’ve been working on it every night for one hour after the library closes.  I could get lost in it so I’m having to discipline myself to make sure I do other work.”

“I have to discipline myself to work on it.  Wish my problem was having to tear myself away. “

“I picked an interesting topic.” 

“You are such a study hound, but life is too short.  You know you are so beautiful.  Why don’t you lose the flannel and the jeans, get contacts, buy a silk blouse, wear a little make up.  Enjoy yourself why you are young, lady.”

I almost snickered out loud.  This was the last advice Trisha needed.  

The close call made me rethink what I was doing with my spying on Trisha.  Who needed her or an exploration into alternative worlds?  I needed to stay focus on what was obtainable.  Thursday night I aced my final.  Friday and Saturday I scrammed out of town to hang with Sly and Wayne in Laramie.  Sunday found me back in town.  I had beaten yet another late Spring storm snow into Denver.  It was a bleak, cold, gruesome day.  I tried watching television, reading, cleaning.  I left my home to buy groceries and somehow, for some reason, found myself back at the library.  Finals were continuing another week at the U, but I was done until the Fall.  There was no need for me to be there.  I went to the wall of newspapers and picked up an Italian newspaper,  I knew some Spanish and could make out of the words in the sister language.  I was at a villa in my mind getting read to meet an Italian lover.  

I saw bare feet standing next to me and looked up from the newspaper.  Trisha picked up the LA Times and flopped down in a chair next to me.  “There’s an interesting article in here about why Edward Albee plays are gaining popularity in community theater groups.”  It was like we were best friends in the middle of a conversation  “I turned in my paper comparing New England and Southwestern poems by the way.  I only have one final left and it is in my Western Film class.  I hate Western’s personally, so will be glad when that class is over.”  

Trisha put her paper down and looked over her glasses at me.  Her eyes were not outstanding.  They were plain, ordinary eyes which were a little red from eye strain.  Suddenly her voice became angry.  “You’ve been studying me while I’ve been studying literature, history and film.  Have I answered all of your questions? “  Suddenly I feared I was about to be served a restraining order.  I felt like a stalker.  I started to explain, but I am not fast on my feet.  The more I explained, the more I sounded like an idiot.  

“I haven’t been studying you.  It’s a public library, you know.  I have a right to be here.  I started talking walks and when I saw you I was interested.  No, not interested, mildly curious, but all I was doing is walking by,  I just eavesdropped a little.  I mean I didn’t really eavesdrop or if I did I didn’t mean to.  “

I had lost all dignity and sounded nuts.  Damn it - might as well tell the truth- although I wasn’t sure what the truth was until I said it out loud.  I did know the woman beside me in bare feet and bare face was more interesting than all the foreign newspapers I could read.  “I can’t believe you are the same woman as that woman at the Buck.  I do have a lot of questions about you .  When I think of you I feel on edge, jittery, as if something important is about to happen.  Its like a suspense story.  You want to turn it off and forget about it, but you are afraid that if you blink you will miss some horrible scary but really good part.  I must know more about you.”  The intensity of my feeling- the fact that this mundane Sunday at the library was suddenly fill with a thick air of possibility - terrified me.  I felt like I was on the edge of a ledge and I didn’t know if it was better to fall off or step away to safety.  

“Look.  I have a life.  I am way too busy for intrusions.  I haven’t invited you to be part of my life and I don’t have an obligation to fulfill your curiosity.  Leave me alone.” 

“I’m not gay.”  I don’t know why I felt the need to spell that out.  “I just want to know your life and what it is like to be you a little better..  How can I know about your world  if I don’t know you and I want to know your world.” 

Trisha looked at me for what seemed like a long time.  

“Friday night.  My finals will be over.  I’ll be at a bar in Fort Collins.  I’m sure you can find me.  “

I nodded relieved, ashamed and determined not to find her on Friday night.  I did not need her in my life.  

[kvothes]

⚡️⚡️ thank you

they imagine a golden countryside where even the rain is charming and an august afternoon spends an entire year winding downthey imagine perfect warm summer simplicity(as though i have never straggled across a blinding white horizon, as though i have never tripped into the recesses of a muddy fall, as though i have never hated an honest man)all things yellow and joyful and nothing frivolous about the work done thereeveryone paints a blonde field of perfect straight linesedged with wildflowersgilded with sunlighta shaft of wheat made immortal by a brushstrokebut i remember-every day in the spring-when i despised that town and everyone in it-the field was green and new and we would stop to watch the wind dance, and dance, and sing

[brittysaucefanfic]

A Fate Unclaimed

Part 21

(First)(Previous)(Next)(Last)(AU 1)(AU 2)(AO3)

“Lance!” Hunk yells out as Keith catches Lance while he collapses. 

Lance doesn't look very good. Keith's no doctor, but he doubts the purple tinge to Lance's skin is healthy. Nor are the prominent purple veins snaking outward from the hole in Lance's shoulder when he removes his shirt and jacket. A hole so big he can almost see right through. Keith gags a little in his mouth but diligently takes Lance gently to the ground.

His breathing is ragged, wheezing and interrupted by body wracking coughs. Lance is sweaty too, shivering and whimpering. Keith grits his teeth as a particularly harsh cough rips through Lance’s chest. It makes Lance nearly fold in on himself, and when it’s gone he collapses back into Keith’s arms. 

Hunk uses a spare shirt from his pack to press onto the bleeding hole.

“This isn’t good, for more reasons than Lance dying.” Pidge says, her words cold but her voice thick with worry. She places a hand on Lance’s forehead but quickly rips it away with a hiss. “He’s boiling.”

“What do we do?” Hunk says, first looking at Lance and then up at Pidge with watery eyes. “Pidge, do you know if there’s a cure for a manticore sting?”

Pidge doesn’t answer, and when Keith looks up from the pinched face of the man in his arms, he gets his answer anyways. She’s chewing on her lip, a small bead of blood bubbling at one of her teeth. Her eyebrows are low, her eyes lower, and she’s fisting her shorts tightly in her small hands. Keith may not be the most knowledgeable when it comes to feelings, but he knows this look well. Pidge isn’t going to deliver very good news.

“There is none is there?” Keith says, voice barely above a whisper. Hunk claps a blood smeared hand over his mouth as he smothers a sob. 

“We don’t know.” Pidge says. 

“Don’t know what?” Shiro butts in, gentle but firm. He’s good at that, pushing his emotions away to focus on the task at hand instead. 

“We don’t know if there’s ever been a cure. The venom acts too fast for anyone to live long enough to discover if there is or not.” Pidge says, her voice wobbly and wet. Keith swallows and looks back at Lance’s face. His eyes beneath his eyelids keep shifting like he’s having a nightmare. 

"We can't just leave him to die!" Hunk yells, his eyes angry and filled with tears. He reaches forward to brush a lock of hair off of Lance's face. His large hands are shaking. Shiro takes over with pressing on the wound when Hunk’s shaking make Lance groan low in his throat.

"We won't Hunk. Maybe Allura will have an idea." Shiro says, laying a hand on Hunk's shoulder to comfort him. Shiro smiles, but there's a tightness in his lips that Keith can decipher as easily as he can wield a sword. Shiro is losing hope. Which means there isn't much hope left for Lance's odds of survival.

A harsh breeze hits them, cooling their heated skin.

Keith turns his face to the wind to cool his face and dry some of the tears threatening to fall. He must have gone crazy though because he swears he hears a voice in the breeze. He can't tell what it says, but he swears he heard it. Keith squeezes his eyes shut to refocus on the task at hand.

"How do we get a hold of Allura?" Keith asks, all business.

"Iris messages." Shiro replies, digging into his pack and drawing out a small handful of coins that look weird and shine a dim gold in the sunlight, as well as a bottle of water. Keith can't imagine why they would need those for this so called 'Iris message' but whatever. Maybe he's thirsty and wants to look at weird coins?

Shiro must have meant 'instant message'.

Now, Keith is in every right mind to think Shiro is going to pull out a phone. Until he just takes a handful of water and throws it in the air to create a rainbow. Then he tosses one of those gold coins into the rainbow and it disappears.

Into thin air.

"Oh Iris, goddess of the Rainbow, please accept my offering. Show me Allura Altea at Camp Half Blood." Shiro says in a deep voice. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised, he’s seen weirder. Like the manticore, which apparently does exist, alongside gods of an ancient polytheistic religion. He glances at Lance when he whimpers as Pidge takes charge of holding the wound close this time. He looks back up to see Allura shimmering in the mist. Her hair is immaculate and very thick, still that stark white. She looks relieved, and tired. 

“It’s good to hear from you all, I’ve been worried. I had a dream that- “ She stops and swallows before shaking her head and putting back on her stunning smile. “Well it doesn’t matter. How’s the quest going?”

“Allura, we would love to chat for a minute but we need your help.” Shiro says. 

“Oh?” Allura replies, her eyebrow raised.

“Do you know of any cure for a Manticore’s sting?” Pidge asks. Keith holds onto Lance tighter as he’s reminded of the situation they’re in. Allura’s face pales from her usual golden tan to a white almost as stark as her hair.

“Lance?” She says, merely a whisper.

“Allura do you? We don’t have much time, please.” Hunk says, tears running down his face. He tries to wipe them away but he just smears a line of Lance’s blood across his cheeks and nose. It looks ominously like Shiro’s nose scar.

“I can’t recall anything. My expertise is in the sea, not the sky. How is he?” Allura asks, her face twisted in regret and anguish, two emotions Keith knows like old friends. Shiro visibly swallows before he answers.

“He’s fading fast. What do we do?” 

“I don’t know. I will ask Coran and contact you if I discover anything helpful. Good luck.” Allura sees, and he watches as she raises and arm like she’s going to backhand someone, and then she disappears.

“Dammit, what now?” Pidge says. It’s telling of the dire circumstances when Shiro doesn’t tell her to watch her language. 

“I could probably be of assistance.” A voice says from behind Keith. He is startled so much that he drop Lance’s to the ground, grabs his knife and prepares to attack the intruder. Last time someone snuck up on them during this quest, it ended up with them being plopped in the middle of nowhere and then getting attacked by a giant Manticore. Which also ended up with Lance dying in his arms slowly.

He doesn’t attack though, because he’s stunned by the sheer beauty of the man before.

Blonde hair like grains of wheat, skin that almost seems to glow with the sun. His eyes are a molten gold and his smile is blinding. He’s wearing a pair of ripped jeans and a yellow t-shirt with a symbol of a lyre on it. He’s tall, and muscular, and on his head sits a laurel wreath. Keith may not know much about the gods, but Apollo seems to be advertising his existence. 

“Lord Apollo,” Shiro greets, unusually formal. He looks like he wants to say more but he doesn’t. Apollo smiles again, and then looks at each of them before landing on Lance. His smile turns a little sad.

“Oh child,” Apollo says. “A manticore sting, that’s rough.”

Keith swallows, because he’s in the presence of a literal god, and the doubts he may have had before are fading fast. Apollo steps off his car, a red sports car, top down, with sunlight instead of exhaust coming from it’s rear end. 

“Can you heal him?” Keith asks, and he feels Pidge pinch him in the side.

Apollo purses his lips, looks Keith up and down once and then cocks his left eyebrow. Keith can’t explain why, but he feels his ears get hot like they do sometimes around pretty guys.

“No, but I can help.” Apollo says. He moves over to Lance and kneels down. He’s quiet a moment as he peels the blood soaked shirt away from the wound. Keith isn’t sure the sigh Apollo gives is good news. 

“Poor child. Dying in such an unsightly manner.” Apollo says. Keith feels himself puff up in anger. “Your journey doesn’t end here my friend, you have a long future ahead of you.”

“So you can save him?” Hunk says, sniffing.

“I can do no such thing.” Apollo says. “He must save himself. However, I can make that journey easier on his body.”

Apollo places his hand on the still bleeding hole in Lance’s shoulder, and there’s a brief flash of light. Then Apollo stands and shakes his bloody hand, magically making the blood disappear because of course he can. 

“That’s all that I can do without my father realizing I’ve intervened. It’s on him now whether he comes back or not.” Apollo says. “The wound is closed, but the poison lingers. However, I’ve weakened it, so if his will is strong enough, he will be fine.”

Apollo then promptly goes to his car to leave, until Pidge stops him.

“Why did you help if Zeus doesn’t want you to?” She asks. Apollo pauses with one foot in the car but doesn’t answer, so she continues. “Is it because he’s your son?”

“I helped,” Apollo says, his voice tense with distaste. “Because what my father is putting him through is wrong. Every child deserves to know their family, especially someone as special as Lance.”

“Then why not just tell him, or claim him?” Hunk asks. Apollo’s smile is gone now as he sits in his car and shuts the door. He revs the engine.

“Because he is not ours to claim.” Apollo says. He then looks Hunk straight in the eyes with his blinding smile. “Yet, at least.”

“Wait,” Pidge asks. “What does that even mean?”

Apollo ignores her and drives off into the sky like he’s in the movie Grease, at the ending, but with a far nicer ride. He leaves a heat wave in his wake and a lot of questions. The main one being-

“What the fuck just happened?” 

“Language Pidge.”

******

(First)(Previous)(Next)(Last)(AU 1)(AU 2)(AO3)

[daughter-of-war]

Fruk Day One: Angels and Demons AU

----Wrap your hands around my neck and let me breathe again----

For @frukheaven‘s #FrukSpringFestival2k17 

Pairing: FrUk (Aph France/Aph England)

Pairing Type: M/M

Words: 4,807

Rating: Teen (Contains Mild Gore/Blood, mentions of death and torture)

Being a somewhat of a saint, Francis felt he had nothing to truly worry about. He worried because he liked to, whisking children away from oncoming wagons, helping them get home when lost, and being quite the guardian angel in both title and actions. Of course, he’d sometimes get distracted by an adult that caught his eye, a flutter of a lady’s dress or the dazzling smile of a gentleman. Of course, he’d return right to his duties, for one can’t be cast out of heaven for simply having a peek. He loved his divine job, and found joy in helping all the children he could. He tended to stay around the north of France, where he was born, raised, and died. The water of the English Channel gave off its beautiful seaside scent, and he enjoyed the quietly beautiful days, when grey clouds rolled over the world softy, gentle breezes playing with his long hair and pristine wings. He’d smile across the waterway, always wondering what spirits lay across the barrier. He never ventured over the channel, content to stay where he was. There wasn’t really any reason to leave. No, nothing at all, except maybe curiosity. As the frigid water caressed his bare feet, he began to wonder if a hundred years of curiosity warranted a visit. Perhaps they did.

¤

Arthur wasn’t a saint. Not just in comparison to Francis, but in comparison to near anyone on God’s Earth. He’d spent a hundred years in the fourth circle of Hell, boiling alive in the finest oils the heavens could offer. It was his punishment for his greed in life, for benefiting off so many innocent people, many of them poor and hopeless. He had been a wealthy landlord, living rich in a manor as the people below him worked. He was cruel and apathetic, his possessions gold and silver, but his heart stone. That’s why he had ended up with the punishment he did, boiling alive in fine oils, tormenting him with the items he sought after in life so badly. But so cold was his heart, after a century the oils lost their ability to torture, leaving scars but the feeling of a hotspring. And that’s why the Devil himself had allowed him the life he now had, prowling the streets of the villages of England, snuffing out lives like candles. This was his wealth now, the satisfaction of gaining an imperfect life for his collection akin to the one of holding a foreign jewl. His face was beginning to gain the most peculiar freckles, a single spot appearing on his milky white face whenever he took the breath from a human. He’d often spend hours gazing into a mirror, admiring his collection of astray souls. He could understand so well the lust of kings, the wish for more and more no matter how much he already had. Perhaps this is what it felt like to discover a far away land, overflowing with wealth, and take it for one’s own. Oh, how he wished to be a king. But for now, he had to settle with the subjects he had. Smiling, he touched his newest loyal citizen, a yellow-white little speck on his nose that glittered in the dying fire reflected in the mirror of her former home. Carried out upon the demon’s face, the lonely woman joined him as he strolled across the wheat fields.

¤

Maybe it was just the bias he had. When his feet touched the ground, likely, it was just his old life’s habits that made him instantly feel evil pulsating against the soil from below. He’d been raised proper, with a healthy dose of compassion and xenophobia. But he wasn’t truly at fault, for the hatred was mirrored back from the island across the way, too. He no longer felt like that, for the most part, as his existence as an angel was one of kindness. Yet he couldn’t help but feel uneasy. There was something, no rather someone, a presence, if you may, that triggered something within him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was certainly there. Somewhere. Hidden. He retracted his wings, so that they lay flat upon his back like a cape. The ever present wind flittered through his hair, the ashy blond locks dancing around his face.

Softly glowing, his wings cast an aura around him, and soft halo formed around his figure. Looking straight on, one might have thought it were the moon, but with a single glance up, it would he obvious it wasn’t, for there was no moon in the sky. Dry wheat stalks cracked and scratched one another as he walked through them, looking for a warm place to spend the night, tired from his flight. It had been longer than he had thought, and his back was aching from the gravity constantly pulling his body down while his wings pulled him up. Even the Lord himself couldn’t make a perfect set of wings for every angel, it seemed. As Francis came to the edge of the field, he saw an old house by the edge of a slowly crawling stream. The waterwheel was spinning slowly with the peaceful current. But as he stepped out of the drying plants, the whole scene became much less like a homely place to spend the night and much more sinister. There was smoke coming from the chimney, but no light cast by a fire. There were sheets left out to dry but not taken in, even though they seemed to be devoid of all dampness and the night seemed well in. He walked forward, all too happy to have God on his side, for he was beginning to feel quite frightened, when he saw something move.

He froze.

A shadow slinked out of the home, the black silhouette hardly visible against the inky sky. The figure seemed odd, however, as it looked to have had holes poked into it by a pin held in a shaky hand, little speckles of light on what seemed to be its face. Francis couldn’t help but head toward it, curiosity once again driving him. His bare feet snapped the fallen and dried crops on the ground, making the figure’s head snap up. Two glowing green eyes peered out from the darkness like a cat’s in candlelight. They even had black slits for pupils that widened the longer the angel held his gaze. So focused on staying still, Francis didn’t notice the sillouhete creep closer until the eyes were only about ten feet in the distance, much closer than the near hundred they had been only moments ago.

His eyes rattled in his skull, frozen as a black vignette began to creep into his vision. He never liked to think of himself as a coward, but as blurry green eyes dominated his vision, he thought that being a coward and running as fast as he could would be better than whatever this thing had in mind.

“Lost?”

Francis heard the voice in his head, and felt no breath on his face. Maybe he was just imagining it out of terror.

“I asked if you were lost,” the voice repeated, sweetness coating something that lurked below. “For you seem so frightened, you poor thing.”

“Yes,” Francis responded in English. If whatever this thing was spoke English, it seemed wise to respond in the northern tongue, and avoid offending it

“French!” Laughed the voice, as the eyes crinkled up in supposed delight. “I haven’t heard a French voice in quite some time! You certainly are lost,” the voice seemed horribly amused by everything. “Are you Jesus? Did you just stumble across the water without noticing?” Now, if Francis were an idiot, he would’ve told the creature off right then and there for his mocking tone when speaking the Savior’s name like that. Luckily, he prided himself on not being completely daft.

“Well, I was visiting and I seem to have-” Francis was spared the horrible feeling of telling half-truths when the being interrupted.

“Oh no, you’re shaking! Come inside, love, you seem to be frozen!” The creature took his hands, and began to walk backward to the dark farmhouse. He was ever so patronizing, acting as is Francis would get lost walking in a straight line. The sliver of a moon lit the beast’s face from behind, and a faux halo of messy blond hair outlined the gently smiling face. The flecks of light on the creature’s face made it seem as of there actually were holes in its soft visage, the moonlight seeming to seep through. “Now, now,” the voice cooed, “you stay right there while I go light the fire, alright, love?” Soft fingers gently let go of Francis’ hands, the creaking of the floorboards only making the angel more nervous. The flames seemed to light by themselves, a little orange flame beginning to curl over recently dead ashes. The figure began to be exposed by the light, and as Francis was studying it, a glimmer of light on the wall caught his attention. His eyes flitting to the left, his heart began to pound as he saw blood drip down the wall, pooling in a puddle around a woman. She had tears on her face that were beginning to dry. Francis didn’t know what to do. Did he confront this creature or did he try to run? Maybe he could talk to it, ask why. He went with the last idea.

“What happened to her?” He asked, voice quietly accusatory.

“I helped her,” the voice was almost sympathetic, and Francis began to see it fully in the firelight. The creature seemed to be a he, with messy blonde hair and skin pale as could be, resembling a corpse much too closely. He was dressing in what looked like an old robe, blacked brown fabric covering him from right below his chin to his feet, with little naked toes poking out.

“Helped her?” Francis couldn’t understand how putting a hole in a woman’s chest was helping in the slightest.

“She was lonely and poor,” the voice said, the beast’s lips still not moving. “So I helped her. She’s no longer lonely nor poor.”

“She’s dead,” Francis whispered. He never was good death, despite having already died himself. Perhaps it was because he knew how lonely it could be, being the only one to ‘live’ on while watching others fade away.

“She’s happy now,” the creature whispered, his mouth curving up. “Look.” He pointed to a glittering freckle on his cheek. “She sparkles so brightly among the rest, for she has company now.”

The fact that every pinprick of light on his face was a life made Francis shudder.

“And why do you think she’s happy?”

“She’s no longer alone, as she’s with many other poor or lonely or sick or mad or sinful or hopeless humans like herself. To be surrounded by those like oneself is quite a happy thing, no?” He didn’t seem like the type to be reasoned with. He was a demon, and Francis had become certain of it. No human possessed the magic ability of collecting souls like that, and no human being should ever seem to happy to snuff out human lives like candles.

“I, I should be going,” Francis smiled nervously. “It was so nice of you to light me a fire but I really should be going. I remember the way home now, so-”

“Why the rush? Is it the smell of a corpse that makes you wish to leave? I can burn her if you wish.”

“Please don’t, it’s just that I have many things to do-”

“Like what?” The demon was taunting him now, a soft smile slowly inching forward on dirty feet. “A marriage? You’re quite handsome, are you the groom? Perhaps the bride? Such lovely hair you have! And a robe to match nonetheless!” He seemed very amused with himself.

“Alright,” Francis took a breath to steady his heart. “I’ll say what I think, and that’s that I wish to be out of here because you’re quite crazy. I wish not to join your little army apon your face, nor would I like a hole in my torso.”

“Really?” He asked, almost genuine. “Do you not wish to die? Death is quite liberating, even if all you can have are some poor souls!” He seemed upset at the fact that human lives weren’t silver nor gold. “No matter how many I have, nothing can buy me me my freedom!” The demon was showing his true colours now, and Francis took the opportunity to shuffle backward toward the door. “I went to church, I paid taxes and tithes, I let such filthy people stay on my land and work for me!” His mouth never opened, but the whining was easily heard in Francis’ head. “I’ve even spent my whole afterlife trying to hel- where are you going?” His luminous green eyes were open again.

“I do believe I told you I was leaving,” Francis responded. “Perhaps we will meet again someday!” His foot was outside the door, and with a nervous smile, he extended his wings and flew like his non-existent life depended on it.

“Angel!” The demon in his head screamed, but as Francis retreated, it faded into the distance. He wondered how such a voice worked. He hoped he’d never find out.

¤

Residing near one of the southern tips of the island, Arthur looked out toward the French coastline and wondered what that angel was up to. He had to have been French, the accent gave it away. For being so annoying upset over Arthur’s good work, there was something interesting about him. Maybe it was that he didn’t seem to be disgusted by Arthur’s appearance, like most people. Many of them would scream in terror, or cry, or often both. Maybe it was that Arthur was wearing his robe, which covered his human body and black wings. He looked down at his hands, which were as pale as a dead Scandanavian’s, and soft as an infant’s, but littered with pink scars from blisters and tipped with long, claw-like nails. Most of his body was soft like his hands, except for his face. The rest of him was also covered in pink blisters like his hands, all the years of boiling oils leaving them marred with the pink marks. He had been submerged up to his neck, and the heat that had rippled off of the surface had burnt his neck, leaving a red-ish pink collar-like ring around it and ruining his voice for all eternity. Maybe if he could sway the angel he’d help him out of the holy goodness of his heart. He started to put a blistered toe in the water of the channel, wondering if he should go look for him. Hissing at the cold water, he drew his foot back onto the pebbles along the shore.

About a year passed, society strolling along like always, when Arthur decided to look for the angel again. Oddities always caught his eye, and perusing something like the heavenly figure was starting to sound more and more appealing. He’d never seen another deity like the Frenchman, as most of the time, demons and angels stayed away from the other, as a Holy War was only truly appealing to one group. The thought of freedom from his existence as a scarred and starving creature of the night became more appealing as the days wore on. And for the first time in however long he’d existed in his true demonic, he was aware of the passage of time. Of people growing up around him. He had lived a long life previously, but when he was sent for punishment, they had tortured him further by returning him physically to his twenty year old form, when he was happiest and healthiest, and turned it into the image he hated most of all.

He made up his mind, and when the night was inky black and the water pulled gently upon the pebbles on the shore, he unfurled his black wings and headed toward the shore of France.

¤

His situation was delicate. Don’t be too forceful. Don’t be too soft. Be just perfect. Draw out enough empathy but don’t sacrifice your dignity. Get him to heal you without killing you first. Simple.

Not simple.

First off, there was the problem of finding the angel. France was large, and there was the possibility of him not even being in France, maybe he was on some sort of missionary thing, saving some miserable life or another all in the flimsy name of good will. This was turning out to be harder than expected.

He’d stop every once and a while to smell the air, trying to pick up the scent of the holy man. So far he’d only run into churches, places the angel must have visited. He’d accidentally touched one a while back. He was still trying to get rid of the rash that broke out on his left hand. Red bumps covered the already scarred hands, and likely would have seared a lesser demon’s hand clean off. The scent was getting stronger the longer he looked, however, and as the sun set, he could pick up on the angel’s sweetness. The crisp air of night provided no distractions.

He found the angel in an almost eerily similar setting to their first meeting. The softly glowing man was walking in a lavender field, away from a warmly lit country home, and Arthur could hear the heartbeats of children inside. The house had a faint smell of sickness around it, although it was quickly disappearing. Hopefully this meant the angel was in a charitable mood tonight.

“Hello there,” said the demon, voice making its way into the angel’s head. He whipped around, long blond hair flowing like water in the hair.

“What do you want? Are you here to harm me?” The angel seemed to have a bit more courage tonight. Maybe because he was in his home country.

“Well, not really, but I do want something from you,” Arthur said with closed, softly smiling lips. “I need a favor. Simple as that. I’m not going to hurt you if I don’t need to.”

“And what is that?” He asked. His wings were folded against his back, and he had the appearance of a bird ready to take off. “Why would a demon ask an angel for a favor? What do I have that you don’t?”

“Well,” Arthur started. “I need an angel to help me out. And I have a name, you know, it’s Arthur. And I’ll have you know I’m not that evil,” he started, trying to play up his misery. “I did what was necessary in life, and for all my hard work I ended up with such a punishment so cruel as,” he pulled down the collar of his robe, exposing the red and scarred flesh of his neck. “This.”

The angel looked appalled. He recoiled at the sight of the marred skin. It peeled slightly as Arthur’s soft hands brushed it. Little blisters bled slowly as they were exposed to the air.

“I need an angel’s touch,” Arthur explained. “And I hoped someone as charitable as you could help me, as you are an angel.”

“I can’t help a demon! It goes against all logic and moral!”

“Listen, angel-”

“It’s Francis,” he interuppted. “My name is Francis. Not just ‘angel’.”

“Alright, alright. Francis. Listen, I need help. Do you wish for me to repent? Should I cry out to your lord for the forgiveness he hasn’t given me?” Arthur was getting annoyed now, frustrated that the angel wasn’t cooperating.

“Do not speak like that,” Francis warned. “I don’t appreciate your tone when speaking about the Lord.”

“What? Will you kill me for speaking like this? Send me to hell? I only wish for help, Francis,” Arthur replied. “Are you so selfish as to not help me? Would you not help a poor, lonely person remove a curse around their neck?”

“You’re a demon. Not a person. No human being would take lives like you do. Not for your selfish reasoning.”

“I was promised that the more I helped those poor people, the closer I’d get to getting this awful curse lifted, you know,” Arthur shrugged. “But if you wish for me to take more lives like I do, don’t help me. It’ll just take me longer.”

Francis hesitated. “And how do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“You don’t. But would you rather ignore my request and never know, or have the chance to stop me from taking more of the lives you love to save?” Arthur could tell his words are having an effect. Francis’ wings twitched, his toes curling and hands tensing up as he thought.

“But you’re most certainly lyi-”

“But I’d owe you, wouldn’t I? A demon owing an angel, not very common, but it isn’t impossible.”

“And what would I get in return?”

“What do you want?” Arthur hoped it’d be something simple, like his body, an angel could justify shallow lust with the excuse of saving lives. Please be lust, he begged the world, be simple, be rational! Be-

“Them.” Arthur looked to the finger pointed toward him. The line it created went straight through his face, through the little pinpricks of light he held so dearly.

“Why?” Arthur wasn’t very willing to let his collection go. “They’re dead! They’re out of their misery! Why would you want to take that from them?”

“I wish to bring them to salvation.” Francis was calmer than expected. “They’ve done nothing wrong, and I wish to let them-”

“Nearly all of them were heading to hell!” That stopped Francis in his tracks. He decided to listen. “That woman you saw the night we met- she was a witch! Lonely, persecuted, all by your god!” Arthur wasn’t lying. He enjoyed the feeling of taking a life like his, enjoyed spitting in the face of the fates of the people doing what they wished in life. He was no saint, yes, but he was a person who’d experienced hell firsthand. And getting to deny the god that made his existence misery of punishing those like him gave him a sense of satisfaction unparalled to anything else in the miserable existence he now lived.

“You- you’re-” Francis seemed to have a hard time understanding that pure evil didn’t exist. All his life, and all his afterlife, the idea of black and white were pushed down his throat. So much so, that it was all he believed anymore.

“The world’s more of a grey, dear Francis,” Arthur laughed. “So why don’t you help a grey being like myself out, lift the curse so unfairly placed upon me?”

“But you deserved it! You were horrible in life, selfish, and without a care for those you hurt!”

“Then why don’t you allow me to speak? To confess to sins? All I want is to breathe the night air again, these awful burns taking the most basic of human rights away. The right to breathe the air!”

“You can’t be telling the truth! I can’t believe a word that you speak!” Francis was agitated. No demon should talk like that. No demon should be allowed to call itself a grey being. You were either good or bad.

“Listen, Francis,” Arthur smiled at the angel. Lips sealed in their curse, he approached the man in front of him. “Just take my hands, and help.”

¤

Francis couldn’t help the instinct that pulled his hands forward. Compassion, perhaps. Maybe a feeling of guilt his mind hadn’t heard of yet. The demon’s hands… were soft. Soft. Unexpectedly so. The pink scars weren’t rough. Just bumps of skin as soft as the pale hands they lay upon.

“Soft, huh?” The demon laughed. He shrugged, a bit shyly. “Suppose my time in hell gave me one good thing!” The slits of his eyes were rounder now, his lips quirked up in a smile. “Now,” he said, making the motion of taking a deep breath, even if no air was actually inhaled. “If you be so kind, use that magic I know you have, and help me, Francis.” There was a quiet desperation in his voice. It occurred then that Francis had no idea how long he’d been like this. Not breathing the air Francis loved, the scent of the lavender field they stood in not reaching the man opposite him. The freckles on his face were numerous, so it must have been quite some time. The souls twinkled, and Francis noticed how alive they were. These people were dead in flesh only. They shined with the vitality of hundreds of stars, and it made Francis hesitate. If Arthur was telling the truth, it meant he was sending these people to hell. He didn’t know what was waiting for them there, as he’s never seen the place for himself, but he could only assume it was absolutely dreadful. The collar around Arthur’s neck certainly meant it wasn’t pleasant in the slightest. Maybe he could put them in purgatory for the time being. Ask God what to do with them later. Yeah, good plan.

Arthur laughed. “You sure are taking your time, aren’t you?” Francis looked up. He’d been gazing at Arthur’s hands. Thinking.

“Is what you say true?” He whispered.

“Huh?”

“About greys?” He looked up into Arthur’s eyes. His pupils were dilated, and he looked at Francis. He nodded.

“Nobody exists as a black or white. Your god, he’s killed so many in anger, and the Devil, he punishes those who have committed wrongs. Your god has committed wrongs, and the Devil I serve has punished wrongs in the name of rightness. I’m sure you’ve committed wrongs, too, Francis.”

Francis didn’t respond. He didn’t know what wrongs he had done. Arthur didn’t elaborate.

“I will put your souls in purgatory. Perhaps I can ask for them to be pardoned, forgiven, even?” Arthur smiled a closed little smile at that.

“That would be appreciated,” he nodded. “It may be too late for me, but they might get a chance. Many of them were good people under bad circumstances. I was an evil person, I know that. I enjoyed what I did, even if it was at the expense of others. Do you not think I’ve thought about my life?”

“Oh, just let me heal you, no more of this talk about greys!” Francis laughed. He was tense, apprehensive over what he was about to do. Heal a demon. It was unheard of. Unprecedented. Foolish. But above all else, it was what he felt was right. Could a demon be trusted? No. Could he be lying? Yes. But there was always the chance he was sincere. And that whatever Francis was about to do would help heal him. And, thinking in the way of the heavens, maybe this could help to switch more demons to the Lord’s side.

Francis’ hands lay on top of Arthur’s smaller ones. He decided to let go, instead, gently placing his hands on Arthur’s scarred neck. He let his mind focus on healing, his brow creasing in concentration. He could feel the slowly flowing blood from where his hands made contact, the gentle touch damaging the fragile skin beneath his fingers. With thumbs and index fingers resting on Arthur’s chin, pinkies laying on the bony collarbone, and his middle three gently touching Arthur’s neck, little droplets of light began to pool at his fingertips. The skin began to heal, with the bleeding slowing, and then running backward, as if it had a mind of its own, running back to Arthur’s body in fear of the cold midnight air. The crescent moon gave only the slightest bit of light, and the soft green glow of eyes wide open cast a glow upon Francis’ face, forcibly relaxed in concentration. He could feel the skin of Arthur’s neck relaxing and smoothing over. Opening his eyes, he saw the green eyes looking into his own baby blue. The bottom of Arthur’s eyes pushed upward in a smile, and he opened his lips. The voice that came out was scratchy, and painful from lack of use, but it was genuine.

“Thank you,” he choked out, planting a soft kiss on the cheek of the angel. His freckles no longer shone like stars. Little tan speckles replaced the tiny moondrops, making him look almost human. His teeth were sharp and crooked, exposed as he took a deep breath of the night air of the lavender field. And as he turned around to leave, he noticed the colour of the demon wings were a dark grey. He swore they were black last time.

[kettlequills]

soulmark pt 1

inspired by this post about polyamorous soulmates. Polydiamonds, part one, Yellow Diamond/Blue Diamond. Art kindly provided by @papersketch, used with permission.

Yellow is born seeing in shades of gold, with buttercup yellow eyes and three soulmarks. The marks are young, of course - there’s a blue splotch on her skinny chest, a pink blur on her right ankle, and a phrase, sometimes words, printed on the back of her neck in a neat, stylish hand, all in grey.

She is too young to understand the muttering of the doctors as they rush back and forward over her cradle, snapping photographs and running tests on the marks developing clearly on skin too young for scars. Her mother looks worried, asks about defects, is quizzed about drugs she took while pregnant. They stay in hospital for over three weeks. On her medical file there is a pitying note written by a nurse who went home and cried about a doomed child who looked in the physical pinnacle of health.

Three is so highly unusual to be almost never heard of; everyone is sure that she is broken, that she will never find her proper life companion. The soulless are seen as creatures of abject pity and fear.

To Yellow, the marks are the only indication of colours other than her namesake that she has. She looks at the pink blotch on her foot and compares it against the endless wheat coloured grass, flowers all the colours of sunflowers and dandelions, as if the whole world has been dripped and slathered in honey, oversaturated, bright, brilliant. She imagines whole skies the colour of the blue mark on her chest, sometimes a wobbly splotch with undefined edges, sometimes a child’s portrait of a cat, sometimes a messy handprint, like her soulmate has just stamped a hand in paint just underneath Yellow’s skinny neck.

She is five when she discovers that having three soul marks makes her different, because everyone else in her new nursery only has one. In fact, Yellow is only allowed to spend half an hour there before one of the nursery teachers notices the words peeking out above her T-shirt’s neck, marching obliviously up to the child’s innocent hairline.

“We do not tolerate profanity from pre-schoolers,” the nursery teacher scolds Yellow’s mother furiously.

Yellow stands nearby, head down, not looking at the other kids gathering round for the show, the back of her neck raw and abraded from when the nursery teacher had scrubbed relentlessly at skin. The words were still there, of course, harsh and black and angry, sunken into her skin like poisonous claws. No one apart from the nursery teacher knows French, but the words have the anger of a curse, and Yellow can feel the despair, like an ache, sinking into the bone.

‘Fucking kill me,’ one of her soulmates has written, across space and strangerhood, into her flesh.

“It’s her mark, it’s one of her marks,” Yellow’s mother tries her best to explain, “this one has always been the most developed – it didn’t say that when I brought her here this morning, look-“

“One of her marks?” The nursery teacher exclaims.

Like all good mothers, Yellow’s keeps a careful photo diary of her soulmarks’ progression. Unlike most mothers, she doesn’t share hers. She brings up the appropriate photo on her phone, only three days old. Clearly visible, the mark is in the shape of a snowy white hawk, lovingly drawn, deeply detailed, in all shades of monochrome.

Yellow is still removed from the nursery. She holds hands with her furiously embarrassed and humiliated mother, sweating under the heat of the scarf wrapped thickly around her neck, wishing she could go back to the cool nursery, with the sandpit she’d only just got the chance to investigate. She pulls towards the park as they pass, gazing longingly at sunny children playing behind gold bars.

“Please?” she asks, quietly, “park, mummy?”

Her mother looks down at her, probably wanting to get home and put the embarrassment behind her. But her usually rambunctious child is quiet, still somewhat shamefaced from a telling off that she doesn’t understand, and her mother cannot bring herself to say no. They go inside, and her mother pushes her on the swings, back and forth, soaring higher like she is untethered to the ground, like the hawk one of her soulmarks had been only that morning.

The thought makes her want to get off the swings, but there is a sandpit nearby to explore.

And, off-puttingly, a child, screaming. 

She has fallen off the climbing frame, facedown with hair in the darkest shade of yellow that she can see falling around her face, and the diagnosis hasn’t happened yet, but it is for the same reason that lands her in a wheelchair years later. Huffing, Yellow goes to see what the matter with her is. It’s rather difficult to play in the sandpit with somebody bawling for their mother right next to her.

She turns the little girl called Blue over and sits her up.

There’s a strange, funny feeling in her chest, and suddenly her eyes ache and her temples pound and now they’re both crying, drawing the attention of the adults.

Then they go silent, breathless, watching colours swirl around them. Blue sees buttercups shining bright gold and a yellow painted climbing frame, Yellow sees the deep turquoise of the sky, the chipped and flaking paint on the park bench. And together, they can see the verdant spread of the emerald green grass.

When their apologetic mothers collect them, their eyes have turned bright, hard green, and they are clutching onto one another and staring with the dazed, blissful expressions of those seeing something wholly new.

 “Oh, thank God,” says Yellow’s mother. “Does she have all three too?”

The mothers, nearly teary eyed with relief, adjourn to a nearby Americano café, small and neatly-kept with zinc-topped tables and a smiling blonde waitress. Blue and Yellow must be fussed, of course, and bought cakes and hot chocolate to celebrate the Finding. When the two children are adequately placated, staring alternately at each other over steamy mugs of hot chocolate with the innocent curiosity to the young, then at the wide, suddenly colourful world beyond the fogged glass of the cafe window, the mothers are free to talk, pouring out words in hushed whispers hoarsened by relief.

“I thought that Blue would never know-“ Blue’s mother stops, because Yellow’s mother has taken her hand, perfectly able to understand a mother’s fear that her child would never know something she considered a great joy.

They exchange contact details, and haggle over free weekdays for regular play dates. Each mother leaves satisfied, convinced that she has worn down the other into a better deal, half-yanking their child along when they stop too frequently to stare in intense and enrapt amazement at the light shining through a veined leaf, a yellow bumblebee’s iridescent wings, the deep murky blue of fountain water.

As Yellow grows, her childhood is spent split double, half in her own life, half in Blue’s. They have sleepovers that last over four days, their own mugs in each house, using clothes (Blue steals Yellow’s combat boots, Yellow borrowers with no intention of returning her sweltering hoodies) and toothbrushes interchangeably, living inside each other, like wearing in comfortable shoes that never break. Yellow comes to look on Blue’s mother like a stepmother, her second family.

It is Blue who approaches Yellow’s mother and tells her and Yellow both that Yellow is dyslexic. They work on strategies and techniques together, in between visiting Blue at hospital, finding ribbons and spray paint to decorate Blue’s new wheelchair’s rims.

They do everything for the first time together, learning to ride a bike, watching the sea coming in colours they can both see, watching films through special tinted glasses, swapping books with the text printed in Braille, shopping for clothes by texture rather than colour. Yellow comes to look at her life as an addendum to Blue, they are inseparable, parts of each other – she is convinced she can feel Blue’s patient amusement as she struggles through a timed essay, her pride when Yellow argues with her science teacher.

Blue kisses her for the first time when they are thirteen. They are sat on Blue’s bed, Saturday sunlight streaming through the window, highlighting the glossy darkness in Blue’s hair, the liquid shine of her eyes. She is leaning close, applying wobbly eyeliner to Yellow’s eyes. She leans back, to survey her work. Then, in that matter-of-fact way that Blue sometimes has when she is most nervous, Blue puts her small hand on Yellow’s cheek and her lips clumsily on Yellow’s. They both pause there, uncertain of what to do next, until they are interrupted from an untimely quarter.

Blue winces, Yellow grimaces. The grey soulmark is burning as it changes shape. United, they move apart, and Blue shifts her leg so that they can see the soulmark altering on the inside of her left thigh, bared by her shorts. Yellow’s legs tangle with hers, so it looks like the vivid pink mark on her ankle (in the shape of a wobbly child’s drawing of a ratty doll missing one leg) is the shadow of the grey mark on Blue’s thigh.

The soulmark shapes itself into words, and without needing to be asked, Yellow Googles a translation. She hesitates a bit before saying what it means.

“I’m nothing without you,” Yellow translates.

Blue looks at the soulmark on her thigh, then pokes the broken pink doll on Yellow’s ankle. “Do you think they’re okay? Do you think we will ever meet them one day?”

“I think if I have you, I don’t care,” Yellow told her honestly, slumping back on the bed to reply to a text.

“Mm,” Blue agreed, and lay next to her, her head a pleasant weight on Yellow’s shoulder, the sunlight moving in dizzying patterns across the ceiling as the screen of Yellow’s phone scattered reflections.