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alfredosauce50 · 3 years ago

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What makes me human [Cyberpunk! America x reader] 16

Wordcount: 4, 869 Rating: M for strong language, moderate sexual references, violence, and gore The reader is referred to as she/her. "God knows. Maybe you have a greater purpose to serve. Why else did he make you?" Chapter synopsis: And you never considered yourself trigger-happy. But the shots have been fired. They're dead before you can interrogate them. Allen is eager to convince you it was the right thing to do, but even he can't deny the horrors that will follow. The war rages on. Alfred stays ignorant for the meantime, and you revel in his bliss of it. You share one last peaceful night with him before the fearful unknown.

16 - Nothing breaks like a heart

The reader is referred to as she/her.

An ear-splitting bang echoed in the pool room. Blood and small chunks of flesh landed on the tiled floor in a splat. Tearing his hand away with a shaky gasp, he held the wrist and hunched over to writhe in agony. "Ergh... Fuck!" He spluttered, feeling a violent tremble seize his wounded hand. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..."

He lifted his head to glare at you with the utmost betrayal. "What the hell did you do that for?!"

A sizely hole formed in his palm. The exposed flesh was still oozing out blood like a full sponge, dripping onto the ground in generous puddles. A whole section of his bone was missing. And you did it. You shot Alfred. You paled in horror for a few moments, but as he panted before you with tears streaming down his red and enflamed face, it became apparent that your guilt was unfounded.

"What I did that for? You aren't Alfred!" You exasperated, raising the gun shakily to point it between his fearful eyes. "You're a clone!"

A sour flavor was left in your mouth as you spat out the word. His origins were no mystery.

Nobody else could have been responsible or capable of such a heinous crime. To grow an abomination from whatever DNA was left in their lab. You only imagined them to be created for one purpose, and one purpose only. To torment, kill, and replace Alfred. As the thoughts raced through your head, you tightened your finger around the trigger—"Wait, wait! Don't shoot!" He begged, throwing his arms up.

"I know you're freaking out right now, but I have no idea what's going on either!"

Gritting your teeth at his excuse, you were determined to not let it get to you. But it was easier said than done. "Shut up! Don't think for a second you can fool me!" Despite the cutting conviction of your voice, you took on a terrified expression at the thought of shooting him. "I'm gonna do it. You're nothing but a freak of nature! And you'll never... Never..."

As you trailed off, you realized you indeed couldn't pull the trigger.

Not when the barrel was aimed at a face that looked just like Alfred's.

It was contorted with so much fear and despair, pleading silently for you to not hurt him. The fact that he was a spitting image of him made it even harder. How he moved, talked, acted—seeing it chipped away your resolve, leaving you all but paralyzed. The gun was left juddering furiously in your hands in light clacks, holding him hostage at the moment before death.

"Please. Please don't do it." He whispered, bringing his hands down to shield himself. "You gotta help me, (F/N). I don't know how, but I woke up in this body. That's... That's all that happened."

How painfully familiar it sounded.

I woke up in this body.

The similarities were so uncanny, it was cruel. Giving your head a quick shake, your lips quivered as you uttered this.

"You're lying. You're not real."

Creases formed between his brows. "I'm not lying! And I am real! I'll prove it to you, I swear! We went through so much shit together, like uh—" He pointed at you and laughed nervously as he sifted through the scanty archives of his memories. "—I kidnapped you. Ha! See? I know something! That's how we met! And you hated my guts at first."

You swallowed thickly as uncertainty slowly overwhelmed you. If he could remember that, he had to be real, right? No. You had to fend off the feeling. "That's not good enough!" Your finger stayed on the trigger, and the barrel, on him.

He tensed up as panic caught him in a chokehold. "Okay, okay! Well, er..." His heart was pounding harder and harder with every second he failed to say something. "... Oh! Remember the time I nearly got murdered by a cult leader? He had a whole kabuki mask get-up and everything—just like, like Professor Callaghan from Big Hero 6. You know that movie right?"

You sucked in a sharp breath. The title didn't ring any bells, but what he said had you second-guessing yourself. Was he not lying after all? Lowering the gun at that, your motion was slowed by slight hesitance. "... How... How do you know those things?" You asked faintly. "What are you?"

Before he could formulate an answer, footsteps thudded down the hall. Your thoughts came to a complete standstill.

Then, you heard a voice.

"(F/N)!" They shouted. Was it Allen? Your heart sank when you realized you couldn’t tell—it sounded too similar to Alfred. Or were you just imagining things? The sheer amount of panic was too incapacitating that you couldn't think.

So you did the unthinkable.

Raising the gun once more, you fired a shot into his abdomen.

The second you let the bullet fly, you regretted it.

Both your ears rang as the next few moments occurred in silence. And they would unfold in painstakingly slow motion. Dropping the gun to the ground in a soundless clatter, you watched him stumble back a few steps with his eyes popping out of his skull. Blood was spreading around the flaps of his kimono from a new hole in his chest. But the gore couldn't compare to his look of betrayal.

Of a heartbreak so deep, it destroyed you.

"Oh my God..." You raised both hands to your mouth. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed on the ground in a bloody heap. "I just—I just killed—" Tears streamed relentlessly down to your chin as you stood frozen.

"(F/N)! I heard gunshots. What the fuck happened?!" Allen appeared in the doorway. His loud voice derailed your train of thoughts, forcing you to turn to the man. When you did, your heart clenched at the realization you made a mistake. It wasn't him. Alfred was never down the hall, and you panicked.

He never even had a chance to explain himself.

When Allen caught sight of the corpse by your feet, he dug his hands through his hair. Terror ran deep in his expression as he processed what he was seeing. "Shit, (F/N)." His nose scrunched up in shock. Never did he imagine the day would come where you would take someone's life. At least, not so soon.

But it arrived as an unwelcome surprise, unexpected and uninvited. "Did you kill that guy?"

You nodded profusely as a sob racked your body.

He scrambled over and shielded you from the grotesque scene. "Hey, hey, hey! Don’t feel bad! I’ve killed loads of people too, so welcome to the club!" The man rambled frantically, rubbing away your tears with his fingers. But who was he to tell you these things when he felt his own tears come?

"I’m sure he deserved it, and you were just protecting yourself, so don’t worry!" Allen forced a wide, manic smile.

His efforts to console you were in vain as you cried even harder. Pulling you into his chest, he rested his chin on your head that trembled to your coughs. "I'm so sorry..." Allen screwed his eyes shut and squeezed you tighter. "... I’m sorry I left you by yourself. This is my fault, not yours. It's my fault."

The string of apologies he spewed out was on your behalf, but he meant them with every fiber of his being. He had failed to protect the single most valuable thing to him.

And the blatant lie he forced you to accept was the last resort to preserve it. But it was time that stopped. "No, I killed him." You asserted shakily. He had nothing to do with this, and his eagerness to shoulder the blame only rubbed more salt into the wound. If you let him have his way, you would never live it down.

Without removing yourself from the hug, you pointed at the motionless body with your head turned away. "Look at him. I could never lie."

Allen lingered his gaze on you before obliging, albeit reluctantly. Nearing the corpse cautiously, he kicked its chest to roll it over. It revealed the dead man’s face in all its glory. Alfred’s face.

"..."

What the fuck.

When he thought he couldn’t be any more disgusted by the tyranny of technology, he was proved wrong yet again. This was clearly your father’s doing. And it was a declaration of war. But perhaps, it was just the continuation of the one that never ended.

Arthur was completely shit-faced downstairs. Slamming his beer mug down on the counter after he downed the whole thing, he gasped.

"Bwah! That hits the spot." His cheeks and ears were redder than a tomato, a stark contrast to his companion who was stone-cold sober.

Alfred raised a brow. "Sure looks like it. Dude, you gotta lay off the booze. You’re gonna regret it first thing tomorrow." Once he sighed that out, he rested his cheek on his hand. Then, he glowered at the hallway where you and Allen disappeared to.

"How long does it take to piss? They’ve been gone for ages. Twenty minutes? Thirty minutes? I don’t fucking know," The mechanic let out a low chuckle and slapped him on the back. The force made his torso bounce, much to his annoyance. "What’s your deal?"

The other hummed mischievously. "I was just thinking about what you said." Arthur squinted almost suggestively, causing Alfred to do the same, but only out of being appalled. "Maybe... Maybe they aren’t pissing. Since they’re gone for so long at the bathrooms at that—so maybe, urgh... They’re doing the nasty together." The Brit practically howled with laughter, having figured he was probably right.

It was a plausible assumption. As he humored the suggestion Alfred heated up more severely than his intoxicated friend. You having sex with Allen? His chest whirred and nostrils flared. He'd never been this enraged before, but behind the mask of anger was a deep hurt and toxic kind of jealousy.

"Shut up! You’re drunk and slurring your words. You have no idea what you’re talking about."

Arthur snorted. "Sorry to break it to you, brother. But the only time I’m this honest is when I’m drunk, so."

Alfred’s eyes went round. Without a moment’s hesitation, he shot out of his stool and made a beeline to the hall. Before he could make it far, he bumped right into the very subjects of his conversation. Much to his relief, they were in no state that indicated they did anything sexual by nature; you were in his arms and fast asleep. Not that he was happy about it. "Woah. She's out like a light."

"Yeah, so keep your voice down." The other grumbled, bouncing you lightly. "I think it's about time we head home. How drunk is he?"

The blonde blinked. He wasn't expecting him to catch on so quickly. "Off his ass. He's red as."

Allen clicked his tongue and brushed past him. "Called it." Alfred would have dismissed it as something he always did. But since he was carrying you, it made him feel like an extra. So when the man walked off, he followed with a scowl. "Can you get a cab? I'm gonna sit in the corner for a bit."

And sit in the corner he did, laying your body across his lap so you could rest. Alfred narrowed his eyes into a dark glare, lingering on the sight as the club music pounded away in his ears. And he told him to keep his voice down? "Yeah, I'll call you a damn cab."

You pretended to be asleep the whole ride back to Arthur's. It was easy with Allen's shoulder at a perfect height for your face to bury in. For half an hour, you were stuck in that position. There, you listened to the symphony of a trip home from the club: the automated voice of the taxi A.I and the drunken warbles of an intoxicated friend. Without seeing it, you could feel Alfred watching you for the whole duration of the ordeal.

Fortunately, you could escape any interaction with him as Allen carried you to the bathroom upon arriving.

"Oi, where are you taking her?"

The redhead kicked the door open. "What does it look like?"

"Shouldn't you wake her up, at least?"

"Yeah, yeah. Quit breathing down my neck, already."

"Dude—"

The door locked. Setting you down on your feet, you held onto his arms to regain your balance. Once you did, you glanced up at him with the utmost panic. "I can't face him." Digging two hands through your hair, you let out a shaky gasp—"Oh my god, I don't know what to do! I shot him, Allen. I fucking shot him! What's he gonna think of me when he finds out?"

He sighed and gripped your shoulders firmly. With his brows furrowed in a stern expression, he corrected you. "You didn't shoot him. You shot another version of him." Allen couldn't stress that enough. But there were many things he needed to shed a light on in this emergency bathroom meeting. "And it was kinda my fault that happened. If I was there, I woulda' shot him for you."

"That's not the point, here! And it's never gonna be your fault. It's mine, and mine alone. End of story." You swiped a hand across his face for emphasis. While he groaned in dismay, a brief pause followed as you regained your breath.

At least an hour had passed, but you still couldn't wrap your head around it.

"I can't believe I did that. I don't even know how I could! I panicked. I thought Alfred was coming down the hall, but—"

"—but it was me. Doll-" Allen exasperated, dragging out the pet name. "-you can't blame yourself for what you did. Shit happens. And who says what you did was wrong, huh? You probably just saved us all from a bloodbath. And you know that!" Rocking you gently back and forth to shake some sense into you, he leaned in to peer into your wide eyes staring into space.

"That's why you shot him. You did the right thing."

As he blurted that out, the memory replayed in your head again and again like a broken record. Intrusive thoughts were a bitch. And there was one particular detail of the event that you would never forget. "Was it the right thing to do, though?" You murmured, lowering your doubtful gaze to the tiled floor. The betrayal in his eyes was so genuine, you came to regret everything you've done.

"What if he was real like he said?"

You were asking some hard-hitting questions, that was for sure. Everything else was shrouded in a fog of uncertainty.

"Well, it wouldn't matter if he was real. Cuz' he's dead."

Allen's expression morphed into a dark glower.

"But if he was still alive, there'd be two of him, and not for long. They'd kill each other, for sure. I mean, if I found out there was a second-rate version of me farting around out there, I'd kill that poser for sport. Hunt him down like game." Lifting up your chin so you'd look at him, he flashed a grin.

"So don't feel bad. You killed him and saved Alfred the trouble."

Softening your gaze at that, you pulled him into another hug. Allen was always amazing at comforting you in the direst of situations.

"... Maybe you're right."

He chuckled and patted your back. "I'm always right."

But there was still one concern he could never address.

If your father made a clone of Alfred, a real and legitimate copy, there was no saying he could make another. Hell, you even expected him to. He could keep churning him out so long as he had his DNA. The only way to end this threat was quick to cross your mind, but you didn't want to think about it.

You would have to kill your father.

Allen figured. But today suffered enough bloodshed.

Before he left the bathroom for you to use, he held onto your cheek.

Flickering his striking scarlet eyes over your troubled expression, he caught you in a quiet gaze. You could easily translate the untold fondness he watched you with. We can still run away together.

He pulled away slowly, reluctantly. Then, the door closed behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts. It never crossed your mind the first time he brought it up earlier tonight, but you finally understood what he really meant by running away. Allen wanted to share his life with you. Heat flurried in your chest as you considered the idea.

Tears threatened to return once you realized how much you wanted to do it, just not with him. The desire was there, but it happened to be stronger for someone else.

Alfred had been waiting outside with his back against the wall, arms crossed with a frown. It only deepened when Allen walked out.

"What're you lookin' at?" The redhead mumbled.

"... Nothing. Just wondering why you two spend so much time in the bathroom together." Alfred pointed out, glancing down at the cigarette between his fingers. He would have been jumping for joy if it weren't for wanting to look serious. "What were you doing with her in the penthouse?"

The other felt a spell of irritation hit him. It was always jealousy with this one, wasn't it? But he couldn't be a hypocrite. "None a'ya business, bub." He hummed, slotting the cancer stick in between his teeth. A sly smirk widened his lips as he saw the blonde tense up. "You saw how tired she was. So don't even think about it."

Don't even think about it, he'd said. How come everything coming out of his mouth sounded like a euphemism for sex? Don't keep her up with stupid conversations would've sounded better. Alfred huffed and stormed back to the guest room. Or was it just his mind that was in the gutter? He blamed Arthur for even bringing it up.

Hanging his clothes on a chair, he curled up under the covers. His chest was whirring again, and the discomfort was akin to something you've gone through before. Separation anxiety. When you did show up ten minutes later, he rolled over to the door to watch your form. Hearing the fabric shuffle in your direction made your heart skip in panic.

He was awake.

"Arthur's puking his guts out, so if you hear coughing, it's him."

Hopefully, some light-hearted banter could keep you from acting up. But that was easier said than done.

The blanket lifted briefly so you could get under it. Once you got comfortable, he didn't hesitate to pull you in by the waist to spoon you. Ever since he saw you sleep in the club, and on Allen no less, he'd been dying to do this. "... I tried telling him." He murmured into your ear. "But I've slept through worse. You flop and roll a lot."

The feeling of his breath on your neck and the sound of his husky voice made your heart ache. Every night was spent like this, warm and snug in his arms, but tonight was different. Inside, you were still agonizing over what you had done to him, even if it wasn't exactly him. So to feel his chest rise against your back, then his legs rub against yours, you just couldn't take it—it was all too much.

Rolling over to him, you caught his neck in your arms and pulled it down for a tight squeeze. What you uttered next captured your deepest and most inexplicable desire. To truly be alone with him.

"I can't take it here anymore." You muttered furiously, hugging him around his neck to start crushing him.

He let out a shaky breath at the sudden pressure.

"Hey, hey, calm down. What's wrong?"

"I can't calm down. I need to talk to you. Alone." Sitting up at that, you pulled him along. It came especially easy as he stood up, eager to understand your spontaneity. "And in someplace that's not here. There's just... Too many people. Four is too many."

Alfred lit up, but his growing smile did his emotions no justice. He was ecstatic. Things were always simpler when it was just the two of you. Maybe you were finally getting sick of these cramped living conditions, the scrutiny. At least, he knew he was. So it was almost as if you read his mind. "Okaay. Are we going on a midnight adventure?" He piped.

But then again, you always seemed to be walking on the same wavelength as him.

He followed you around the room like a puppy as you collected some things—your jacket, then Alfred's phone to shoot Allen a text. We're off to the nearest no-tell motel to talk. We'll be back in the morning. Setting the device onto the desk, you threw him his belongings. His gun and trusty coil of tools. Catching them wordlessly, he shot you a quizzical look. "Well, aren't you mysterious? Where are we going?"

Little did he know, your decision to leave the house for the night had only so much to do with random selfish impulses. From the outside, it looked exactly like that. Up and going without a care in the world, without care for Allen, and becoming unreachable for the next several hours. But after what happened, you just needed time to recalibrate.

"Where we always used to go." You threw your jacket on. Dragging him out into the hall, he caught a brief glimpse of Arthur passed out over the toilet before he found himself in the garage.

Handing him his key, you opened the car door next to the driver's seat. "We have to be quick before Allen tries to stop us."

The said man was sitting on the roof when he heard the rumbling of the garage door. Immediately after the sound stopped, a car sped out of it with an aggressive vroom and disappeared into the night. Narrowing his eyes at the rear window, he stood up and tossed his cigarette over the edge. Where the hell were you going this late at night? And with Alfred, no less?

He could feel hot jealousy prick him all over again. But it was warped with a harrowing kind of sadness. No matter what he did or what he said, he couldn't seem to get in between you two. Allen sat back down and lit up another cigarette. Giving that a few puffs, he surrounded his head in a cloud of grey smoke. Maybe he did know you for too long.

For eight years, he'd been a brotherly figure in your life. Now, he was afraid that was all he was ever going to be.

~~~

Parking the car in the courtyard after the most thrilling joyride, you pulled Alfred into the reception to book a room. Given his inhumane strength, your efforts to drag him down the hall were to no avail. Peering down at you with a warm smile, his face contorted with an amused look as you tugged at his arm as hard as you could. "Easy there, tiger. This is a motel, not a five-star hotel."

Between two walls littered with cracks was a dimly lit interior. Everything smelt like vomit, piss, and alcohol to boot, and yet, you were bounding beside him in excitement. "I know! But doesn't this feel nostalgic? We lived in these places for ages." You exasperated, scanning a keycard to unlock the door.

Alfred didn't think he was a sentimental person, but hearing you reminisce the past so fondly was enough to change his smile into a bittersweet one. "I guess." He couldn’t remember everything like you, but for now, he could pretend he did. "Motels are economic and discrete, so where was a better place to go?"

Once you both got inside, he felt your hand let go of his. For a moment, he felt just the smallest dash of loneliness—it was the emptiness of not feeling you somewhere where you should have been. Fortunately, it faded when you gleamed at him while you explored the room with child-like curiosity.

"I think I did a pretty good job at converting you." Alfred mused.

You flopped onto the bed to lie on your back. "Converting me to what?"

The mattress dipped to your right, so you rolled over to face him. "To a commoner. Or maybe something lower than that." He grinned devilishly. And for that comment, he would earn a strong shove on his chest. Despite nearly falling off the edge, he merely scooted back in. "I've never seen someone this happy staying in a dump like this."

"Don't give yourself too much credit. I just miss it." Pausing briefly at that, a small smile spread to your lips when you saw his, wide and as endearing as ever. If there was one thing you wanted to see before you died, it was this. Alfred's warm smile. As you lingered on the thought, you realized you were completely smitten with him.

But most importantly, at peace.

This was exactly why you even dragged him here in the first place. For some quality alone time, backtracking, and a good, long talk without interruptions. "I'd know all about dumps." You murmured, reaching out to play with a lock of his sandy blonde hair. "Zao and I tend to find our best friends in them."

He chuckled airily. "Is this me?"

"... Well, sure. But I was talking about Allen."

Things got dark pretty fast.

You both laughed it off. He didn't have great memories of motels, but laying here with you reminded him of what you said about them. A lot of good things happened in these tiny rooms, apparently. And they were what you two talked about until three AM in the morning, standing together out on the balcony. From here, the heart of the city could be seen, from the aerial roads of spinners in the distance to the endless hills of skyscrapers and blinking lights.

"I was thinking," Alfred murmured quietly, turning his head to you. The right side of his face reflected the glow of the city. But it couldn't quite compare to the hope that lit up his eyes, as subtle as it was. "Is everything finally over?"

You turned to him, gaze softened. For just tonight, you would let him bask in his ignorance. And yourself, in his hold. "Not yet." You whispered. The feeling of his hand on your waist was a feeling you could get used to. Reaching out to his other one on the railing, you guided it to your side so he could hold you properly.

Alfred squeezed you eagerly, pressing closer to your body.

Taking his face into your hands, you gave him one last gesture of untold affection. It was a culmination of raw emotion free from your own better judgment. A means to communicate without talking.

You pressed your forehead against his and closed your eyes.

At that very space in time, a singular thought occurred to both of you—I wish this moment would last forever.

"But we'll make it... Just like we always do."

What would you do if I killed you?

Nothing, because I'd be dead.

What if you survived? Or left behind a soul?

Then I'll come back and find you.

The club was still pounding away, much like the headache in his skull. Sucking in a sharp breath, he suffered the worst wake-up call in his short life—he was still bleeding, and in terrible pain. He shakily felt around his wound while hyperventilating on the ground. How he hadn't kicked the bucket yet was beyond him.

"Get your ass up already. I know you're not dead." A man growled in disdain, giving the body on the ground a light kick.

"Gh—!" He let out a pained gasp and clung onto the ground for dear life. It had been years since he felt this alive—ironically, it was when he was inches away from death.

His perpetrator had their dark eyes fixated on him like a stain on the floor. Their pupils were as red as the blood his victim bathed in. But they always had a strong stomach for gore. "What am I gonna say when the owner finds out I'm the reason you even got in here? You're bleeding into the pool." They murmured, raising his leg to keep tormenting the other like a new hobby.

With a few more kicks, the body rolled onto its back.

"Ugh... Fuck... How am I not dead?" He coughed in agony.

The other shrugged, flicking their ponytail over their shoulder. "God knows. Maybe you have a greater purpose to serve." As cryptic as that sounded, it was nothing but the truth. He had more to his life than dying in a nightclub. Dying could be a part of it, but this couldn't be the location to do it, nor could it be by your hand—the closest kin to his creator.

"Why else did he make you?"

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longforyesterday · 4 years ago

Quote

John and Yoko’s Two Virgins album evolved from their conviction that everything they did, from their first lovemaking, to the first argument, to their first boiling of an egg, was important art. In the cause of important art everything they did had to be chronicled, documented, filmed, taped, the dots joined up and colored in carefully—with their tongues sticking out to show concentration and focus. […] A couple of days later, there was a big powwow with me, John, Ron Kass, Jack and Derek Taylor to discuss the new album. Unfortunately, before we got down to the discussion, John made us sit and listen to the Two Virgins gibberish all the way through. Since most us were stone-cold sober, it was probably against the Geneva Convention and when Yoko’s last scream died away, John got out the by now familiar album-sized prints that we had already seen and had hysterics over, and cleared his throat. “This pic is gonna be on the cover,” he announced, “and this one here is gonna be the back.” […] Sir Joseph Lockwood, the chairman of EMI, always took an interest in these matters, and as soon as the pictures hit his desk, he almost had a heart attack. He sent for Ron Kass immediately, for some kind of an explanation. “Yes, John says it’s art,” Ron said weakly. “He’s determined, is he?” Sir Joe said. “You could say that,” Ron agreed. “Well, I’ll have to show it to the people at the pressing plant at Hayes,” Sir Joe said. “As you are no doubt aware, we have to deal with the shop stewards and the unions, you know. Some of them can be very Bolshie. It’s not as straightforward as John seems to think to print up this kind of obscenity.” But the unions and their view were nothing compared with Brother McCartney’s reaction. Paul got to hear of it and then saw the photos. He had seven thousand kinds of fits. He thought it was disgusting and was absolutely appalled that John was seriously intending to go through with it.

Tony Bramwell, Magical Mystery Tours

#john lennon #yoko ono #two virgins #tony bramwell #magical mystery tours

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bi-naesala · 3 years ago

Text

Failure

Fandom: Yakuza

Rating: T

Warnings: Major Character Death

Relationships: Kiryu Kazuma & Nishikiyama Akira, Kiryu Kazuma & Nishikiyama Yuko

Characters: Nishikiyama Akira, Kiryu Kazuma

Additional Tags: Hurt No Comfort, Bad Ending, Suicide, Angst, Yuko isn't directly present but she gets mentioned, Kashiwagi also appears, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Summary:

What if Matsushige hadn't shown up when Nishiki was about to kill himself?

(Also on AO3)

Fic under the cut

It’s raining outside, a perfect match for how Nishiki’s feeling.

His eyes are fixed to the small shrine on the table in front of him, on the name that has been engraved on it: Yuko.

He still can’t believe she’s not in this world anymore. To think that he was so hopeful about this surgery…

It’s his fault that she couldn’t make it: if he hadn’t fucked up, the doctor wouldn’t have skipped town. All because of his incompetence.

Mistakes must be punished, this is what he thinks as he reaches for the knife that he’s been keeping beside him. It’s almost like it’s calling to him, a siren chant that Nishiki can’t resist.

He unsheathes the knife, observing his sad reflection on the blade. Eh, he can almost hear Kiryu teasing him about how bad he looks…

Kiryu.

His thoughts go to him, who’s wasting away in a cell because of him. It should be the other way around.

Nishiki wanted to carve some space for himself so that he could welcome him with open arms; for once, he would’ve been the one depending on him, and not the other way around.

Not even that he was able to do right.

He’s pathetic.

What does he have left? Why should he keep wasting space and resources?

Yuko, Yumi, Kiryu… They all deserve so much more than what they’ve got. They should be in his place, while he’s dead on the ground.

Well, he’ll soon put some remedy to that at least.

In his final moment, he thinks about Kiryu, of how much he’s letting him down.

He’s in prison for a crime that he committed, and he’s not even able to make sure that he’ll be welcomed back with open arms; and yet, a malignant voice whispers to him, won’t he be welcomed back no matter what? Because Kiryu is Kiryu, while Nishiki is…

If he were the one in prison, it wouldn’t matter, because he’s not Kiryu. He doesn’t matter. For all they care, he could die without making a difference.

It’s not right…

Realizing what he’s thinking, all Nishiki can feel are guilt and shame.

Kiryu has sacrificed his freedom for him, and all he can do to repay him is to think badly of him for something that, he knows, god Nishiki knows, isn’t his fault.

Envy has always been something he’s had to deal with since the first time he and Kiryu met, but to think that after all this time he still hasn’t managed to control it, that sometimes - no, more than that - it still manages to get under his skin…

Truly shameful, and ain’t that another good reason why he shouldn’t be here anymore?

His hands are trembling as they hold the blade that will do the deed, but soon they still as a weird sense of absolute calm washes over Nishiki.

It’s like a sort of enlightenment, something that he’s never experienced until this very moment. Now, he can only lament that his mind has never been this clear before; it would’ve certainly helped way before now, but he supposes that he can’t control this kind of stuff, can’t he?

At least he knows what he has to do now, and he’ll do it, without hesitation.

It hurts way less than he thought it would. Actually, it almost feels good, because he knows he’s doing the right thing.

As his strength abandons him, he can’t help a sad smile from appearing on his face. He almost feels like crying; whether it’s from happiness or sadness, that much is unclear for his hazy mind.

There’s only one thing he can think, only a few words that ring loud enough for him to still hear them.

“Bro… Kiryu… I’m sorry…”

Kiryu betrays no emotion as he walks inside the graveyard.

Of all the things he expected to find out after being released from jail, Yuko and Nishiki having died was the last of them.

No, Nishiki didn’t just die, he committed seppuku. Those are two very different things…

Kiryu still hasn’t processed it. In prison, life was like in slow motion for him, stuck in a miserable routine, so now he’s unused to this speed.

When he got released, Kashiwagi-san came personally to greet him, saying that Kazama-san was waiting for him. It was him, while driving him to the Kazama family office, that broke him the news of Nishiki’s death. It felt like a stab in the heart.

Kiryu was so cold as Kashiwagi-san kept talking, voice low, almost apologetic. There were so many things that he wanted to ask: how could it have happened? How could they have let it happen? And yet, he said nothing, knowing that if he tried to speak, he would’ve just screamed, and that wasn’t something he wanted to do at the moment.

He did make one request though: to stop by Nishiki’s grave before going to Kazama-san. He’s sure the old man has something important to tell him, but… He needs to do this first.

Kashiwagi-san looked about to try to dissuade him, but something - maybe guilt, who knows? - made him change his mind.

“Alright Kiryu, as you wish.”

Nishiki’s grave is right beside Yuko’s. At least they haven’t been separated after death, although the knowledge is little to no consolation.

As Kiryu kneels down on the ground, uncaring that he’s going to get his suit dirty, he imagines Nishiki and Yuko - a healthy Yuko - walking together, hand in hand, laughing and joking around like nothing’s wrong. Ah, what he’d give to see this…

He closes his eyes, narrowing his brow, lips quivering. He wants to say something, but he has no idea about what. What would even be appropriate in this situation? Would saying “I’m sorry” be enough?

Yes, Kiryu is sorry, so very sorry: he feels like he’s abandoned Nishiki, left him to fend alone for himself.

Had he been there with him, would things be different? Would he be alive? Would Yuko be alive? He still doesn’t know exactly how she died…

In the end, despite how much he wants to, he can’t change the past. Besides, if he hadn’t been the one going to prison, Nishiki would’ve, and who knows how that would’ve gone, not to mention that Yuko would’ve been left alone… Well, not alone, because Kiryu would’ve stuck with her of course, but he doubts the news of her brother going to jail would’ve done wonders to her health.

No matter what happened, it feels like someone would’ve been lost either way, but is it really? Was this destined to happen? Were Nishiki and Yuko to die, without any chance of changing things for themselves?

… It’s useless to wonder about these things. After all, it’s not like Kiryu can change the course of fate.

When he opens his eyes, he almost expects - hopes - to wake up, to find out that this is only a nightmare, but unfortunately that’s not the case.

It’s real. All this is real, and there’s nothing he can do to make it better.

He gets up, going first to Yuko’s grave, stretching a hand to touch the stone surface, brushing his fingers against where her name has been inscribed.

He can’t hold back a frown when he notices how dusty - and generally dirty - her grave is. He’ll bring that up to Kashiwagi-san and Kazama-san, because he finds it unacceptable.

“I’m sorry, Yuko…” he murmurs, as if the grave can hear him.

After a moment, he turns to Nishiki’s grave, managing to move the necessary steps to get closer to it. Uh, there’s dust on here too…

Is there anybody tasked to keep them clean? Apparently, no. Kiryu tries his best to remove some dust with his hand, though there’s still so much even after he’s done; he makes a mental note to bring some cleaning supplies next time he visits; if nobody wants to do it, he will.

He gently rests his forehead against the cold stone; for a moment he imagines it’s Nishiki and not just a grave.

“Nishiki… I’m…”

He’s managed to hold back until now, but he can’t anymore. He’s silent in the way he cries, mourning the loss of someone that has always been so dear to him, his friend, his bro…

“I shouldn’t have abandoned you,” he mutters, opening his eyes, staring at the stone surface. “I’m so sorry…”

The wind begins to pick up, a gentle breeze that almost caresses Kiryu’s body, making him wonder if it’s Nishiki doing this, if it’s his way to talk to him, now that he can’t anymore. Is it forgiveness, or is there something else he’s trying to tell him?

For a vain moment, he hopes that, once he opens his eyes, he’ll be greeted by Nishiki telling him this was all just a joke - a tasteless one, but a joke nonetheless.

Unfortunately - though he expected it - when he does it, he’s met by the same grave from before.

“I promise you, I’ll raise to the top,” he vows, then, brushing a hand against the stone, remembering what he and Nishiki had promised each other - it feels so long ago. “I’ll make you proud, Nishiki. I’ll do it…”

There’s nothing else for him to say, or at least there’s nothing else that he can bring himself to say, not with all the thoughts swimming inside his head. Keeping up with them is proving to be a harder task that he thought.

As he takes a few steps behind, Kiryu feels lightheaded, a very similar feeling to when he’s drunk, even though he’s sober - for now, because later he plans to get as smashed as he can. He shakes his head, trying to get it together, and he manages to succeed, at least from an outside perspective.

He feels bad about abandoning Nishiki and Yuko again, but Kiryu needs to go. He knows this was just a detour, and that he can’t stay here for too long, not when he knows there’s something Kazama-san needs to tell him.

This doesn’t mean though that he feels good as he begins to walk away, towards the parking lot where Kashiwagi-san is waiting for him.

Now that he’s seen Yuko and Nishiki’s graves, a heavy burden has settled upon his shoulders, but with it, also comes conviction.

Yes, he’ll raise to the top, just like he and Nishiki had promised to each other so long ago.

He’ll do it for them.

#akira nishikiyama #kazuma kiryu #yakuza #yakuza kiwami #rgg #my fics #mine #koi son #sorry nishiki just makes me sad

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thanatosangels · 4 years ago

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Congraaats on hitting your first milestone, Mae!! 💕 We just followed each other recently, so I'm hoping to know you better! 😊 For the asks: 👀 What's your favourite ship/character from TSC? and based on that choice, can I pls get a 🥰 on the ship/character you've chosen? I'd love to read it! Thank you! 🥺

OMFG THANK YOU SM!! You seem sooo sweet and i really want to get to know you too ahhh 💝💞💓 Also, i can’t apologise enough for how long this has taken - life got very busy and then i wrote it all but accidentally deleted it, so i’m really sorry!! <3 I hope you enjoy :))

👀 - I honestly can’t even pick one, but for the sake of writing purposes i’m gonna say Lucie and Cordelia’s friendship because i really want to write about them lol <33

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Jessie,” Lucie’s voice was hushed in the darkness of her kitchen.

Nothing.

“Jessamine,” She was shaking as she clutched the picnic basket between her hands.

Still nothing.

“Jessamine Lovelace.” There was more conviction this time, a feigned air of authority.

Jessamine materialised directly in front of her. “Lucie, darling, are you aware it’s three in the morning?” Jessamine’s bright eyes narrowed as she looked Lucie up and down, seeing her mud-caked boots, the hem of her dress sodden and heavy, the hastily assembled picnic in her hand. “Whatever seems to be the matter?” Her voice held more curiosity than concern.

Lucie gulped, her nervousness a palpable taste in her mouth. “I need you to take me somewhere, Jessie.”

Jessamine looked at her like she’d grown a second head. “I beg your pardon?”

A deep breath. “I need you to take me somewhere.” She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. Angel, I hope this works.

“Little Lucie, have you lost your mind? I wouldn’t blame you, living in all this ruckus.” Jessamine was slowly circling her, inspecting her. “Or have you suffered a grievous head injury that’s rendered you unable to remember that I am a ghost. Does this mean i have to rouse Will? You do know what he’s like when he doesn’t get his precious beauty sleep.” Lucie could feel the bright ghostly eyes on the back of her head. “Oh! Perhaps you’ve had a spell cast on you by a nasty warlock and i simply appear human to you now-“

Lucie felt her already frayed nerves snap. “Oh, do shut up Jessamine! Listen to me for a moment.”

A small, shimmering hand was brought to a translucent chest, an offended look on her pale, pretty face, but she did not continue her rambling.

Lucie shut her eyes for a moment. She had been in the gardens of Chiswick Manor, her breath forming a mist in the crisp evening air that mingled with the dark-grey clouds overhead, Grace by her side. They had been trudging over the damp lawn towards their usual meeting place, the dilapidated house looming over them, broken windows like unblinking eyes, when Lucie had stopped short. Dread trickled down her body from her head to her feet like a bucket of ice water poured over her head, realisation dawning and anxiety gnawing. Cordelia! She had been meant to see her that afternoon, to go for a walk in the park and show her the latest chapter of the Beautiful Cordelia, but she had been so distracted by smuggling yet another book of dark magic from the restricted section that she had, simply, forgotten. She hadn’t seen Cordelia in almost two weeks now, and guilt rose like bile in her throat.

So, after Grace and Lucie had finished, she had rushed home and immediately packed a picnic of leftover strawberry and lemon tarts, ginger beer and lemonade, cake and cucumber sandwiches. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best she could do. Now she stood in her kitchen, face to face with her ghostly Aunt, about to do the unthinkable.

Lucie squared her shoulders, took another deep breath and whispered an “I’m sorry.” almost under her breath, and held her hand out in front of herself.

One of Jessamines delicate eyebrows arched up. “What are you doing?”

“Jessamine Lovelace, I command you to take me to Cordelia Carstairs.” Lucie put all the force she could muster, all the confidence she did not feel, into her voice.

“What?” Was all Jessamine said, an alarmed look on her face.

“I command you to take me to Cordelia Carstairs,” Lucie lowered her hand as she walked towards the ghost. “And i bound you to secrecy about my powers.”

Lucie stopped barley inches from Jessamine. They were almost the same height, Jessie just slightly taller. Lucie set her jaw, her pale blue eyes fixed on Jessamine’s shining brown eyes, her mouth in a hard line. She reached a hand up, to place it on Jessamine’s shoulder, desperately trying to still the tremor of her nerves…

And felt Jessamine, cold but solid, under her palm.

Lucie heard her suck in a small breath, bright eyes wide with shock, her mouth agape. “How….” She breathed.

Despite herself, despite the fact that this was only half the battle, a small smile played on Lucie’s lips. Hope burned in her chest, a warm feeling that fought the cold of the dead biting at her fingers.

She felt that same cold wash over her whole body as Jessamine’s arms encircled her.

“Take me.”

And she did.

___________________

There was simply darkness, and then light.

Lucie found herself in the small, neat courtyard at the back of Cordelia’s home. Power thrummed through her veins and she felt almost drunk on the giddiness of it. Oh, what fun!

Jessamine nowhere to be seen. Lucie hoped she was alright.

She looked up, towards the window of Cordelia’s bedroom. At least, she thought it was Cordelia’s bedroom. Guilt sobered her as she realised how little time she’d spent here these past few months. Surely you should know your best friend’s - your parabatai’s - whole life inside out?

“Cordelia!” Lucie whisper-shouted, though she wasn’t even sure why she tried. Obviously Cordelia was not going to hear her from all the way up there. She looked around frantically, searching for something, anything, that she could throw at the window and alert Cordelia of her presence. She thought about the small throwing ax attached to her thigh, hidden under her skirts, but quickly decided that it was a horrendous idea.

Finally, she found a suitable pebble. She placed down her basket and took a few steps back, almost falling over a stone bench next to some flower beds. She steadied herself, measured the throw, pulled her arm back and let the pebble fly.

It was a direct hit. Despite herself, Lucie was proud.

Lucie shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her hands worrying each other in front of her. The ten or so seconds between the throw and the curtains drawing back felt like an hour to her. Then, Lucie saw Cordelia’s face through the darkness, lit by a candle she held in her hand, and relief washed over her.

She had been awfully panicked about accidentally waking Alastiar instead.

Then, the window was open and Cordelia stuck her head out of it. “Lucie? Is that you?” Her voice was hushed. “Are you okay? Has something happened?” Her words were spilling over each other.

“No! Nothing’s happened, Daisy, I am perfectly fine…” She trailed off, unsure how to start.

“Oh, well then. How kind of you to actually show up.” Cordelia’s voice was cold now, but Lucie heard the twinge of hurt in it and it made her heart ache. Cordelia moved to shut the window.

“Wait!” Lucie shouted, desperation creeping into her voice.

Cordelia’s head popped back out again, her dark hair falling about her like Rapunzel in her tower. “Yes?”

“Cordelia, Daisy, I am so very, very sorry.” She spoke very, very quickly. “I know I have not been as good a friend as I should these past months, and I know an apology alone cannot fix that. I am going to be better, though. You are so amazing, Daisy, and you deserve only the best of everything in this life. I cannot promise to be perfect, which is what you truly deserve, but i can promise to be better and do my best. I love you, more than anything else on this earth, Cordelia and I hope you never forget that.” She paused, breathing like she’d been running, and Cordelia opened her mouth as if to say something but Lucie held her hand up to quiet her. She dashed over to the picnic basket she’d left lying and lifted it up so Cordelia could see. “I brought us some midnight - well, 3 o’clock - snacks, if you would like?”

For a moment, Cordelia said nothing. Lucie’s heart fluttered in her chest like a hummingbird in a cage. Then, a wide smile lit up Cordelia’s whole face. “Oh, Lucie, you goose! I wasn’t that annoyed, simply peeved! Of course I will come down and have a picnic with you, darling, just give me a moment to get dressed.” She disappeared into the darkness behind her and shut the window.

Lucie felt herself grin uncontrollably as relief crashed over her like a tidal wave, making her knees so weak that she plopped herself down on the stone bench that had nearly upended her before.

It was the first time she had smiled like that for a long while.

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cheatdeathsarchive · 4 years ago

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Her dress is the color of the sunset when it’s warm and bright and paints the world that pretty orange-gold. It goes well with her hair, her freckles, her eyes, her smile, and Six likes how light it all makes her feel. It’s not like Benny, not like House. She laughs and giggles and they walk arm in arm down the lit up streets. Six thinks about how Ronnie was in love once and wonders if it felt like this.

Cause she thinks she feels it, thinks she gets it. If love is a color maybe it’s orange. The dress catches the light in a way -- from orange to yellow to gold, and it’s better than any sunset, she thinks. She wants to tell Ronnie, too, but the butterflies in her stomach fly into her throat and she doesn’t know how to rightly say it yet. There will be time later.

There’s an... what’s the term? An Ellie Fant in the room. Six doesn’t know who that is or why her presence is so big, but she’s here and it is. Ellie is one they’ve both been happy to ignore. There were dresses to buy, drinks to be had. There was music and dancing and pretending like things were alright for a day. There was soft hair to rest their cheeks against, and the teasing of fingertips at calloused knuckles and sheepish glances that were safe from wry comments.

They paint the town red like Jane likes to say. They out-party the NCR troopers, watch people come and go and give them all a story which is usually the opposite of how Six likes to daydream. This is fun too, though -- to have a face and to wonder about all that is behind it. The sun is still waiting for its debut, but the horizon is turning a pretty light purple, and Six thinks that would be a pretty color on Veronica Santangelo, too.

Robert House is livid, still so livid, but Six still has run of the Lucky 38. Probably as an incentive. Probably because he knows she’ll go through with what he demands. Not on his terms, she thinks, Not when I’ve learned from Benny and fooled the Legion. Not when I could talk a dying man out of his last drop of water.

Her plan will work. It has to work. They sneak quietly down the hall in case any of their other companions are spending the night in their rooms. No doubt though their exaggerated whispers and giggling are louder than they think. Nobody bothers them all the same. Six turns the radio in her suite on, and Veronica looks around like she’s never been in here before even though she has.

Six loves that -- she does it too sometimes. One time they found a whole mess of old world coins in the couch cushions. Another time they found a time capsule of old world treasures hidden under a mattress. It’s fun to explore the places people haven’t gotten to in ages. Their party could keep going, but Ellie Fant is here and waiting, her arms crossed and Veronica is sick of her presence, too.

“Have you decided?” She asks with a conviction in her voice that Six is immediately aware that she’s practiced, “About what House said, I mean... you’re not going through with it, are you?”

Pretty brown eyes are staring her down. Six replies with a smile, though it’s demure. The Brotherhood’s got her all kinds of conflicted. She can’t imagine how much worse it is for Veronica.

“I don’t wanna kill your family, Ronnie. Family’s all we got out here.” That seems to put her at ease, “But Mr. House ain’t willin’ to listen to me. I tried. I’m thinkin’... I could talk to some caravans, get ‘em set up for supplies... There’s a whole mess of space between here and Tucson.”

Ronnie picks it up, and her appeasement shifts into a cold realization. Six bites her lip, gives her the best helpless look she can muster. Ronnie doesn’t bite.

“That’s not an option,” Veronica replies with a very pointed frown. There isn’t anymore happiness in her face even though it hasn’t been anything but fun this evening. Six sighs. Ronnie insists, “That bunker is our home, Six. It’s hard enough when we get sent out for supply runs under cover. Nobody’s going to help supply an entire chapter of the Brotherhood.”

That makes Six shake her head -- she has favors she can call in, but it’s time for a new approach, “Mr. House won’t listen to reason -- your Elder might, Ronnie. Maybe this is the push they need to adapt.”

“By making them homeless? By taking away the one place we can hide from the NCR, the Legion? By making them all open targets?”

“Better than all dead without a fightin’ chance,” And maybe those are the wrong words. Six takes a breath, “I wanna help you Ronnie, I do... but Mr. House, he --”

“Saved your life, I know. You know what else I know? That you’ve done whatever you had to do with that weird little poker chip he’s so obsessed with. You did your job. He might have saved your life, but why can’t you live it for yourself?”

'Cause she loves him is why. 'Cause she believes in him. Six keeps her mouth shut. She loves Veronica, too, misses the wrinkle in her nose when she laughs. Veronica continues.

“So what?” She fishes, and Six fidgets. Six can hear Benny tutting from whatever hole he’s crawled into, “You want my permission to... to banish the Brotherhood from the Mojave? Because your boss is a megalomaniac dictator?”

Elder McNamara is so much better, Six wants to say, Most the folks down there don’t like your attitude Ronnie, that’s another. Neither are kind, so she opts to say neither at all.

“Autocrat,” Six argues, steeled and frustrated and suddenly stone cold sober. Veronica can’t even look at her right now, “What he can do for the Mojave Ronnie... it’s a hell of a lot more than livin’ underground and hoardin’ weapons you don’t trust people with like you deserve the authority of who gets to have ‘em. It’s resource guardin’, it’s not safe, it’s --”

“Shut up,” Veronica mutters, “just... shut the fuck up.”

Six swallows. Bites her lip so hard she thinks it’s gonna bruise, and takes ten deep breaths. Veronica doesn’t say anything else. Six takes that as permission to speak again, “...I’m gonna get a drink, okay?” Veronica doesn’t answer. She’ll take it as permission, “...I’ll figure somethin’ out, alright? I promise. Nobody’s gotta die.”

Still, nothing. Six hesitates, a small step backwards before finally peeling her eyes away from that pretty orange dress and the woman wearing it. She moves to the kitchen. The medic in her knows water is what’s good. The hedonist in her reaches for a Sunset Sarsaparilla instead. the cap gets popped off and she takes a sip. The vice tastes good, but it’s not enough to make her smile. She’s gotta rethink her plan now.

The sounds of a pneumatic gauntlet rev up behind her. Six knows she can either turn around or duck, and she chooses to duck. Veronica cracks the door of the fridge so deep Six can feel the cold slipping through the crack where the door doesn’t line up right anymore.

“Ronnie --” Six gasps, turning around to see her winding her fist back up. Punches -- the gift that keeps on giving, “Ron, please, hang on. Please, don’t --”

“Shut. Up!” Ronnie screams, and Six is so afraid that someone who isn’t either of them can hear the shouting and the sounds of combat, “I won’t let you.”

The second swing comes, and Six feels it hit her hair just barely as she somersaults out of the way across broken glass and spilled soda and scrambles to her feet. The tiles on the floor shatter. She’s got a silenced .22 under her dress and it shouts at her in Benny’s voice -- never go into a casino unarmed, pussycat. You really fucked this one up, didn’t you?

“Please,” Six begs, and she can only turn around before Veronica tackles her, pins her down. Six kicks, tries to scramble backwards, tries to beg to get Veronica to listen. Veronica grabs her shoulder and sits on her, her gauntlet reeling back. Six struggles more as the first punch lands. She tastes iron, feels the hot sting of skin split open above her left eye. Veronica pulls her fist back and she paints the room red. Her grip loosens just a touch and Six isn’t sure when the gun made it to her hand, but it’s there and she pulls the trigger. Later she finds out it’s right through her heart.

“Don’t --” Veronica Santangelo says, and it’s her last word. There are a million things on her face. She looks... scared. Shocked. Confused. Scared. Scared, scared, so scared. Six gasps, and before Veronica falls on top of her entirely she pushes the still warm corpse to fall beside her instead, rolling away to rest her head against cool tile, and she closes her eyes. Just for a second, she thinks, but when she opens them again Boone is here and so is Victor. The sun is out and pretty shades of yellow and orange shine through the windows.

“Don’t touch her,” Six snaps, her head aching from the hangover. She spits blood out of her mouth.

“We’re just wantin’ to help you clean up a bit, Sugar,” the robot says, very placating, and when Six rolls over she sees he’s holding the body of Veronica Santangelo like a baby. Courier Six screams bloody murder. Boone helps her up. Walks her to the bathroom. Six can’t stop screaming.

She doesn’t know where Victor’s taken her as the sniper cleans her wounds. She never bothers to ask. She doesn’t know when she stops screaming, doesn’t know why she can’t cry instead -- probably because Boone is staring her down behind his aviators and she’s pretty sure she knows just how he’s watching her.

She blames the Brotherhood and slips on her vault suit. Blames them as she goes into Ronnie’s room to slip her scribe robes on top of her outfit. Six blames them as she walks to the Hidden Valley and slips in with the utmost care to be a shadow on the wall. This is a family and they know their people. The disguise doesn’t work if she stops, so Six doesn’t stop. Her head is down and she blames every single person in here for being so rigid, so stuck in their ideals.

It’s their fault that Veronica became disillusioned with them. It’s their fault they are not willing to bend. It’s their fault they are ruined. She sprints out of the Bunker as the sirens go off, throwing the caution and stealth she had been using to the wind along with the burlap hood and robes. The ground rumbles, and she can’t blame them anymore.

It’s not their fault. It never was.

It’s hers.

#here is an early bday gift for six :')#happy birthday bitch u ain't allowed to be happy #drabble tag pending.#tw violence #tw gun mention #tw gun violence #tw blood #tw death #pls ask for additional tags i am sure i'm missing some!#( ic. ) resume save file.#( arc i. ) war never changes; men do through the roads they walk / main.

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glcsterdux · 4 years ago

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TOM HARDY, 44, EDMUND PLANTAGENET. ❝ ⤚⟶ EUROPE, 1458. thanks is given by the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, EDMUND PLANTAGENET, from ENGLAND. they are at best ENTERPRISING, and at their worst MACHIAVELLIAN. whilst abroad, their ambition is to SECURE FOREIGN FAVOR FOR THE FUTURE ASCENSION OF HIS NEPHEW, THE PRINCE OF WALES. HE seems to remind everyone of TOM HARDY & THE RASP OF A QUILL PEN WRITING ON PARCHMENT, THE COLD STONE OF A WELSH BORDER CASTLE, and THE HAUNTING TIMBRE OF A CATHEDRAL CHOIR. ❞ penned by WALTER; EST, HE/HIM, 26.

FULL NAME : Edmund Plantagenet TITLES : Duke of Gloucester BIRTHPLACE : Pembroke Castle, Pembrokeshire, Wales. AGE : 44 (b. Sep. 1413) LANGUAGES : English; limited Welsh, French; currently studying Russian. DYNASTY / HOUSE : Plantagenet

SPOUSE : [TBD], Duchess of Gloucester

ISSUE : [TBD]

SIBLINGS ♛ Edward Plantagenet, King of England (brother) + Isabel, Queen of England (sister-in-law)

OTHER ♛ Arthur, Prince of England (nephew, deceased) ♛ Henry, Prince of Wales (nephew) + Katherine, Princess of Wales (niece by law) + Mary, Princess of England and Wales (great-niece) ♔ Beatrice, Dowager Empress of Burgundy (niece) ♛ Thomas, Prince of England (nephew) ♛ Richard, Earl of Richmond (nephew) + Elizabeth Beauchamp, Countess of Richmond (niece by law) + Edmund Howard-Fitzroy (great-nephew) ♔ Anne, Lady of York (niece) ♔ Cecily, Princess of England (niece)

ZODIAC : Virgo ELEMENT : Earth

RELIGIOUS AFFILIATION : Roman Catholic

PERSONALITY TYPE : ESTJ; the executive — “representatives of tradition and order, utilizing their understanding of what is right, wrong and socially acceptable.”

VICES : opportunistic, shrewd, heavy-handed

VIRTUES : pragmatic, faithful, sober

FACECLAIM : Tom Hardy

HEIGHT : 5′10″

RECOGNIZABLE FEATURES : deepset eyes, gentle creases of age about the corners; greying of dark brown hair at the temples; angular jaw narrowing sharply at the chin.

FAMILY ♖ Duchess of Gloucester — as devout to the Catholic faith as her husband; a political marriage that evolved into a love-match. ♜ Lords & Ladies of Gloucester — children of the Duke and Duchess, likely in their very late teens to early-to-mid twenties.

PLATONIC ♗ Advisor — one who assists with managing the affairs of the duchy in the Duke’s absence, as well as a source of counsel when present in Gloucester; most likely a clergyman. ♘ Compatriots — trusted members of the Duke’s household, regardless of gender; compatriots of campaigns against Welsh rebels; fellow supporters of Henry’s claim to the throne. ♙ Saboteur — a handsomely paid spy employed to keep close watch upon the goings on of the Neville family.

FAMILY

“He cost me much, but I wish he had lived to cost me more.” The words had once been spoken by Henry II upon the death of his eldest son, a cry of mourning that followed so many years of strife and familial turmoil. Such is the way in which Edmund thinks of his elder brother, his deep fraternal love for Edward so often at odds with what he sees as a series of disastrous personal choices that have turned the English monarchy on its very head.

So many of his own traits contrast sharply with those of his brother — though being second-born, he supposes that it is his very nature to view his own reflection through the skewed mirror of Edward’s existence. Pragmatic even to a fault, Edmund has desperately attempted to advise the King in a more traditional, conservative manner, watching helplessly as time and again Edward has stumbled headlong into speculation and peril, much to the excitement of his loyal subjects.

Yet no one could ever accuse Edmund of being cowed by his King; even as children, his quiet, almost dour demeanor could easily slip and give way to the fabled Plantagenet temper, voice raised in thunderous support of his own traditional ideals. He tends to his nephew with a softer, more manageable hand, feeling a unique kinship Henry ever since the passing of his mother. He’s watched the boy slowly be pushed to the wayside of his father’s affections to make room for the brood he sired with his mistress, a string of empathy joining forgotten nephew and overlooked uncle.

His favor of Henry does not temper his fondness for his newest brood of nieces and nephews. No child wishes to be born a bastard — that misfortune was the sole fault of their parents. But familial warmth will not distract him from his greater purpose of maintaining peace in England and thwarting any future succession crisis that may come from his brother’s infidelity. The kinship he feels with Edward’s other children extends only as far as their refusal to rise above their station and place the stability of the kingdom in jeopardy.

FAITH

Of Edmund’s deepest convictions, his religious piety is perhaps his most cherished. His original intentions of becoming a priest and withdrawing to a quiet life of service to the Church were laid aside when it became apparent to him that his brother’s impulsive nature may bring about untold harm to both himself and their family. It is this same spiritual conviction that caused him to balk at how openly his brother had entertained a mistress while casting his lawful wife aside to anguish and indignity, a mistake that he hopes he can impress upon Henry never to make. As Duke of Gloucester, he has become a prolific patron of Gloucester Cathedral, commissioning numerous expansions of the church as well as much-needed renovations to the original structure. He plans to commission a new stained glass window in the Cathedral to commemorate the coronation of Prince Henry, when the day finally comes.

FIDELITY

He has developed a penchant for heavy-handed and at times brutal enforcement of the King’s laws; Gloucester’s border with Wales, ever the kingdom’s most troublesome territory, has caused to be beset by all manner of outlaws and dissidents, whose presence in his lands he refuses to abide. He will as well accompany the Prince of Wales on his tours of the kingdom’s Welsh lands and the imposing border fortresses built and defended by one of the many past Plantagenet warlords.

FORTUNE

Edmund’s lands and residence in Gloucester have greatly shaped his perspective of both foreign and domestic affairs. The duchy’s comfortable hold on the River Severn and its meandering path out to the Bristol Channel are, in his mind, criminally underused as a trading port in a world that is rapidly embracing a robust market of foreign commerce. It vexes him that his brother courts the distant Tsar of Russia yet ignores the affluent merchant families of the Italian peninsula, a course that he hopes can be reversed by Henry.

FACULTIES

With age has come compilations of the mind — plagued by persistent migraines that are often nauseating and debilitating, he is occasionally beset by dramatic shifts in mood that have only become even harder to restrain as the years have passed and more difficult yet to keep hidden from the rest of the court.

#crhs.intro

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juleswolverton-hyde · 6 years ago

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Aftermath (NJ x Reader)

Genre: Smut, Angst, Guesthouse AU

Pairing: Guesthouse Manager!Namjoon x Foreign!Reader

Warnings: Dirty talk, possessive behaviour, rough unprotected sex on the kitchen counter (ALWAYS use precautions, lads and lasses), accidental voyeurism, squirting, fingering, swearing, breeding/impregnation kink, dom!Namjoon

Summary: The sequel to ‘’Dionysian’’

Every aftermath is different, ranging in variety to all its extents. However, this one experienced by a silver tongue no longer numbed by blueberries does not nullify its need to speak the truth. Thus, the blonde wolf holds on to beliefs made explicit in drunkenness and hopes for physical conviction in sobriety.

By means which carry a sober soul into a former mutual intoxication.

Masterlist

The impact of an aftermath all depends on the reason for its cause, so naturally, it follows that the bigger the agent, the grander the effect of the afterburn. A jet lag tried to be cured by reading, for example, does not have as much if any unpleasant side effects aside from a sense of discombobulation, this is disregarding the fact that what followed the leisurely activity does make walking not all that easy, while the smoky blueberry hangover causes a major headache on top of muttering grumpiness. Withal, and perhaps this is fortunate regardless of the oppressing morality of reality, the negative mood in case of the latter seems to lessen quite a bit when exhausted pained espresso eyes shrouded by haphazard platinum meet drowsy sheepish irises containing various travel stories in the second living room upstairs.

‘Y/N,’ it comes out as a surprised reaction, not having expected to run into the person indirectly involved with the lingering effects of rice-based clear alcohol contained in emerald if that is remembered at all considering the vague forgetful haze shrouding an always comforting gaze, ‘I thought you’d be out and about by now.’

The remark signifies last night has been forgotten and with that the strangely meaningful act that turned out entirely different than expected, oddly making the heart sink with the stone of knowledge that even the genuine passion and devotion has been erased. ‘No, I’m here sleeping off the jet lag. But, uhm, can we talk?’

‘Sure, but,’ a palm presses against the forehead in a futile endeavour to push the likely agonizingly pulsing hurt into retreat, ‘can we do so at a low volume. My head is killing me.’

More than that is currently being figuratively murdered, but there is a voice inside which says that the tall guesthouse manager does not have to know about the events of the past twilight for they are best left in the past. Henceforth, it stays at a consenting nod before two pairs of bare feet ascend the stairs to the stylish though small area both functioning as a hallway, living room, dining room and kitchen all at once.

Along the way, a brief spark of hope is ignited when fingers brush against each other in an absent-minded fashion, hoping for them to entangle entirely or mayhaps go beyond that chaste boundary, falling into the sin left behind in oblivious dusk. A straying digit encourages this renewed type of contact.

But is disregarded as opportunity fades away directly when the wanted big hand swerves away towards the front door where a few coats hang neatly in a row to retrieve a small box of Marlboro Red cigarettes. ‘I’ll be right back. Maybe a smoke will help me clear up.’

The spring weather is warm enough to allow going outside without a jacket provided the upper body is in the least covered by a T-shirt, so the grey long-sleeved shirt on top of loose navy pyjama pants more than suffices when the front door briefly opens and closes without another word to carry on the communication seemingly unaffected by the sensual encounter.

The silence that sets in is cold, the warm lingering affection normally shown nor the traces of the rough version present to calm an anxious heart fearing being abandoned by the handsome manager despite being bound to a gentle ocean artist. Hence, for a moment that feels longer than it truly is, eyes begin to water at the sight of the closed entrance as arms wrap around the shivering body to keep it from unjustly falling apart, barely shy of sobbing when asking the rhetorical questions of the emptiness. ‘Why can’t you remember? Why did it have to mean nothing?’

And with those very same haunting unanswered inquiries, the task of making two decent cups of instant coffee is taken up while fighting the tears that inevitably stream down the cheeks. Shivering hands retrieve a pair of matching crimson and ink black mugs from the cupboard that is slightly too highly installed for the short person determinedly trying to grab a hold of the china, eventually succeeding by standing on the tips of toes. Soft hiccups get lost in the loudly boiling water and the dimmed sobs in the pouring that brings the caffeine to life.

However, a new noise is audible over the tinkling of spoons mixing the powder and water to create a godly beverage: bare feet rapidly padding over the Alaskan white cedar floor after a shocked gasp. Before the door has closed with a hardly audible click, unusually physically affectionate strong arms clad in grey have wrapped around the middle and pulled a fragile figure against a worried chest scented with fresh smoke. ‘Why are you crying?’

‘It- It’s nothing. Do- Don’t worry.’ To move on from the stupidly prominent hurt at the hand of lying fancies, a trivial detail is asked after while continuing to keep the whirlpool in the cup alive, moving. All consuming. ‘Do y- you drink it black?’

‘Y/N, please tell me what’s bothering you. I hate to see you like this.’ The warm breath on locks makes teeth bite down on the lower lip in a desperate attempt to withhold another heavy heave evoked by the genuine loving imaginations it conjures, gravely reminding the mind Taehyung already has an allegation to the title of significant other.

‘Namjoon, re- really. It’s o- okay.’ The handsome tall tree was never meant to be a selfish girl’s lover anyway, so the mourning of the fact is nothing but superfluous information to the man who cannot even remember how amazing and wanted he made her feel. How good it felt to lose control.

‘Is it about last night?’ A plush mouth no longer ghosts over strands grown haphazard by slumber, pressing down on the back of the head in a sincere loving smoke-scented kiss.

A weak nod confirms the suspicion, bravely trying to speak up to ask the question previously asked to the nothingness in a blonde wolf’s wake. ‘Have you forgotten what we did?’

‘I was far gone, too drunk to memorize what happened.’ Had it not been for what follows the statement, the crying might have commenced in earnest without ever giving a proper explanation for it afterwards to neither the platinum giant nor anyone else. Fortunately, the sorrowful chill fades from limbs at the heated reassuring mumbled words. ‘But I remember everything we did, all that I said. How gorgeous you looked while riding me, solely mine instead of his.’

The hug loosens enough to allow for turning around when noticing the urge to do so, needing to see the truth of the claim beneath the soju aftermath.

The dark reminiscent glint says more than enough, emphasizing the wanting has not been nullified over the course of sobering during the remnants of the nightly hours. Especially the barely held back anger pointed towards the artist called a “blueberry” in drunken rage signifies still wanting to be the sole one for a taken travelling individual living on a deadline. ‘I do hate it, you know? Hate it how he’s your boyfriend and I have to watch from the sideline. It should have been me who fucked you when you two came back from eating ramen. In fact, that could have been our second date if only you had recognized the trip to ARTBOX meant as much to me as a first.’

The embrace is made entirely undone as palms move upwards over the upper arms, following the curve of the neck and at last coming to rest on the cheeks where two kind thumbs wipe away the remaining brooks. ‘I don’t care how many men fuck you, but, in the end, I want you to be mine. That, out of all the times another touches you, it’s only meaningful when it’s me. I want you to be mine.’ Lips connect in a kiss tasting of smoke, old alcohol and restless sleep with a fruity hint of blueberries. Not really a preferable combination due to the sharpness of rice alcohol, but otherwise as pleasant, if not more, than the turpentine and lavender experienced each night before going to bed, every morning at waking up and all the little shared moments in between. ‘Leave him. Leave him for me, baby.’

‘I promised he could stay with me.’ Attention shifts to the side, staring at the floor in conflicted self-loathing for wanting to give up for Namjoon but wondering whether it would even matter since the blue-haired art teacher was turned on by the idea of being shared. Said he could learn how to love this body and soul better that way. However, it begs to ask the question where the line is drawn, at which point even this explanation no longer applies.

‘And he still believes that when I’ve clearly marked you as mine? Made him watch you getting a good pounding by me?’ Focus is shifted back by suddenly being picked up and put on the counter, the contact with the cold surface beneath the thighs making a shuddering tingling run down the spine. ‘I want him to stand by and watch, know there isn’t anything he can do to take you from me.’ A tanned hand creeps up the inside of dangling legs, gripping the upper part firmly at the last statement with a concoction of rage pointed towards an absent party and lust towards the present one. ‘Make him feel as I have all this fucking time.’

Helpless palms try to futilely push away the persistent shoulders leaning in to retrace the wonderful path of marks left behind in the twilight purple past, kissing each plum sign of belonging created in the craze of desire, hovering above the gradually heating skin and increasing the temperature by tickling warm breath. Without a second thought, in spite of Sense urging against doing it, fingers acting on muscle memory entangle in soft fluffy platinum locks like they had done before as the foreign body mindlessly bridges the small space between it and the local one.

The obvious hunger for the wolf disguised as a nice guesthouse manager evokes a tangibly bright smile on full lips while the oversized piece of clothing which is the property of a rival is endeavoured to be removed. ‘I think I like this complacent you more, baby. Now take this damn shirt off, I dislike lavender on you.’

‘You will have to deal with it. It keeps me warm.’ The smugness of the dark has not faded since talking back to Namjoon when the man thinks there is no courage to do so is actually quite amusing. Furthermore, it is also another way to avoid giving into the sensual craving stirring in the gut, fueled by the sensations of wanting to be possessed.

‘Hm, maybe not so obedient, after all.’ Clearly, the attitude is not tolerated even in a sober state. Yet, the caressing of the sides combined with a pondering hum forms an example of actual care about wellbeing. ‘I don’t want you to catch a cold, though. Hold on, baby, I’ll be right back.’

Just briefly a handsome face can be regarded fully in earnest before it rushes up the stairs and comes back down with a gorgeous creme-shaded silk kimono with intricate patterns in complementing colours and black bands at the ends of the sleeves. Quick as lightning, making sure there is no opportunity to resist at the last second, the crisp white shirt is almost torn off to be replaced by the personal piece of clothing.

Withal, before the new garments are donned, espresso eyes are drawn to the mesmerizing sight of the revealed chest, grand palms enveloping the two sensitive cushions perfectly as if made exactly to fit the broad-shouldered human tree’s hands. ‘Why did you hide this from me? You’re beautiful.’ The head dips down to take the swollen right rosebud into the mouth, teasing it by nibbling and licking the agitated bud of nerves, while left digits glide over the stomach towards the source of the hedonic scent as their right counterparts curl over the edge of the counter to remain balanced though they rapidly shift to the hip closing in with the ache to be closer. ‘So incredibly beautiful.’

When the coy amusing ministrations over cotton becoming sticky with uncontrollable wanting bring bliss almost too close, the desperate grip on hair that has to be renewed with every novel angle of exploration begins to shake and the chest is falling and rising heavily with laborious breaths mixed with pathetic whimpers and surprised gasps at harder bites or pressure on extremely sensitive spots, the sorry excuse for panties are torn off and the kimono embedded with a trace of nicotine blueberries put on. ‘Look at you, Y/N. Naked but for my clothes, marked as mine, blushing all cutesy with the need for me.’ Legs spread automatically and with a lewd squelch, two fingers slide in embarrassingly easily, soon joined by a third when notice is taken it can be done without problems. ‘So hungry for my cock, craving a good pounding.’ A too eager nod. ‘But first, I’m going to make you squirt all over my fingers and only use you as my personal fucktoy when you’re all nice and complacent, sensitive. Begging me to stop, whining for me to pull my big cock out, crying when I pump you full again. After all, you’re nothing more than my little breeding machine.’

It does not take long for the first promise to come to fruition, the remaining restraints of reality rapidly let go of once that special mind-boggling spot is found and touched over and over after the betraying whine, compelled to watch the obvious watery effects of pleasure by means of an unrelenting controlling grip on hair and baritone growls that shatter every thought in a white haze. ‘You’re such an easy fuck. Already cumming so quickly, making such a mess. But it’s also perfect, because it makes it that much easier to force myself into you, for you to handle me.’

Keeping the earlier given word, loose marine blue bottoms alongside the once fresh pair of boxers - now ruined by the transparent sinful sign which was only noticeable in a tangible shape - are pushed down to the ankles to give free reign to a sober part of the body that the one of the self is already well-acquainted with. Without warning nor inquiry about consent, making use of the floating trance which causes every reaction to be slowed down immensely due to the ignorant bliss exerting a hypnotizing influence on the consciousness, a more intense version of the renewed physical bond is established. The sole reaction that can be managed is hands tightening the hold on the buff upper arms that were already previously held tight when it were only long digits bringing about sexual ruin, hot tears on the brim of falling at the burning sensation of being stretched open again which is intensified by every nerve still standing on edge by the plunge into sensitivity. ‘Namjoon! It- it’s too much. I- I can’t- please, pull out.’

A dark chuckle falls from full lips at a pained whimper evoked at the hand of overstimulation, corners of the mouth curled up in a satisfied devilish grin. ‘You feel even better than I remember. So fucking tight. I said I’d give you a good pounding when you’re nothing more but an obedient little thing, flinching at every contact because it’s too overwhelming.’

Honey-toned digits fold themselves perfectly over the waist, scooting the infiltrated persona closer with ease and thus deepen the union with another pained outcry contrasting with the gesture of holding on tighter to the intoxicating offender driving out any thought dedicated to Taehyung and Jungkook, muffling the beginnings of crying in ashen nicotine fabric, finding comfort in the characteristic scent. However, the hiding place is merely temporary as the counterpart of the shackle on the middle forms around the jaw, ensuring with force that stares remain locked under any circumstance. ‘I want you to keep looking at me as you beg for me to stop. Just know that it won’t actually help, so you can whimper and cry all you want but it only turns me on. You’re going to take my cock like last night, let me empty entirely inside you, and there is nothing you can do about it. You’re gonna take every last drop,’ the hold tightens yet is not fought against as the effect of the sheer strength is as good as a drunken stupor, obliterating the last slivers of the old hypnotizing veil and immediately replacing it with a new blindfold, ‘milk me till I’m dry and your pretty pussy, swollen and sore, is leaking again with my seed.’

A sloppy kiss in combination with the last spoken words before a devastating act of love commences in earnest unintentionally already shows how wanton personal longing has become, endeavouring to enhance the intimacy even further and satiate the uncontrollable craving which is at war with the urge to end it here merely on the grounds of the searing agony below. A brief repose would also be a good alternative, but the primal spirit within neglects the idea altogether and listens instead gladly to the platinum wolf. ‘So, spread your fucking legs like a good deprived bitch and let me breed you.’

Muscles loosen enough to heed the command, an awful joy the determining factor in keeping up with the directly set relentless pace between the thighs of which the ankles wrap around a carved waist that stirs up a paradoxical storm of pleasure and pain in the gut with its movements. Pleads for a halt mixed with sobs about how much it hurts, not lying despite also clearly showing the need for more, made to a beautiful face are returned with praise. ‘Keep begging like that, baby. I’m not going to stop, not when you’re taking me so well.’ The hideous snarl returns with the memory surfacing at a newly discovered detail, a trace thought to have been made undone when restoring the ruin of the night but which only evokes jealousy spurring on the desire to imprint it all over again. ‘When he’s erased every trace of me inside.’

‘N- Nam- Namjoon, pl- please. I- I’m taken. Tae- ah!’ The mention of the sweet artist’s name is obviously unappreciated, the roughness increasing at the attempt to involve a third party if only in speech alone and pushing the burning further into a novel depth. Whatever was about to be said about Taehyung having the right to cover every sensual track made by another on a beloved, albeit solely for a piece of peace of mind, is nullified in the scream preceding heavier heaves disrupted by more pleading while the body behaves in a contrasting manner.

The caramel compelling lover is held near with the tightening of shaking legs around a sculpted waist and cute howbeit flat tummy, hands meekly tugging at the powerful wrists to convince them to break off the harsh grip on the jaw in favour of an unbreakable clinging embrace, the idea of which is consented to and allows fingers to entangle in platinum fluffy strands. Withal, even though it is allowed but a warning is threateningly whispered into the ear almost deaf with the enchanting sounds of low grunts mixed with high-pitched whines against a background of skin meeting skin in the lewdest of fashions. ‘That blueberry doesn’t have the right to erase me from your system. Besides, baby, if you’d really love him, you wouldn’t be taking my dick.’

And in that is a truth universally acknowledged, because if there truly was devotion to a single soul, another one would not be enjoyed as much as it is. There would only be the chemical sting of turpentine made smooth by lavender and the ironically currently affected combination of nicotine smoke, fresh soap and sharp mint kept at bay in mere friendship.

But it is not.

‘Is everything alright? I heard someone... oh.’ The front door is unsuspectingly opened with haste by a panicked classic pastry and sweets maker, cheeks colouring a bright rosy pink matching the neatly arranged hairstyle when realizing what the source for the outcry thought to be in distress really is.

‘Get out.’ Possessive fevered irises glare at a stunned Jimin, frozen in place by awkwardness and ignorance as to how to proceed to come out of the situation as unscathed as possible, full lips parted in pure paralysis. ‘We’re busy.’

Hard-handed, the almost affectionate hug is broken off with a renewed hold on the jaw to unresistingly shift attention from desperately holding onto broad shoulders with black sensitive blindness to gaze at a flustered face lit up the bright Seoul spring sun. Though murmured at a low volume against the reddish-purple bruises on the side of the throat, what is being said is nevertheless audible for the unwelcome visitor with hair like the cherry blossoms around the concrete jungle. ‘And don’t you dare try to interfere. Y/N’s taking my cum, she’s my slut.’ A seemingly misplaced nuzzle under a primal trance makes it undeniable whom the ravished body belongs even though the intricate gorgeous kimono also gives off a clue. ‘Mine.’

‘Well, actually-’ The rest of the sentence is broken off when the risk of the manager’s wrath becomes too real again, sheepishly settling for something else before rushing off to God-knows-where after shutting the just opened door with a slam. ‘You know what? Never mind. I’ll, uh, leave you to- to it.’

‘I swear, if he also comes after you. Which he will, just like the others, even Yoongi, and that desperate boy trying to pretend he’s actually a cop.’ The continuation of the threat gets lost in a dangerously displeased grunt accompanied by a harsh thrust. The grip shifts from the underside of the face to the throat, closing the airways just enough to not suffocate in fueled rage taken out in passion. ‘However, I. Don’t. Share.’

Climaxes can be triggered in various ways, but the need to possess of a strong-willed wolf and the craving of a traveller to be controlled by the blonde animal in disguise because the ocean artist is too sweet throws entangled forbidden lovers violently off the cliff, on the edge of which has been tethered with words pushing the wish to achieve the lewdly described goals.

And just like during the last twilight and at the start of relived furious jealous love-making, the overstimulation is ignored as pained whimpers and repeated pleads for pulling out continue to function as an aphrodisiac until yet another promise is fulfilled, once more made to watch how it is established when not staring into raging deep brown.

‘Breath, baby, breath. Easy, easy, shhh.’ After the last release, shaking all over with effort which makes it hard to remain upright, a heated gradually calming chest is collapsed against in an explosive limbo as a hand transformed from rough into gentle caresses messy locks. Cushion full lips place an appreciating kiss on the temple, an action that is quite a contrast with the claiming biting, while every last drop of thick undoubtedly unclear fluid is attempted to be absorbed regardless of the soreness. ‘That’s it, baby. Milk me. Good girl, you did so well. I’m proud of you.’

When having regained consciousness enough to straighten the spine and be somewhat coherent in the reality that slowly sinks in, another chaste kiss is placed on a sticky forehead as upper arms clad in clinging silk are rubbed kindly before slowly sliding up to cup a tear-streaked face and wipe away the last of tears, now shed thanks to the impactful severing which results in the wished for outcome of leaking with white. ‘God, you’re beautiful. That kimono also looks wonderful on you. You should wear it more often.’

The smug smirk at the comment fades away into severity as fast as it appeared, baritone voice stained with a certain gravity when requesting something that cannot be easily consented to due to committing promises. ‘I meant what I said. I don’t share, especially not the girl I love. Even if this ends up in a polygamous relationship if you decide to sleep with any of the other guys or they persuade you to, know that I’ll hate each and every one of them for knowing what it’s like to be with you when I want the privilege of it. Furthermore, if they make you do anything you don’t want, I’ll beat them up and turn them out onto the street.’ Absentmindedly, the collar of the robe is corrected, fabric put around a shivering speechless body with genuine care. ‘For now, leave him. I really do want you to leave him for me. Be mine.’

‘I can’t, Joon. I promised Taehyung we’d be more than a spring affair, that he can stay with me.’ A shuddering sigh almost makes the rediscovered voice disappear again with the realistic afterthought. ‘At least until I have to go.’

‘You can make the same promise to me and I’ll guarantee we can stay together. I got a solid income from the guesthouse, a place to call home and which can be our home whenever you’re in Korea.’ The kiss that follows is grave, acting like the last bastion in the fights against determined realism. Espresso irises scented with dewy nicotine laced with fruit gleam with pleads held out of speech. ‘I promise. Please, leave him.’

‘I can’t.’

Fists clamping Japanese clothing.

‘Why?’

Brooks on caramel cheeks.

‘Sorry.’

Clad in silk and traces of another that also cannot be.

Such is the devastating aftermath of two lonely broken hearts.

#BTS #BTS smut #btssmutclub #hyunglinenetwork #kimnamjoonnet #BANGTANARMYNET #BTS x Reader #Namjoon #RM #Kim Namjoon #Joon #Guesthouse AU #Guesthouse manager!Namjoon #When the Petals Fall

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elesianne · 5 years ago

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A Silmarillion fanfic for @silmladylove prompt Anarórë (Q) – sunrise

Summary: Eärwen, Anairë and the first sunrise setting the sky and sea afire.

Length: ~1,500 words; Rating: General audiences; Some keywords: romance, a few mentions of angsty things, friends to lovers

A/N: If there are errors in geography or the details of how the Sun rose, please ignore them. They're not really the main point of this fic.

Tilion had traversed the heaven seven times, and thus was in the furthest east, when the vessel of Arien was made ready. Then Anar arose in glory, and the first dawn of the Sun was like a great fire upon the towers of the Pelóri: the clouds of Middle-earth were kindled, and there was heard the sound of many waterfalls. – The Silmarillion: Of the Sun and Moon and the Hiding of Valinor

AO3 link

The fullness of her splendour

Eärwen and Anairë watch Arien's first ascent together.

Eärwen has roused earlier as always and walked to her comfortable chair in their large balcony over the sea. She has long had a habit of sitting there waiting for Anairë to rise from her rest of her own accord for she is always irritable when woken. For the last seven mornings she has watched the light of the new Silver Moon disappear in the east, and eagerly awaited for the day that the last flower of Laurelin will be carried across the sky for the first time. She has heard from messengers from Taniquetil that it will be soon.

It is dark, completely dark apart from the faint light of the lamps on the quays, and Eärwen is close to slipping back into Lórien's realm when the new light appears in the south, at the peaks of the mountains of Pelóri. First she thinks it is only a dream-vision, a memory of Laurelin's light, but it grows and grows until it looks like the snow-covered mountaintops are on fire, and the fire spreads, glorious and frightening in its magnificence.

Eärwen is of the Falmari and she never lived close to the radiance of the Trees or revered them like the Vanyar did, but the sight of Laurelin's last fruit lighting up the darkened realm of Aman makes her lose track of her thoughts and her vision blur. Whether from tears or the brightness of the new light, she does not know.

She runs inside and shakes Anairë's still form that still appears to be in slumber, though from one of the windows the golden brilliance is already creeping in, painting the red bedspread brighter.

'You must come, Anairë', she tells her friend.

Anairë groans but as she opens her eyes, they widen. 'Arien's vessel is rising to the sky', she realises at once.

'Yes, my love, come, we can see it from the balcony.'

Eärwen tugs at Anairë's arm though there is no need, for Anairë hurries to the balcony without even putting on her slippers, heedless of the cold stone under her bare feet.

They go to the southernmost part of the balcony that encircles all of their chamber in one of the round towers of Eärwen's father's palace.

They watch the continuing ascent and spread of the light silently for a while, shading their eyes with their hands, for the brightness of Arien and Laurelin's fruit is almost blinding.

Eärwen does not look directly at it, but the mountains and the land beneath them that is being lit anew, brighter than it has been for many dark, hard years. She looks at Anairë, at the auburn tint to her dark hair that the golden light brings out. She has missed it all these years; she is tired of shades of grey in darkness.

'Blessed Daystar', she sighs, winding her arm around Anairë's waist and leaning her head on her shoulder. It is always a little awkward because of their height difference – Anairë is a mother of tall sons, as tall as her husband – but it is a familiar, cherished sort of awkward.

Anairë leans her head gently on Eärwen's. 'The light is needed and necessary', she says with relief in her voice. 'This is the end of lean years, I hope. In this new light we will be able to build and plant anew instead of just… existing.'

'In the dark years we healed and we mended some of the things that broke when the darkness came', Eärwen reflects. 'Perhaps it is good that we had that time of simply existing. Now we are better positioned, Vanyar and Noldor and Falmari alike, to begin those new things you speak of.'

She thinks of her husband on his unasked-for throne in Tirion, and how she has finally forgiven him, and how they have accepted that things between them shall never be the same again. Yet they can grieve for their departed children together, now.

But from separate places, most of the time. Eärwen lives here in Alqualondë again, in her father's house where she grew up, with her dearest friend who stayed with her when their husbands left against their own better wisdom; he in Tirion, with his people and his older sister Findis and her husband for counsel and support.

The light rises and rises and illuminates Alqualondë, changing the colour of everything, warming the pale stone and turning it into a cream colour, making everything more beautiful and bright. Bringing the places that need a little care and work into sharper relief, too.

Eärwen and Anairë point and exclaim at how different things seem. Their conversation, animated though it is, follows familiar cadences, and Eärwen could guess many of the things that Anairë is going to say.

Anairë is so very dear to Eärwen, and always there for her.

They have shared a bed for some years now. First as friends grieving, Anairë consoling an inconsolable Eärwen after the loss of many of her relatives and friends, and later as something more that they are still searching a name for but more than content with.

Eärwen decides she has had enough of watching her city and the land around, and takes a step back to watch Anairë.

Anairë's eyes move to her, too, as if moved by the same current, and her arms move to embrace her.

'Not too close', Eärwen says. 'I want to look at you.'

Anairë nods. 'And I shall look at you. It has never been a hardship, and you shine brighter now, pale swan-maiden, than for a long time. Firelight or candles cannot show your beauty like the blessed light of the Valar.' She lifts a hand to Eärwen's hair, its unbraided mess of curls.

'You have fire in your brown eyes', Eärwen tells Anairë, cupping her cheek. 'Even more than usual. I can tell you are making plans already.'

'I think of nothing but kissing you warm-pink lips right now', Anairë murmurs, and she executes her thoughts so thoroughly that Eärwen closes her eyes, forgetting the new light for a moment.

When she opens them, the sky and the sea are on fire.

The small waves, the barely visible sea-foam, they are a thousand new colours: shades of gold, orange and red on the blue, green, black and grey of the sea. Though she is a poet, Eärwen couldn't name them all. The light of the last fruit borne high by a spirit of fire is not the same as the light of the great golden tree that bore the fruit.

The clouds, shot through with fiery gold and beautiful night-purple alike, are lit brighter than they ever were by the Trees that were more distant to them.

Side by side and hand in hand now, they watch the fire spread across the sea as far as they can see, past the island of Tol Eressëa.

'Our children will be seeing this light soon', Eärwen says.

'I hope that it lifts up their hearts even more than ours', Anairë replies. 'Wherever they are.'

The thought of their children, so far away in places they know little of, perhaps in dangers they can only worry about, sobers the mood of them both.

But their children were grown and they made their choice, and Eärwen and Anairë made their own, and they have grieved the separation long enough now that it does not cast a pall over their whole day.

They stay on the balcony for a long time, watching the radiance rise and rise. Eärwen lets her dressing gown slip off her shoulders, for the Daystar's light is as warm as it is bright. The stone floor warms slower, and at some point Anairë shakes her head at her own bare feet and fetches her slippers.

The slippers are old and threadbare and their colour is faded, yet they are treasured by Anairë. It makes Eärwen's heart clench to see Anairë carefully slip her feet into them. She loves these quiet everyday moments together, Anairë's little foibles.

When Anairë returns to her side Eärwen tells her, 'I shall write a poem of this morning and all these precious moments I shared with you. I have some lines in my head already.'

Anairë is already embracing her again but loosens her hold at Eärwen's words. 'Do you want to go write down your ideas? I can let you go', she offers in her drily humorous way. She squeezes Eärwen's waist lightly. 'I know that they sometimes flee swiftly.'

'These ideas and images won't', Eärwen says with conviction. 'I know that they will last, like this light. Like my love for you, my beloved.'

And that is what Anairë is to her. Eärwen needs no other name for it.

She kisses her beloved again under the full splendour of the Sun.

A/N: Title from the Silmarillion line ‘Too bright were the eyes of Arien for even the Eldar to look on, and leaving Valinor she forsook the form and raiment which like the Valar she had worn there, and she was as a naked flame, terrible in the fullness of her splendour.’

If there are errors in geography or the details of how the Sun rose, please ignore them. They're not really the main point of this fic.

I've been wanting to write femslash in general and Eärwen/Anairë in particular for a long time now, and happened to be happily inspired by the prompt.

There is a nice painting by Ted Nasmith that shows a fiery sun shining on the shores of Valinor.

#my first femslash!#written and edited in a hurry...#I've been wanting to explore eärwen and anairë's relationship at least a little bit #tolkien mentions anairë staying in aman for her friend eärwen's sake - that's fodder for the imagination for sure..#I like to think she had other reasons too but. also this #silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #femslash february #eärwen #anairë #femslash #my fics #the fullness of her splendour #elesianne's fics

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ukdamo · 5 years ago

Text

KZ Sachsenhausen

One of mine...

KZ Sachsenhausen ; there and then, here and now

In the summer of 1936 the posters on the underground in Berlin declaimed to every traveller, “Escape the big smoke. Come and enjoy the forests and lakes of Oranienburg". A forty-five minute train journey from S-Bahn Friedrichstrasse (1), in the heart of the city, brought sun seekers into the pleasant countryside to the north.

And why not? The dappled forest paths and clear lakes offered welcome relief from the thronged streets of the capital, streets filled with thousands of visitors who had come for the Olympiad being held in the new stadium, built to the west of the city.

People from all over the world had flown in to Flughafen Tempelhof, the airport whose buildings were a stone testament to the vitality of the l000 Year Reich. From there, visitors jostled along Swastika-hung streets to view the city sights: the Brandenburg Gate, the treasures of the Pergamon Museum, Schloss Charlottenburg; to climb to the top of the Siegessäule (2) not yet moved, on Hitler's order, from its home in front of the Reichstag; to stroll down the Unter den Linden - although the crowds were no longer shaded by its eponymous trees since they had been felled so as not to obscure the vista of Nazi (3) parades.

Few visitors, admiring the State Opera house, recalled the newsreels of 1933 which showed this building lit by the flickering light of a great bonfire - a bonfire of burning books heaped on the adjacent square.

Impressionable tourists lunched in the Café Schottenham, by the Anhalter Bahnhof (4), and then walked admiringly past the Bauhaus designed Europahaus en route to the splendid new Air Ministry building. Only a few years earlier the sightseers might have taken their coffee and cake in the Hotel Prinz Albrecht but this was now the HQ of Reichsfűhrer SS (5), Heinrich Himmler.

With every pavement, café and square teeming with tourists it was no wonder Berliners escaped to the relative calm of Oranienburg, to take a boat out on the lake, or to walk through the woods.

There were some city-dwellers, however, who travelled there under duress and for a more sinister purpose. To prevent the possibility of any embarrassing incidents in Berlin during the period of the Games, to disguise its anti-Semitism, and to forestall any negative publicity, some of the measures taken against the Jews by the regime were suspended.

Behind this façade (quietly, unobtrusively, diligently), the Gestapo (6) intensified its labours rounding up the enemies of the Reich - Communists, Social Democrats, trade unionists, liberals, Christians, Jews, Sinti and Romany peoples, pacifists,

Jehovah' s Witnesses, homosexuals, those designated 'anti-socials' or criminals - and took them to the purpose built camp on the outskirts of Oranienburg. It was known as KZ Sachsenhausen. (7)

On a wintry day in February l996, I followed in their footsteps.

---------------

I was part way through my week in the city when I made my ‘pilgrimage’. After breakfasting, showering, and dressing in my most colourful clothes and dangliest earring,

I picked up the remembrance (8), quitted my Berlin lodgings and set out for Oranienburg. The journey that had brought me to this time and place had begun years before in quite another location. As a younger man, studying Modern History at the University of Liverpool, I had focussed my enthusiasm on nineteenth and twentieth century European history: Berlin was a pivotal place in the scheme of things. My perspective, particularly on twentieth century German history, was informed by the lived experience of being a gay man. There and then reached a spectral hand into the here and now.

The cold February sky was downcast; grey, lowering. pedestrians turned up their coat collars to insulate themselves and hastened to their destinations. Sometimes I drew startled looks - my appearance being somewhat conspicuous - opposing the bleakness of the morning as it did. It was the fluttering ribbons which attracted most interest though.

(Like the compelling image of the red coat in the film "Schindler's List"?)

The train journey to Oranienburg was a journey in time as much as through a landscape. The train trundled across the city, heading northwards. Tenements gave way to light-industrial enterprises, these, in their turn, to detached houses with steeply-raked roofs. The houses thinned out and were separated by fields, wooded areas, little ponds and watercourses. As we clanked onwards, the landscape became more open. I could see now that the ground was waterlogged; crusty, muddy and frosted with snow. Even the larger lakes were frozen. Denuded trees pointed bony fingers to the sky. Somehow I had drifted into the winter of l944/45. The train reached its terminus and we few passengers reluctantly turned out of the warm carriages to brave the wind-scoured platform.

Almost immediately, a gentle dusting of snow began to fall. (I am surprised to find that 1 feel glad it is snowing. It seems appropriate). I am possessed by the unshakeable conviction that no-one should visit at a pretty time of year. It would be sacrilegious.

There is a mixture of buildings in the town, old and new, the streets are cobbled not asphalted. It requires no effort of imagination to see columns marching along this road. Straggly columns, sore-footed, threadbare.

Oranienburg is a smallish town, similar to my own home town in NE Lancashire. There is some road traffic thudding over the cobbles; Trabbies and Wartburgs as well as VWs and Opels. Some kids look at me with unrestrained interest, older people with more reserve. Some of them even have a reproachful aspect.This is no longer Berlin, where people of unusual aspect arouse little notice and less comment. This is not even Manchester, where gays can be visible with a modicum of safety. This is the familiar, narrow, inhospitable ‘small-town’ Bronski Beat sang about with such eloquence.

I recognise it from my own lived experience.

I become conscious of many thoughts; "This building would have been there then"

"What must it be like to live here now, with such a legacy?"

"What do these little kids make of it?"

Practical considerations imposed themselves and I looked for a signpost. There was one. How sobering, how chilling, to see it written. No longer a name from the past but a place here and now: Gedenkstätte Sachsenhausen (9).

Following the directions indicated, I walked towards the camp. As I neared it, the monument became visible above the rooftops. It stands uncompromisingly - a concrete grey monolith with pinkish triangles on the upper section. You could easily imagine that it was physically holding up the clouded sky, like Atlas.

At the corner of the Strasse der Nationen (10), which leads to the entrance, there is a small display board that remembers those who were killed on the 'Death March'. In the spring of l945, when it became obvious that all was lost, the authorities decided to march the camp inmates to the Baltic, intending to put them on ships and sink them.

Six thousand died before the column was liberated - they were shot, beaten to death, or killed by cold and exhaustion. It was a sombre marker for what lay ahead.

Before going into the camp proper visitors walk through an entrance gate and along a wooded way that leads past the information centre. Through the trees to the left (sparse, wintry and naked) glimpses of the perimeter wall can be had. I went in to the office and collected an English guide map. The room was dominated by a big, green-tiled stove that radiated masses of heat. It made the cold outside seem that much more intense.

"What must it be like to work in such a place?" I wondered,

"Do you grow used to the horror of it all? Can you afford to forget?" I quitted the building and felt very alone. There was just me, the remembrance, and the reality of Sachsenhausen. There and then, here and now. I feel strongly that Sachsenhausen is not history: history has no life in it. Sachsenhausen can never be mere history as long as there is someone who knows, who remembers, who lives in the light of that remembrance.

The first place that presents itself to the visitor is a modern exhibition centre (1961) which houses photographs, archive material, and an allegorical stained glass memorial window. The building dates from the original opening of the camp as a centre for national remembrance, in what was then the GDR (11). It focuses on the wartime history of Sachsenhausen. It stands in what was the SS barrack area, just in front of the gatehouse. Inside, I noted the brief descriptions of the photos in English. Many needed no explanation: the horrors were all-to-evident. Among the most harrowing were the pictures of those murdered on the march to the Baltic.

Corpses were scattered along the route - in fields, in ditches, in the woods, by the roadside - killed by a single pistol shot to the head. From under makeshift coverings (which those who found the bodies had used to try and afford them the dignity denied them by their tormentors) poked emaciated limbs, bruised and disfigured faces, unshod feet. Other photographs detailed those who were left behind, the three thousand in the 'hospital', found when the Russians entered the camp on April 22nd 1945.

On that April day, some few miles to the south, Hitler was in the bunker beneath the Reich Chancellery. He had celebrated his last birthday two days previously. The sounds of the strife above ground were muffled and did not disturb the delusions of ultimate victory he cherished. In the cold reality of day, Flughafen Tempelhof was about to fall to the advancing Russians.

Within a week Hitler would be dead.

Some of the prisoners in Sachsenhausen made slow recoveries and joined the sea of 'Displaced Persons' trying to get home in post-war Europe. For others, death's grip was too tight for liberation to make a difference.

Leaving the photograph collection, I turned toward the entrance to the camp proper and walked through. Arbeit Macht Frei (l2) said the mocking inscription on the gate. By the end of 1944, over 204,000 people had read that sentence as they passed under the lintel and in to the Appellplatz (13). Once inside, more than 100,000 of them were systematically put to death. Others met death in camps they were transferred to. It would be invidious to try to describe the sufferings endured by camp inmates in a purely statistical way; in any case, the destruction of records means that an accurate total can never be known. The information in Sachsenhausen suggests that some 30,000 gay men were sent to the camps under the Nazis. Estimates vary. A figure of 60,000 or more may not be unduly high. Perhaps as many as 2/3rds of these men did not survive.

Standing there, 1 felt as if I had ought to remove my boots and go barefoot. A stupid idea but an almost overpowering feeling. I gazed across the open courtyard, at the monument towering beyond, and was filled with unutterable sadness.

The camp is laid out like a gigantic triangle, with the gatehouse in the centre of the baseline. Emotionally, I felt this to be an obscene joke. Apparently, it was simply the result of Nazi thoroughness and the exigencies of security - a shorter perimeter, fewer watchtowers, fewer unobserved corners, better sightlines. All so easily calculated.

The courtyard presented a large semicircle - the placement of the first row of huts being indicated by a latticed wall. Behind me, to my left and right was the neutral zone (actually a killing field); a wire boundary marker, a few yards of bare earth, then an electric fence. Finally, and almost superfluously, there was the perimeter wall with its barbed wire crown. To step over the marker invited being shot without warning. Photographic evidence shows that some prisoners chose this. Still others crossed the death strip and embraced the electrified wire.

I looked down at the map in my hand. It was difficult to use it nimbly because of the cutting wind and my chilled muscles. My eyes were watering, too, but I could not blame the wind for that. The ribbons on the remembrance fluttered; the only colour in the landscape.

Immediately in front of me was a great concrete roller that weighed three metric tonnes. The Häftlinge (14) were forced to run pulling this and were beaten if they moved too slowly. A semicircle just in front of the first row of huts was identified as the Schuhprűfstrecke (15), Here, in a broad arc, were nine sections - each of a different surface - gravel, flint, broken stone, sand etc… Prisoners had to walk over these for ten hours each day (about 25 miles, carrying 35lb in weight) to test the durability of shoe/boot soles. I looked down. The frost-frozen ground cracked beneath my own booted feet and I sank into the mush. Scattered snowflakes flitted by. A few rooks called, screechingly.

A party of British teenagers came in through the gatehouse. They were chatty, boisterous, as kids are. But their voices grated on my ears even more than the shrill rooks. Some places in the world must only ever be silent places. Not because noise is a bad thing.

No, Act Up is right when it says that Silence = Death. But in Sachsenhausen the silence is needful. It is what makes it permissible to be noisy elsewhere. If the potent and clamorous silence of that place is ever trodden underfoot, then the laughter, songs, protests, whistles and dancing that enliven and affirm us wherever we are will be themselves in danger of being silenced forever.

There are those who wish it so.

In September of 1992, a number of individuals broke into the camp and burned down two of the huts (known as the Jewish Barracks). It is thought that this act was a deliberate desecration of the memorial and was an indication of the resurgence of xenophobia and anti-Semitism in the recently re-unified Germany. In Berlin itself, on Oranienburger Strasse, stands the recently restored Neue Synagoge (16). It is guarded by three armed policemen and is protected by stringent security measures. Inside is an exhibition that focuses on the history of the Jewish people in Berlin, even so, it acknowledges that racism and prejudice have deep roots are widely prevalent.

Closer to home, there is a latent racism abroad on the streets of my own town. The National Front has contested, and continues to be active, in local elections. Dispersed asylum seekers meet with thinly veiled hostility. In 1994 an NF candidate was successfully elected in local council elections on the Isle of Dogs, London. Jewish cemeteries are regularly vandalized. Violence directed at lesbians and gay men, is, sadly, an unremarkable occurrence.

My train of thought had been interrupted by the noise of the school kids, so I allowed them to go their own way and then turned my attention back to the map. Over to the right was a temporary exhibition that told the story of the Jewish Barracks and their inmates. The future of these two barrack blocks (38 and 39), destroyed in the arson attack, remains to be decided.

Further on was the special detention camp set up for prominent political, and other, prisoners. A number of the cells are still there. Prisoners were often held in solitary confinement for long periods, tortured, denied food and drink, kept in darkened cells for months or even longer. Martin Niemőller (17) was a prisoner here. To walk along and look into the tiny cells (some with memorials inside) was a humbling experience. It was not hard to imagine the clang of steel doors, the turn of keys, the sounds of brutal interrogation echoing down the narrow corridor.

What was the date again?

At the far end, the building opened on to an exercise yard, separated from the rest of the camp by a high wall. I stepped out again into the bleak, dismal light. To the left was the Erdbunker (18), a burial cell or pit where prisoners were virtually entombed, exposed to bitter cold and oozing wet walls with only a small, steel barred hatch above.

What would you see from inside? A cross hatched patch of blue? A slate grey torrent?

On the February day I was there, the ground was waterlogged. I could hear the drip of icy melt water as it fell into that dark maw. A great puddle surrounded the hatch, frozen on top, squelchy underneath.

Just beyond the bunker, on the wall, was the memorial plaque that I had come to see; journey’s end for the beribboned remembrance, journey’s beginning for my living remembrance. The plaque is a stark in its simplicity: a black rectangle with the letters punched out by stencil, exposing the wall behind. On the ground below, a few tiles, and, scattered on them, a few carnations. Had they once been pink? The wording of the memorial was as stark in its simplicity as the plaque itself. How else could it be? How can you dress it up in fine language?

TOTGESHLAGEN

TOTGESCHWIEGEN

DEN

HOMOSEXUELLEN

OPFERN

DES

NATIONALSOZIALISMUS

Taking hold of the remembrance, I drove the pole in to the ground as far as it would go and then banked up the mushed, sandy, ice-filled soil around it to hold it steady. Not caring whether I was observed or not, I knelt down in the waterlogged yard,

sank back onto my haunches and waited quietly for about the length of time it takes a man to walk a mile slowly. Everything was hushed. The ribbons flapped and the poem waved about as the wind caught it. For a moment or two, there was a dancing rainbow

When the time was right, I stood up to continue my journey. (I returned to the remembrance before I finally left the camp, the hard frost meant that the banked earth at the base of the pole was already beginning to freeze. Almost as if to ward off the chill, the freedom ribbons fluttered gaily. This optimism made the leave-taking that much easier).

I moved on item the exercise yard to the exhibition mounted in the former prisoners’ kitchen. The route took me past the sites of the gallows where prisoners deemed to have committed offences were hung,. Other grisly punishments were also meted out here during roll call "pour encourager les autres". Away to the right, by the perimeter wall stood a monument to those who died in the camp during the period 1945-50. For Sachsenhausen's infamy did not end with the war's end. The Soviets operated the site, under the name of ‘Special Camp No. 7’, and imprisoned former members of the Nazi Party, members of the SS, and the Wehrmacht (20), as well as prisoners of war released by the Western Allies, and others. Later on, inmates included people who were victims of denunciations, people who were arbitrarily arrested, growing numbers of Social Democrats, Christian Democrats and Liberals, opponents of the Soviet occupying power, and of the emerging East German Communist regime. It is estimated that 20,000 people died as a result of the conditions in the camp..

The sights that met the eye once inside the former cook-house were stinging. Further calculated horrors, to which the prisoners were subject, were held up for unwelcome yet necessary inspection.. There were artefacts from the wartime history of the camp – Zyklon B canisters (21). Human hair, gathered for use as war materiel. Fillings from teeth.

Striped uniforms, with their triangles of various colours (22). Plates and cutlery, stamped with prisoners’ numbers. The ‘height measurer’ from Station Z (23). This building was a place I wanted to run through quickly and escape from. Instead, I walked slowly and deliberately through it all, step by step, case by case, from one information board to the next. It was like the Stations of the Cross. Is it realistic to hope for a Resurrection? ‘Can there be lyric poetry after the Holocaust?’ someone asked.

Can there be?

I do not feel able to answer that question. But I can witness to this: the even in Sachsenhausen it proved impossible to crush the creativity and aspirations of the human spirit. Prisoners crafted necessarily small but beautiful things from the most basic materials and contraband. They made chess sets, inlaid cigarette cases, even a crude radio receiver. Furthermore, there is at least one recorded instance of resistance, carried out by the ‘Jewish 18’. In the autumn of 1942, in protest at their inhuman treatment, eighteen Jews staged a protest in the Appellplatz. Their act of resistance, though brutally suppressed, did result in some amelioration of camp conditions for the Jewish inmates. It did not save the 18 from Auschwitz-Birkenau.

When I had reached the end of the exhibition I paused for a long time by the visitors’ book because had to frame carefully what I wanted to write there. What response can on make to such horrors?

"Whereof one cannot speak, thereof must one remain silent", noted Wittgenstein in his philosophical investigation of language. He must have been thinking of the situations that test the boundaries of human experience when he formulated that precept. And here was I in such an extremity. Just how do you write down a howl of anguish in the soul?

When I left the block I saw the great monument towering before me. I went up close and looked at its huge bronze figures and its concrete vastness. The scale was so big as to be scarcely human. In a way, this is perversely fitting since the dreadful events to which it testifies are equally vast in scope and inhuman in character. The sculpted group of figures at the base of the tower is entitled "Liberation". (A secular version of Resurrection?)

Feeling tiny, I turned and walked the short distance to the site of Station Z.

If Dante's Inferno is taken as a metaphor for Sachsenhausen, then Station Z may be thought of as the deepest and most damned region of that place. Perhaps it is fitting that this was the last place I visited and the place where I most nearly lost what measure of self-control was left to me.

The area is shielded from the elements by a canopy. The suffering and the loss are recalled in an affecting monument; bronze figures two adults with a dead child. More affecting still are the remains of the building that stood on this spot. It was built in l942 and was staffed by the SS. Here thousands upon thousands were gassed, or shot. Their bodies were profaned (treated as the source of raw materials for the war effort) then burned. Any remains were crammed into a subterranean bunker close by.

Given what preceded death, this can be no real surprise. Often, camp inmates were used as a slave work force for various SS-run enterprises. Prisoners from Sachsenhausen were compelled to build the canteen and recreational facilities, used by the Gestapo and SS, on the Prinz Albrecht Terrain (24). In the 'hospital' prisoners were used in experiments to test drugs, chemical weapons, and 'treatments'.

The foundations only remain.

No access is allowed: visitors look through a wire fence on to the features that rising up from the earth. Clearly discernible are the rooms that comprised the gas-chamber (disguised as a shower room) the ante-room where prisoners stripped before going in to the 'shower', and the ramp where the dead, having been thrown on to carts, were pulled the few yards to the crematorium.

Also evident were rooms used for interrogations and a killing room made to appear like a clinic. Prisoners were stood against a height measurer attached to a wall. (A wooden finger that ran between two slats, marked off in centimetres). Unknown to the inmate, there was a hidden room behind the wall. Once the wooden finger was upon his or her head, someone in that room would shoot them in the back of the neck. Bodies were dragged across the floor and through a door that opened on to the crematorium.

All so convenient, so duplicitous, shielded from the eyes of the other inmates.

But there could be no secrecy; the smoke, the smell, the miasma, the point of no return.

It must have been evident for miles.

The wind whipped up again. Steam rising from the boiler house in the old laundry block caught my eye and was transformed into the smoke from this charnel house. It was suddenly 1944 again. The camp was filled beyond capacity with the enemies of the Reich, 90% of them non-German. There were representative groups from virtually all of Nazi occupied Europe.

Russian prisoners were being systematically exterminated. Food was scarce, warm clothes scarcer still. Prisoners were beaten, worked to death, tortured, subject to crazed experiments.

The rooks sent up a cacophony of cries that brought me to myself again. Here I was, in 1996, looking& back at what had been. Statistics in Sachsenhausen indicate that there were more than 2000 concentration camps, sub-camps and detention centres in Germany alone.

I blinked back tears as I looked through the fence and reconstructed these terrors in my mind's eye. Walking round the site, moving clockwise past the sculpture in the near left hand corner, I caught site of a feature that I did not immediately recognise and so moved closer. Suddenly, even through eyes misted over, it became all-to-evident.

The few courses of bricks, the metal doors and the flues, resolved themselves into ovens. There were four in a row. I was absolutely stricken. My legs buckled and I let out an involuntary cry as I stumbled and reached out for the wire to support myself.

From then on, I was in a daze. I tottered across the frozen earth and picked my way gingerly down the trench that led down to the bunker where the bones had been dumped. Signs on the sides of the wooden ramparts indicated where prisoners of war had been shot. Others who met their death at this entrance to Hades included those sent to Sachsenhausen by Reichssicherheitshauptampt of the SS and the Gestapo (25).

Most sickening was the mechanised gibbet, worked by a winch and pulley, which allowed four people to be hung at one time, with the minimum expenditure of effort or manpower. It was what 1 had come to expect of the Nazis during the course of my visit. That I was no longer shocked by such atrocity was a shock in itself. I stared out of the pit at the vast grey sky, punctured only by the concrete finger of the monument. The sky was heavy under the weight of its own sorrow.

The closing scene from the film Judgment at Nurembergcame to mind. An American (small town) judge visits his leading Nazi counterpart whom he has just sentenced for war crimes. The German judge offers, as mitigating explanation, that he thought the Nazis could be controlled and used, that he never imagined it would come to this. His counterpart dismisses this very cogently and simply: "It came to this the first time you sentenced a person to death whom you knew to be innocent."

If Sachsenhausen indelibly imprinted one idea in me, it is this: that every step down the road which begins with disrespect for another person ends at KZ Sachsenhausen. All the sentences which begin, "I'm not …………… (insert your own favourite prejudice)…… but ......" conclude, ultimately, with the sharp report of a pistol shot, or the creak of rope, or the bolts sliding home on the door to the 'shower'.

Many of the entries in the visitors' book say, "This must not be allowed to happen again". My feeling is that it has never stopped happening. I believe that it may prove truly fatal to think of there and then and exclude here and now. I am convinced that the celebration of life and difference, the promotion of human flourishing, is dependent upon us being ever vigilant, and ever respectful of the dignity of others.

My visit to Berlin showed ample evidence that a significant number of people share this perspective. In the wake of the arson attack on the 'Jewish Barracks' at Sachsenhausen, there was a spontaneous gathering at the memorial to express concern and regret. Subsequently, a demonstration was held which focussed on the theme 'reflecting in Germany - together against xenophobia and anti-Semitism'. 7000 people attended.

When the Berlin city authorities were considering what uses the Prinz Albrecht Terrain might be put to, concerned citizens and organisations took an active interest and even direct action, including a symbolic 'dig' on May 5th., 1985. The discovery of the foundations of the buildings associated with the site, particularly the cells used by the Gestapo, and those parts built by the slave workers from Sachsenhausen, together with the insistent pressure brought to bear by those who saw the necessity of an explicit recognition of the role that the site played during the period of the Third Reich, resulted in the opening of an exhibition pavilion and associated memorials which currently comprise the site. The motto of the groups coordinating the May 5th dig seems very appropriate: "LET NO GRASS GROW OVER IT!"

The city is notable for the number of memorials and plaques that detail the location of many buildings, and chronicle many events, which some would rather forget. Berlin's insistence on facing up to the past and continuing to confront it in the present struck me very forcefully. Less formal but no less striking is the graffiti that can be seen in the city. Particularly in the workers residential areas, like Prenzlauer Berg, graffiti appears to be regarded as necessary.

Graffiti ist kein Verbrechen!

Lesben Pauer

Nazis vertreiben, Auslanderinnen bleiben

This is a Nazi house

Much graffiti was focussed on current concerns – Kurdish refugees, the confrontation between Neo~Nazis and their Anarchist and Anti-Fascist opponents. Some was witty and creative but most was political in its inspiration. Amongst my favourites was the pointed reminder: "Wer bunker baut, wirft bomben" (27).

Comparing this situation to that nearer to home gives cause for unease. I do not feel that we recognise the dangers of forgetfulness, or apathy. Remember Pastor Niemöller's lament?

Muted public concern permits our government to play fast and loose with human rights - witness the attempt to expel the Saudi dissident, Mohammed al Mas'ari, to protect lucrative arms deals with the Saudi government. Consider how the Criminal Justice Act is used against travelling people and against those who wish to undertake direct and legitimate protests.

Examine closely those churches who claim to esteem the unique dignity of the human person in absolute terms yet couch their teaching and pastoral documents in such a way that the human dignity of some is completely abrogated. This may be noted particularly when the churches address themselves to women’s issues, lesbian and gay issues, or issues of race and ethnic origin. There is no comfort to be had in looking at the wider situation - the former Yugoslavia, Iraq, Chechnya, or Rwanda.

I wish I were able to claim for lesbians and gay men some innate virtue that renders us impervious to the propaganda of racism and sexism, but I can't. Though we may identify more strongly than some with the women, children and men who were butchered there and then in places like Sachsenhausen, and though we might feel their suffering acutely and recoil in genuine horror, still that does not confer an automatic immunity to the hateful thinking patterns that produced the concentration camps.

If it is true that lesbians and gay men (among others) have a 'privileged' access to the experience of the Häftlinge, then we have a particular responsibility to be vigilant. The danger we face because of that propaganda and its attendant terrors may be more subtle and understated in Britain than it is overseas but it is no less invidious. We must be vigilant not simply to prevent the virulent return of those values that consigned us to the camps (the fear of being inmates in the here and now) but also to prevent us from being seduced by the simplistic slogans and false promises that would make us accomplices in their institution. Without such vigilance we face the awful an almost unimaginable possibility of being deceived into acting as the new guards.

The lesson that Pastor Niemöller learned (too late?) was that if it could be you, it could be me, and if it were me, then it could be any of us. For that reason the same thing is demanded of each of us:

Vigilance and respect; there and then, here and now

2001 © PD Entwistle

Notes

(1) S-Bahn Friedrichstrasse:

Berlin is served by a variety of train and tram routes. S-Bahn refers to the Schnellbahn - the overland train network, Friedrichstrasse to the station in the centre of the city.

(2) Siegessäule:

Victory Column, built to commemorate the military victory over the French which led to the founding of the Second Reich in 1871.

(3) Nazi:

NSDAP Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. The National Socialist German Worker's Party. Elected to power in 1933, the party began to usurp the power of the state, supplanting the rule of law and government by the fiat of the party and the instruments of terror it wielded. Within a few months Hitler had stifled all opposition and abandoned any pretence of democratic rule.

(4) Anhalter Bahnhof:

This was one the chief railway termini for Berlin. Severely damaged in wartime bombing, there now remains only a portion of the facade.

(5) Reichsfűhrer SS:

Himmler’s official title, ‘Reich leader of the SS’. The SS (Schűtzstaffel) was the Protection Squad of the Nazi Party.

(6) Gestapo:

Geheime Staatspolizei, the secret state police.

(7) KZ Sachsenhausen:

Konzentrationslager, concentration camp. In the earlier years of Nazi Germany the camps were sometimes referred to as Schutzhäftlager, protective custody camps.

(8) Remembrance:

This had its origin in two distinct items which seemed to belong together as a 'token' that could be taken to Sachsenhausen and left at the memorial there. The remembrance consisted of 6 freedom ribbons, in the rainbow colours, attached to a pole. These ribbons had been part of a larger banner that had been carried on the Lesbian and Gay Pride March (London) in the summer of 1994. Together with the ribbons was a poem (see below).

The Colour of Forget-Me-Nots

rose pink

carnation pink

perky pink

panther

champagne pink

in the pink

lily the pink

lipstick

blushing pink

candy floss pink

baby pink

bootees

marshmallow pink

bubblegum pink

fuchsia pink

Triangle

(9) Gedenkstätte Sachsenhausen:

Many of the former camps have been designated as places of national remembrance and reflection. Sachsenhausen is the one closest to Berlin.

(10) Strasse der Nationen:

Street of the nations

(11) GDP:

German Democratic Republic more commonly referred to as East Germany .

Now, of course, no longer in existence since the reunification of Germany.

(12) Arbeit Macht Frei:

The motto which was found at the entrance to the concentration camps. Work shall

set you free.

(13) Appellplatz:

The place where inmates were assembled for roll-calls, punishments etc…

(14) Häftlinge:

Prisoners of the camp.

(15) Schuhprűfstrecke:

The shoe-testing ground.

(16) Neue Synagoge:

The 'New Synagogue’, completed in 1866. One of two dozen synagogues vandalised and set alight on Kristallnacht (the night of broken glass), November 9th., 1938. Following this pogrom 12,000 Berlin Jews were brought to Sachsenhausen.

(17) Martin Niemöller:

Pastor Niemöller, U-Boat commander in WWI and a one-time supporter of the

Nazis, came to reject Fascism and was incarcerated in Sachsenhausen.

He is, perhaps, best remembered for the following verse –

First they came for the Jews

And I did not speak out – because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for the Communists

And I did not speak out because I was not a Communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists

And I did not speak out - because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for me

And there was no-one left to speak out for me.

(18) Erdbunker:

Literally, ‘earth bunker’.

(19) Totgeshlagen…:

A literal translation is difficult. The inscription may be read as –

BEATEN TO DEATH

SILENCED TO DEATH

THE

HOMOSEXUAL

VICTIMS

NAZISM

(20) Wehrmacht:

The German Army.

(21) Zyklon B:

The cyanide gas pellets used in the gas chambers.

(22) Triangles:

Prisoners in the camps were made to wear triangles of different colours. The

respective colours indicated the reason for their incarceration, eg. green = criminal,

red = political offender, black = anti-social, pink = homosexual.

(23) Station Z:

The mass extermination facility, built by the SS in 1942, and run by the

Totenkopfstandarte SS (Death’s Head battalions of the SS). Here, thousands

upon thousands were systematically butchered.

(24) Prinz Albrecht Terrain:

An area of central Berlin that housed the offices and HQ of the Nazi state terror

apparatus eg. the Gestapo, the SS. Bounded by (what is now) the Wilhelmstrasse,

Niederkirchnerstrasse, Stresemannstrasse, and Anhalterstrasse.

(25) Reishsicherheitshauptamt:

An approximate translation would be Head Office of Reich Security.

(26) Graffiti:

Colloquial translations might be –

Graffiti is no crime!

Lesbian Power!

Deport the Nazis, let the immigrant women stay

(27) Wer Bunker…:

Whoever builds bunkers, drops bombs

#holocaust #holocaust memorial day #remembrance #sachsenhausen #concentration camp #gay #homosexuality #persecution #nazism #nazi #berlin #damian's writing

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tb5-heavenward · 6 years ago

Photo

absolutely gorgeous and unbelievable art courtesy of the incomparable @anayellowbendyfruit!

Happy Thanksgiving! I have been cooking for two days. Sorry this one is so late, I think I restarted it three times. Anyway. I’m sure the discussion that follows the end of the last chapter will be perfectly civil and reasonable and definitely nobody will throw anything at anybody else.

talented amateurs - 35

Gordon’s never fully understood the term “liquid courage”. Possibly because most of the occasions in his life that call for bravery also require him to be stone cold sober and that’s always served him just fine. Booze as a component of bravery seems a little bit ludicrous. He’s never given it a great deal of thought, because he’s never really needed to. Getting drunk never makes him feel any braver than usual.

What he feels now—as his older brother stares at him and the bourbon starts to hit—isn’t exactly what he’d call courage, anyway.

It’s different. Wildly, disconcertingly different, a dizzy swell of almost giddy nihilism, the sudden conviction that nothing Scott could say or do in response to this news could possibly matter, compared to the magnitude of the news itself. Especially when all he’s done so far is gape, wide-eyed and bewildered, as Gordon swirls a slowly melting pair of ice cubes around the inside of his glass. However shocked Scott is, he’s still one whole degree removed from the actual situation, which that Penelope is approximately six weeks pregnant with Gordon’s child.

#Talented Amateurs #Gordon Tracy #Scott Tracy #TAG fanfic #thunderbirds are go #some kind of creative doubt #I don't know why I'm tagging these things as they will no longer appear in tumblr's search while links are broken

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allthegodstars · 6 years ago

Text

Reminiscence Of TSC till QoAaD is released

10 days

The Bane Chronicles

A loud explosion caused him to look up. There was a boy standing in the middle of the room, a cocked silver pistol in his hand. He was surrounded by broken glass, having just shot off one arm of the chandelier.

Magnus was overwhelmed with the feeling the French called déjà vu, the feeling that I have been here before. He had, of course, been in London before, twenty-five years past.

This boy’s face was a face to recall the past. This was a face from the past, one of the most beautiful faces Magnus could ever recall seeing. It was a face so finely cut that it cast the shabbiness of this place into stark relief—a beauty that burned so fiercely that it put the glare of the electric lights to shame. The boy’s skin was so white and clear that it seemed to have a light shining behind it. The lines of his cheekbones, his jaw, and his throat—exposed by a linen shirt open at the collar—were so clean and perfect that he almost would have looked like a statue were it not for the much disheveled and slightly curling hair falling into his face, as black as midnight against his lucent pallor.

The years drew Magnus back again, the fog and gaslight of a London more than twenty years lost rising to claim Magnus. He found his lips shaping a name: Will. Will Herondale.

Magnus stepped forward instinctively, the movement feeling as if it were not of his own volition.

The boy’s eyes went to him, and a shock passed through Magnus. They were not Will’s eyes, the eyes Magnus remembered being as blue as a night sky in Hell, eyes Magnus had seen both despairing and tender.

This boy had shining golden eyes, like a crystal glass filled brimful with crisp white wine and held up to catch the light of a blazing sun. If his skin was luminous, his eyes were radiant. Magnus could not imagine these eyes as tender. The boy was very, very lovely, but his was a beauty like that Helen of Troy might have had once, disaster written in every line. The light of his beauty made Magnus think of cities burning.

Fog and gaslight receded into memory. His momentary lapse into foolish nostalgia was over. This was not Will. That broken, beautiful boy would be a man now, and this boy was a stranger.

Still, Magnus did not think that such a great resemblance could be a coincidence. He made his way toward the boy with little effort, as the other denizens of the gaming hell seemed, perhaps understandably, reluctant to approach him. The boy was standing alone as though the broken glass all around him were a shining sea and he were an island.

“Not precisely a Shadowhunter weapon,” Magnus murmured. “Is it?”

Those golden eyes narrowed into bright slits, and the long-fingered hand not holding the pistol went to the boy’s sleeve, where Magnus presumed his nearest blade was concealed. His hands were not quite steady.

“Peace,” Magnus added. “I mean you no harm. I am a warlock the Whitelaws of New York will vouch for as being quite—well, mostly—harmless.”

There was a long pause that felt somewhat dangerous. The boy’s eyes were like stars, shining but giving no clue to his feelings. Magnus was generally good at reading people, but he found it difficult to predict what this boy might do.

Magnus was truly surprised by what the boy said next.

“I know who you are.” His voice was not like his face; it had gentleness to it.

Magnus managed to hide his surprise and raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry. He had not lived three hundred years without learning not to rise to every bait offered.

“You are Magnus Bane.”

Magnus hesitated, then inclined his head. “And you are?”

“I,” the boy announced, “am James Herondale.”

“You know,” Magnus murmured, “I rather thought you might be called something like that. I am delighted to hear that I am famous.”

“You’re my father’s warlock friend. He would always speak of you to my sister and me whenever other Shadowhunters spoke slightingly of Downworlders in our presence. He would say he knew a warlock who was a better friend, and more worth trusting, than many a Nephilim warrior.”

The boy’s lips curled as he said it, and he spoke mockingly but with more contempt than amusement behind the mockery, as if his father had been a fool to tell him this, and James himself was a fool to repeat it.

Magnus found himself in no mood for cynicism.

They had parted well, he and Will, but he knew Shadowhunters. The Nephilim were swift to judge and condemn a Downworlder for ill deeds, acting as if every sin were graven in stone for all time, proving that Magnus’s people were evil by nature. Shadowhunters’ conviction of their own angelic virtue and righteousness made it easy for them to let a warlock’s good deeds slip their minds, as if they were written in water.

He had not expected to see or hear of Will Herondale on this journey, but if Magnus had thought of it, he would have been unsurprised to be all but forgotten, a petty player in a boy’s tragedy. Being remembered, and remembered so kindly, touched him more than he would have thought possible.

The boy’s star-shining, burning-city eyes traveled across Magnus’s face and saw too much.

“I would not set any great store by it. My father trusts a great many people,” James Herondale said, and laughed. It was quite clear suddenly that he was extremely drunk. Not that Magnus had imagined he was firing at chandeliers while stone-cold sober. “Trust. It is like placing a blade in someone’s hand and setting the very point against your own heart.”

“I have not asked you to trust me,” Magnus pointed out mildly. “We have just met.”

“Oh, I’ll trust you,” the boy told him carelessly. “It hardly matters. We are all betrayed sooner or later—all betrayed, or traitors.”

“I see that a flair for the dramatic runs in the blood,” Magnus said under his breath. It was a different kind of dramatics, though. Will had made an exhibition of vice in private, to drive away those nearest and dearest to him. James was making a public spectacle.

Perhaps he loved vice for vice’s own sake.

“What?” James asked.

“Nothing,” said Magnus. “I was merely wondering what the chandelier had done to offend you.”

James looked up at the ruined chandelier, and down at the shards of glass at his feet, as if he were noticing them only now.

“I was bet,” he said, “twenty pounds that I would not shoot out all the lights of the chandelier.”

“And who bet you?” said Magnus, not divulging a hint of what he thought—that anyone who bet a drunk seventeen-year-old boy that he could wave around a deadly weapon with impunity ought to be in gaol.

“That fellow there,” James announced, pointing.

Magnus looked in the general direction James was gesturing toward, and spied a familiar face at the faro table.

“The green one?” Magnus inquired. Coaxing drunken Shadowhunters into making fools of themselves was a favorite occupation among the Downworlders, and this performance had been a tremendous success. Ragnor Fell, the High Warlock of London, shrugged, and Magnus sighed inwardly. Perhaps gaol would be a bit extreme, though Magnus still felt his emerald friend could use taking down a peg or two.

“Is he really green?” James asked, not seeming to care overmuch. “I thought that was the absinthe.”

Then James Herondale, son of William Herondale and Theresa Gray, the two Shadowhunters who had been the closest of their kind to friends that Magnus had ever known—though Tessa had not been quite a Shadowhunter, or not entirely—turned his back on Magnus, set his sights on a woman serving drinks to a table surrounded by werewolves, and shot her down. She collapsed on the floor with a cry, and all the gamblers sprang from their tables, cards flying and drinks spilling.

James laughed, and the laugh was clear and bright, and it was then that Magnus began to be truly alarmed. Will’s voice would have shaken, betraying that his cruelty had been part of his playacting, but his son’s laugh was that of someone genuinely delighted by the chaos erupting all around him.

Magnus’s hand shot out and grasped the boy’s wrist, the hum and light of magic crackling along his fingers like a promise. “That’s enough.”

“Be easy,” James said, still laughing. “I am a very good shot, and Peg the tavern maid is famous for her wooden leg. I think that is why they call her Peg. Her real name, I believe, is Ermentrude.”

“And I suppose Ragnor Fell bet you twenty pounds that you couldn’t shoot her without managing to draw blood? How very clever of you both.”

James drew his hand back from Magnus’s, shaking his head. His black locks fell around a face so like his father’s that it prompted an indrawn breath from Magnus. “My father told me you acted as a sort of protector to him, but I do not need your protection, warlock.”

“I rather disagree with that.”

“I have taken a great many bets tonight,” James Herondale informed him. “I must perform all the terrible deeds I have promised. For am I not a man of my word? I want to preserve my honor. And I want another drink!”

“What an excellent idea,” Magnus said. “I have heard alcohol only improves a man’s aim. The night is young. Imagine how many barmaids you can shoot before dawn.”

“A warlock as dull as a scholar,” said James, narrowing his amber eyes. “Who would have thought such a thing existed?”

“Magnus has not always been so dull,” said Ragnor, appearing at James’s shoulder with a glass of wine in hand. He gave it to the boy, who took it and downed it in a distressingly practiced manner. “There was a time, in Peru, with a boat full of pirates—”

James wiped his mouth on his sleeve and set down his glass. “I should love to sit and listen to old men reminiscing about their lives, but I have a pressing appointment to do something that is actually interesting. Another time, chaps.”

He turned upon his heel and left. Magnus made to follow him.

“Let the Nephilim control their brat, if they can,” Ragnor said, always happy to see chaos but not be involved in it. “Come have a drink with me.”

“Another night,” Magnus promised.

“Still such a soft touch, Magnus,” Ragnor called after him. “Nothing you like better than a lost soul or a bad idea.”

Magnus wanted to argue with that, but it was difficult when he was already forsaking warmth and the promise of a drink and a few rounds of cards, and running out into the cold after a deranged Shadowhunter.

Said deranged Shadowhunter turned on him, as if the narrow cobbled street were a cage and he some wild, hungry animal held there too long.

“I wouldn’t follow me,” James warned. “I am in no mood for company. Especially the company of a prim magical chaperone who does not know how to enjoy himself.”

“I know perfectly well how to enjoy myself,” remarked Magnus, amused, and he made a small gesture so that for an instant all the iron streetlamps lining the street rained down varicolored sparks of light. For an instant he thought he saw a light that was softer and less like burning in James Herondale’s golden eyes, the beginnings of a childlike smile of delight.

The next moment, it was quenched. James’s eyes were as bright as the jewels in a dragon’s hoard, and no more alive or joyful. He shook his head, black locks flying in the night air, where the magic lights were fading.

“But you do not wish to enjoy yourself, do you, James Herondale?” Magnus asked. “Not really. You want to go to the devil.”

“Perhaps I think I will enjoy going to the devil,” said James Herondale, and his eyes burned like the fires of Hell, enticing, and promising unimaginable suffering. “Though I see no need to take anyone else with me.”

No sooner had he spoken than he vanished, to all appearances softly and silently stolen away by the night air, with no one but the winking stars, the glaring streetlamps, and Magnus as witnesses.

Magnus knew magic when he saw it. He spun, and at the same moment heard the click of a decided footstep against a cobblestone. He turned to face a policeman walking his beat, truncheon swinging at his side, and a look of suspicion on his stolid face as he surveyed Magnus.

It was not Magnus the man had to watch out for.

Magnus saw the buttons on the man’s uniform cease their gleaming, even though he was under a streetlamp. Magnus was able to discern a shadow falling where there was nothing to cast it, a surge of dark within the greater darkness of the night.

The policeman gave a shout of surprise as his helmet was whisked away by unseen hands. He stumbled forward, hands fumbling blindly in the air to retrieve what was long gone.

Magnus gave him a consoling smile. “Cheer up,” he said. “You can find far more flattering headgear at any shop in Bond Street.”

The man fainted. Magnus considered pausing to help him, but there was being a soft touch, and then there was being ridiculous enough to not pursue a most enticing mystery. A Shadowhunter who could turn into a shadow? Magnus turned and bolted after the bobbing policeman’s helmet, held aloft only by a taunting darkness.

They ran down street after street, Magnus and the darkness, until the Thames barred their path. Magnus heard the sound of its rushing swiftness rather than saw it, the dark waters at one with the night.

What he did see was white fingers suddenly clenched on the brim of the policeman’s helmet, the turn of James Herondale’s head, darkness replaced with the tilt of his slowly appearing grin. Magnus saw a shadow coalescing once more into flesh.

So the boy had inherited something from his mother as well as his father, then. Tessa’s father had been a fallen angel, one of the kings of demons. The boy’s lambent golden eyes seemed to Magnus like his own eyes suddenly, a token of infernal blood.

James saw Magnus looking, and winked before he hurled the helmet up into the air. It flew for a moment like a strange bird, spinning gently around in the air, then hit the water. The darkness was disrupted by a silver splash.

“A Shadowhunter who knows magic tricks,” Magnus observed. “How novel.”

A Shadowhunter who attacked the mundanes it was his mandate to protect—how delighted the Clave would be by that.

“We are but dust and shadows, as the saying goes,” said James. “Of course, the saying does not add, ‘Some of us also turn into shadows occasionally, when the mood takes us.’ I suppose nobody predicted that I would come to pass. It’s true that I have been told I am somewhat unpredictable.”

“May I ask who bet you that you could steal a policeman’s helmet, and why?”

“Foolish question. Never ask about the last bet, Bane,” James advised him, and reached casually to his belt, where his gun was slung, and then he drew it in one fluid, easy motion. “You should be worrying about the next one.”

“There isn’t any chance,” Magnus asked, without much hope, “that you are rather a nice fellow who believes he is cursed and must make himself seem unlovable to spare those around him from a terrible fate? Because I have heard that happens sometimes.”

James seemed amused by the question. He smiled, and as he smiled, his waving black locks blended with the night, and the glow of his skin and his eyes grew as distant as the light of the stars until they became so pale, they diffused. He was nothing but a shadow among shadows again. He was an infuriating Cheshire cat of a boy, nothing left of him but the impression of his smile.

“My father was cursed,” James said from the darkness. “Whereas I? I’m damned.”

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lilacmoon83 · 3 years ago

Text

Clarity

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 31: Walking the Wire

"I've had it!" Ruby cried, as she tossed her apron on the floor.

"Check the attitude, girl," Granny warned.

"Not this time...I'm done. I quit!" Ruby said, as she stormed out of the diner and very nearly barreled right through David.

"Whoa...where's the fire?" he asked.

"She's impossible! She never appreciates anything I do and is critical of everything!" she complained.

"So you quit?" David asked.

"Finally…" Ruby replied.

"Good...because I'd like to offer you a job," he said.

"A job? You want me to work at the station?" she asked incredulously.

"Actually…I want you to work there," David said, as he pointed to the dress shop down the block with a help wanted sign in the window.

"That snooty dress shop?" she asked.

"Undercover for me, of course," he replied. She shook her head.

"Okay...I'm lost. You want me to work undercover for you in a dress shop?" she asked. He nodded.

"I'm trying to prove Emma's innocence and I think Narcissa Blake is lying," he replied. She sobered.

"Why me?" Ruby asked.

"Because you have good instincts," he replied. She raised her eyebrows.

"I do?" she asked.

"Ruby...you were one of the only ones in this town that didn't shun me or Mary Margaret when I left Kathryn for her," he reminded her. She shrugged.

"You are both good people...you couldn't help falling in love, despite your marriage. Besides, these phonies are just jealous they don't have that exciting kind of love in their lives," she said. He smiled.

"See? You see things for how they really are and not what people think they should be," he said.

"I guess so...and I definitely don't believe Emma did this," Ruby replied.

"She didn't...I just have to prove it and I need help," David said.

"Okay...so what makes you think Narcissa Blake is lying? I mean, she's definitely a stone cold bitch...but that doesn't mean she's a liar," Ruby replied.

"True, but she said that she convinced Tamara not to leave Storybrooke and gave her a job at the store. But Neal says that has to be a lie," he explained.

"He said that it would take a lot to get her to leave New York and some job in a dress store wouldn't do it," David continued.

"And they were over, for sure? She wasn't staying to try and get him back?" Ruby asked.

"That's what Narcissa said, but Neal doesn't think so. But I know Albert Spencer and he'll try to spin this as a crime of passion. He's going to say Emma killed her competition," David replied.

"Yeah...that's not Emma's style, even if she was still in love with Neal," Ruby agreed.

"Exactly...and we know little to nothing about Narcissa Blake," David said.

"And you want me to spy?" Ruby asked.

"Pay is decent and there's benefits, plus maybe a little of that excitement you're looking for," he offered. She smiled.

"And the chance to vindicate a friend...I'm in," she replied.

"And everyone just watched you publicly storm out and quit so applying for the job won't seem suspicious," he said.

"Okay…I'll go right now," she replied.

"Thanks," he said, as he went into the diner to get some coffee, before he would continue his investigation.

~*~

"Okay...now if I know the district attorney and what's being discussed already, he's going to go for the tried and true crime of passion," Solana explained.

"They're going to say that I killed Tamara to take out my competition," Emma said. The other woman nodded.

"Obviously it isn't true, but it's going to sell sleazy newspapers in the meantime and we need to be prepared to counter it," she said.

"Neal insists that a job in some dress store wouldn't have been enough to get Tamara to move here, even for him. They were done," Emma replied.

"And you're sure he'll testify?" Solana asked.

"I'm sure...and he knew Tamara best," Emma replied, as she sighed.

"But let's face it, this is an uphill battle. Unless David can prove that Narcissa Blake is lying or find the real killer...they're going to convict me," she said.

"Now honey...we can't go there. Not yet...I'm going to do everything I can to fight this and Deputy Nolan seems very determined to prove your innocence," Solana soothed.

"He is and I'm going to do whatever I have to as well," Mary Margaret said, as she returned with a bag.

"I hope you don't mind, but I packed some things for you until your arraignment tomorrow," she said.

"Thanks," Emma replied, as she looked through it and noticed that her blanket was in there.

"Do you think there is any hope of them agreeing to bail while we await the trial?" Mary Margaret asked. Solana patted her arm.

"I don't want to get your hopes up, but I'm going to everything I can to get her released on bond," she said, as she stood up.

"I think I have what I need for now. I'll see you both at the courthouse in the morning," she said, as she left to return to her office. There was a pregnant pause between the two.

"So...the blanket? You had it made for me?" Emma asked. Snow's face lit up with a smile.

"Well…I tried to knit it myself, but I was so bad at it. Granny fixed it and finished it for me, including the embroidery," she explained.

"So you knew my name before I was born?" Emma asked curiously. Snow nodded.

"I had it in mind...I meant to tell your father that I wanted to name you Emma when we were alone, but the Dark One insisted on knowing it before I had the chance," she said.

"He instantly loved it as much as me. We'd both felt like pieces of us were missing before we were together...and we only felt whole together. Since your name means whole...we thought it was perfect since you were making our family complete," Snow explained.

"Though you would have had brothers and sisters…" she added, as Emma looked up at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Really?" she asked. She nodded.

"We were both only children...we wanted a big family," Snow replied.

"I...I always wanted siblings," Emma admitted, as there was another awkward pause between them.

"Why does she hate you?" Emma asked bluntly.

"She thinks I destroyed her life," Snow replied.

"Did you?" Emma asked.

"Yes…" Snow squeaked.

"But I didn't mean to...I didn't even know I was doing so. I was just a girl...and Cora manipulated me. I didn't know how horrible she was until later," she explained.

"Cora?" Emma asked.

"Regina's mother...she had magic and I think she suspected that Regina was planning to run off with the stable boy," Snow replied.

"So where do you come in?" Emma asked.

"Regina told me about him in confidence. She taught me that true love was magical and I loved her so much…" Snow said sadly.

"But I had just lost my own mother...and Cora said that it was okay to tell her, because if I didn't, Regina might lose her mother. So I told her and then she killed Daniel," she explained.

"So her mother killed Daniel...and she hates you for it?" Emma questioned. Snow nodded.

"She blames me...she says she would have never known if I had kept her secret," Snow said.

"Maybe...or maybe not. Sounds like she should hate her mother," Emma replied.

"She does, I think...but I think it's easier to hate me. I regret it so much...but I was only ten. I didn't understand the gravity of the situation," Snow said.

"Nor should you...you were a kid. That would be like me hating Henry if he told a secret. Even if someone got hurt from it, kids shouldn't be put in that position in the first place," Emma replied. Snow looked at her and then sighed.

"What?" Emma asked.

"It's just what your...what David always tells me. He insists that I'm not to blame and even if I was...it doesn't excuse what Regina has done," Snow replied.

"Well...he's right," Emma agreed.

"She wasn't always like this...and I feel like I'm the reason," Snow said.

"Well don't...at some point, she had to take responsibility for her actions and if were you responsible, it was indirectly at best. Her mother didn't have to kill anyone, but she did. That's on her...and Regina knows it. She's just a bitch," Emma complained. Snow smiled gently.

"Thanks...it means a lot that you don't blame me. I mean...for that," Snow said. Emma sighed.

"I don't blame you for the other stuff either...because if I did, I'd be no better than Regina. It just took me a while to accept it," she said.

"So...you believe?" Snow asked hopefully. Emma gave her a measured glance.

"Kind of hard to deny. I...I saw David in my head...like a vision or something. He was sword fighting some Knights with baby me in the crook of his arm," she admitted. Snow's eyes widened.

"You saw that?" she asked. Emma nodded.

"The night I was born?" she asked. Snow nodded.

"Look…I'm still trying to wrap my head around all of this, but I get it now," she said. Snow smiled.

"Take as much time as you need...we couldn't ask for more," she said, as David returned and she watched her face light up at the sight of him and his at the sight of her.

"Well?" she asked.

"Ruby is applying for a job at the dress shop as we speak," he replied. Emma's eyes widened in surprise.

"Really?" she asked. He nodded.

"I can't take too much credit though. She had another fight with Granny and I walked in on her quitting. So I pitched my idea to her and she wants to help," David replied. Snow hugged him.

"Don't be modest...I'm sure you helped convince her," Snow said. He shrugged.

"She believes Emma is innocent, just like us and doesn't trust Narcissa either," he said.

"That's what makes no sense…" Emma said.

"What do you mean?" Snow asked.

"Well...if Henry's right and no one comes to this town, then how the hell did we get not one, but two outsiders in this town? I mean, Neal told Tamara the name of the town, but it's not exactly on the map. Henry had to tell me how to get here," Emma replied.

"Then we get this Narcissa Blake? A world class fashion designer just wanders into a town that almost no one else can find?" she continued.

"She's right...it's fishy as hell and might be the key to figuring all of this out," he agreed.

"Do...do you think this woman could be from, you know, there?" Emma asked.

"She's no one we've ever seen...but that doesn't mean anything," David replied.

"But if she is...then how did she get outside Storybrooke?" Snow wondered.

"I don't know...but maybe we should talk to Gold. If there was a way to escape the curse, he might know how someone would have done it," David said.

"Go…" Emma urged, as they seemed reluctant to leave her.

"We'll be back soon," Snow said, as she squeezed her hand through the bars. Emma gasped, as she saw another vision. One of Mary Margaret holding her as a newborn for the first time and crying at having to give her up. She smiled back at her and implored them to go. Snow joined hands with her husband and they headed out, leaving Emma with her thoughts.

#Snowing #SnowxCharming #Charming family #Emma Swan #Regina Mills #Henry Mills #Mr. Gold #Neal Cassidy #romance #adventure #family #drama #AU #Clarity #A 7:15 AM AU

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misaki-ffxiv · 7 years ago

Text

.|different

When he comes near, I don’t shrink away with a growl in my throat and my hands balled into fists.

When he reaches to touch me, I don’t flinch from his skin meeting mine. His touch is not demanding or rough or cold. He doesn’t grab me to pin me and quiet me. When his arms wrap around me, I know that I am safe. I sink into him. My hands grip onto the lapels of his jacket and I let his warmth surround me when he presses his lips so tenderly to the top of my head.

He sees the way that I hurt. When he tucks his finger beneath my chin and tilts my head up, he sees the ghosts that dance in my eyes. He sees the fear and the anger and the scars that are not visible unless you peer into them. And with him, I am not afraid to let him see them. My walls crash down around him. He sees my tears and hears my terror, holds me as I weep and scream against the world, quiets the demons that threaten to devour me and pull me under with them.

Etsuji sees the summer child that I was. He knew her and he loved her. When I’m with him, I feel like her again. I feel like those rich sunset nights with sake and laughter until the sun came back again. I feel like that girl who laughed as she snuck out through paper doors to meet him and dart through the streets while we tried not to giggle too loudly. I remember him dancing to make me laugh, and how it worked, and the way he spun me around and around when I got up to join him until we collapsed in a pile of panting mirth. He was an expert in making the depression that could cloud my mind so easily drift away. Only he had that kind of power, and I cherished him for being that sunshine.

We were just kids when we first met, but I still remember it like it was yesterday.

He was new to Kugane, but he didn’t seem even remotely shy about his new surroundings. He absolutely glowed, the life of the party with his friends as they sat and talked and joked at the table across from ours. All night long, he had been sneaking glances my way, and at the time I was too proud to admit that I was doing the same to him. As the night started to wind down, he approached me, all confidence as he adjusted his tie and bowed. My friends were already getting ready to go home and making eyes at the men he’d been sitting with, but I remember so clearly that Etsuji and I couldn’t take our eyes off each other.

“My name is Etsuji,” he’d said with a smile that could knock even the coldest of women off of her feet. “Etsuji Goto.”

“Misaki Ito,” I’d offered in return, and he’d cocked a brow, sliding his hands into his suit pockets as he looked me over.

“You know, there’s an old legend in the village I come from about the Ito clan.”

“Then I think we might be from the same village,” I’d replied. “Don’t worry. I don’t actually have any scales and I don’t usually breathe fire.”

He’d grinned and I’d blushed at my stupid reply, but there was no turning back at that point. Even if we hardly ever saw each other casually until later, when his focus had shifted less from working with the law and more towards working beneath the law, I was hooked on him. All he had to do was get me with that damn smile and the way he smoothed his hair away from his face with one hand, almost coy in the way he did it. There was no other way to put it - he was cool. He had always been cool, and I was a sucker for Etsuji Goto since the first time his dark eyes met mine.

There was a time when we got sloppy, irresponsibly drunk together. It was the first time we’d kissed despite years of raging teenage sexual tension. We were both nineteen by then, and I already had a handful of places that would never be same because of the men who had dared touch me or scream at me there, like the corner of my favorite ramen shop or the staircase beneath an apartment of a man who claimed he knew my birth father. It was around this time that I was getting wary of touches. They were unwelcome. I didn’t want any man to touch me, but as always, it was different with Etsuji.

He cradled me in his arms and he kissed me so tenderly, so honestly, so earnestly, and I melted into him as I kissed him back. And, when my yukata started to slide off of my shoulder that summer night by the sea, he gently pushed it back up and kissed my cheek. With his calloused hands, he’d cradled my face and stared into my eyes for a long time, brushing my cheek with his thumb so gently. I liked to think that I was a towering and intimidating figure when I needed to be, but I felt so very normal with him. Not some creature held upon a pedestal by her nation because of her profession, not a woman who stole the breath of men simply by existing, not a legend – no. I was simply a girl, in the gentle care of a boy who knew she was imperfect and still looked at her like she was the one who hung the stars.

“You’re very drunk,” I told him with a smile, the gin on his breath washing over my lips. He smiled back.

“I’m stone cold sober, and you are the most stunning woman in this world,” he replied, and he said it with such conviction that I believed him. His thumb ran over my cheek again, and he exhaled, kissing my forehead before looking me very seriously in the eyes again.

“One day, Misaki, I’m going to marry you,” he told me. “But until that day I’m going to be by your side and protect you. Even if you don’t need me to. Even if you could absolutely kick my ass.”

I don’t know if he remembers saying that to me. Even if he insisted he was sober, I knew that he was as drunk as I was. It had flushed my cheeks with color and made my stomach feel like it was host to a hundred butterflies. What was he talking about? I made a little sound of disbelief and muttered something dismissive as I looked away, but he knew I was smiling like he was. Etsuji pulled me closer to his chest and kissed the top of my head and we fell asleep like that, awoken by the house mother herself personally coming, hunting us down, and giving us an earful before ushering me back to the geisha house in a change of clothes she’d brought to spare ‘what little honor I had left.’

She was livid, understandably, to find me asleep on the beach with a young man who was, for all intents and purposes, not exactly squeaky clean on the law abiding citizen front, bodyguard or not.

And when Etsuji and I were separated by Garleans, I thought of him every day. I worried for him. I prayed for him. I longed for him.We were not able to communicate directly but I was able to get messages out to him and his men with the promise they would get me out of where I was. I hoped he would never know what the Overseer was doing to me. I hoped he would only ever know me as that wild summer child, with her sense of conviction and stubbornness and easy smiles. When he found me as I was - damaged, afraid, and hurting - he still looks at me the same. I am still Misaki Ito, his best friend, his companion, his charge, not the broken toy or science experiment or terrifying creature I had to become while imprisoned.

Different. Etsuji, with his charm and tender heart and cocky grins and ridiculous clothing, was always different. It is no wonder, then, that things have been and always will be different for me with him. He is my safe haven. I am clay in his hands where I have long been only stone in the hands of others. He makes me happy. He makes me feel alive, like myself again.

I love him. I think that I’ve always loved him. I hope he knows. And if he doesn’t - I hope someday there will come a time where I can make sure he knows.

#fluff #!!!#writing #i did this very sleepily im so sory if it's not good #need to get back into the practice of fluff rather than ANGST TIME #{doll face and the suit}

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