#life has been wilder than anticipated for the past few months

[allsassnoclass]

hazel what if u <3 wrote more of ur vigilante au <3

good news! i will!!!!! eventually!!!!

i have an ask box prompt from megs for it, and the more i think about it the more a "tortured for information" whump piece is appealing to me..... that being said i am currently fighting tooth and nail to finish a fic for a big bang and it is sapping All of my writing time, so I can't guarantee a timeline, but i'm hoping to knock out more of my ask box prompts by the end of the year so that would include one for the vigilante au!

[coepiteamare]

depth of field

pairing: yoongi x female!reader genre: angst (are we surprised), fluff, reader is an actress, yoongi is photographer warning: a lot of feelings, uhm there’s like 2 lines about sex but it’s not super explicit, bad break ups, not beta read, heartbreak,  header credit: lovely isa! she’s so talented please check her out @monvante​  word count: 9.5k (how and why this became the longest thing i’ve written, i don’t know) rating: sfw though slightly mature (2 lines about sex but not explicit) collab: the valentine’s day collab with a bunch of awesome writers! please check out everyone’s stories! 

summary: yoongi is a nature photographer and you’re an actress who’s spent her entire life in front of the cameras. when he’s hired (against his will) for a photoshoot, he’s not quite expecting you: all smiles and charm and mystery. (alt: you laugh, and yoongi hears the night sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. he fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the picture doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice.) A/N: this is....so late because i am big dumb + life changes + writing is hard. i have extremely mixed feelings on this one, but if you do read it, i hope it makes you feel something. if you listen to epik high, a lot of this was written while listening to “sleepless in _________”. 

[Triptych: Sleepless In The City.JPEG]

[alt.image: Black and white triptych of a view outside a bedroom window. The position of the shot is the same in all three: all of them are directly facing an open window depicting the Seoul skyline. Towards the bottom of the picture, the edge of a bed can be seen: a plaid blanket with a light coloured bed frame. Right below the window is a dark wood dresser with a glass of water on top. At the center of the frame is a square, side hung window with light coloured (white) curtains on the sides. The first frame depicts a light blue coloured sky. There’s a lens flare at the top right of the corner. The second frame depicts a gradient sky. There’s light from the buildings shining through. The third frame depicts a darker sky, but the building lights are still on. The glass of water lies in the same position through the pictures, with little to no change in water amount.]

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he contemplates answering as his fingers make contact with his phone, before pressing the side button and turning it off. 

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name this time around. Someone else does, as the door swings open.

“Yoongi!” 

Yoongi groans and pulls the covers over his head, letting the weighted blanket settle around his body, but Hoseok peels it off his body without a struggle. 

“You could have called when you came back,” Hoseok opens the black out curtains, afternoon light flooding through the window and making Yoongi’s vision dance. 

“You could have called before you barged in.” 

“I did,” Hoseok settles on the edge of his bed, laughing when Yoongi kicks him off, “you didn’t answer.” 

“I was busy.” He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the afterglow of his dreams fading from his mind. 

Hoseok looks at the suitcase still packed at the corner of his bed, at the instant noodle cups on the counter. “I see that.” 

Yoongi shrugs and reaches for the camera bag on his nightstand, fiddling with the zippers and refusing to meet Hoseok’s eyes. 

It’s quiet before there’s a sigh that paints the silence between them. Hoseok reaches his hand out, eyes a little soft, smile a little apologetic, and Yoongi gives him the camera. 

“So how was Greenland?”

“Cold. Colder than here. Not green at all.” Hoseok laughs at that, and perhaps it’s the weather, the lack of people Yoongi has seen the past few months, or Hoseok’s sunny disposition dispelling the shadows, but there’s a small warmth that blooms through Yoongi. “It was nice though. Nice pictures.” 

“I can see that. Did you have an exhibition in mind for these?”

“No. I just wanted a change of pace for a bit.” he clears his throat, trying to unstick the words clinging to his esophagus. “New environment. Clear my head. Look for new inspiration.” 

Hoseok hands him back the camera. “I signed you up for RKIVE LAB’s Valentine’s Day exhibition.”  Yoongi stops fiddling with the buttons and grips the camera  a little tighter. “Portraits of love. Pictures of people required.”

“I don’t take pictures of people.”

“You used to. Before.” Hoseok doesn’t say it—knows to shut his mouth even before Yoongi glares at him—but the presence of the words stains the air like an unwanted lens flare smudged across the picture. The weight of it lingers, glaringly obvious in the silence, as heavy as the blanket curled up at Yoongi’s feet. 

“Used to. Not anymore.” 

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do it again.”

“And that doesn’t mean I want to. Besides, I’m not ready for another exhibition.” 

“Yoongi,” Hoseok takes a seat on the bed and this time, Yoongi doesn’t chide him for it. “Your last exhibition was a year ago. You stopped photographing people for 8 months. 4 months ago, you decided—out of the blue, mind you—to pack up and visit Greenland, 2 weeks before your exhibition. Not only was PR an absolute nightmare, but you also scared me. I was worried about you.”

There’s a sense of guilt that trickles through him at Hoseok’s words. Yoongi hugs his knees to his chest and tucks his chin over them. He’d sink into the floor if he could, let it swallow him whole if it meant he could avoid the conversation, but knowing Hoseok, he’d continue, even when it closed back up. 

“You need to let go,” Hoseok squeezes his shoulder. 

“I need to sleep. I’m still jet lagged.” 

“It’s been a week since you’ve come back!” 

“Exactly,” he pouts, and tries to reach for his blanket, but Hoseok gently slaps his hands away. His voice softens when he opens his mouth, insecurity painting the edges.“I just don’t think I’m ready for an exhibit. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

“I think you just need to try.”

The sigh that leaves his body doesn’t do much for the heaviness that he can’t seem to dispel. He’s tried. Tried to take pictures, tried to photograph people, but he doesn’t know how to capture them without the lens of heartbreak, without finding pieces of his ex hidden in filters. He’s tried to forget, tried to remember, tried to drown everything out to the bitter taste of alcohol, and nothing worked. He tries, and nothing works. 

“I don’t know how to take pictures of people anymore,” Yoongi says weakly. 

Hoseok’s smile is bright, too bright, the picture of false reassurance. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve already made a call.”

[Ready Or Not.JPEG]

[alt. Image: An out of focus, blurry, god shot, full body photograph of a girl. She wears a short red dress with thin straps and black platform boots. There’s a pink and green image/texture projected on top of her as she poses with her arms stretched over her head. The woman is not at the centre of frame, but more towards the right. The photograph appears to be taken hastily, as if the photographer was falling down when taking the shot.]

Yoongi’s forgotten how much light is involved with studio shoots: the moment he steps into the studio, there’s a flash of bright light, and there’s small spots of light dancing in the corner of his vision. He wants to go home, curl back into his cotton sheets, and hide under the covers. 

It’s convenient, he’ll admit. Outdoor photography, especially nature photography, means hours and hours of planning ahead, of trekking into the wilderness and adjusting lenses and camera angles, and tripod placements to get the perfect shot, only to have something—be it the sun, or a bug, or an animal, or a tree that decides to fall at that moment—interfere and ruin the moment. But indoor photography means that everything gets to be controlled, adjustable to his whims.

Yoongi fiddles with his camera settings, finger nervously itching for something to do in the unfamiliar environment. He’s not sure if he likes these kinds of photographs, the ones scripted and tweaked until perfection is smudged against the frame of the picture. He likes spontaneity, likes the unpredictability of nature, but he also likes the idea that everything can be adjusted, picture perfect, to the way he wants it. (No one leaves, no one hurts. Just pictures. Just his ideas.)

“I didn’t know we were getting a new photographer.” 

He spins around and almost stumbles backwards at the sight of you. He could easily have deemed you as one of the set pieces: clothes perfectly pressed, skin glossy, not a hair out of place. You're brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, pressurised to perfection, and Yoongi doesn’t know if he likes that. Doesn’t like the crisp edges of your pants, the sharp angles of your shoulders. 

“My name is Y/N. It’s nice to work with you.”

He stares at the hand in front of him for a second before wiping his palm on his pants. Your smile doesn’t fade as Yoongi gingerly shakes your hand. “Yoongi. I’m just here to watch Vante on shoot. I haven’t photographed people in a while, and our agent thought it would help me to watch him in action.” 

The way your eyes sparkle, light up brighter than the studio lights, feels uncanny: he knows he’s seen it before, but he’s not sure where. It stirs up a familiar feeling in his tummy, like the anticipation that builds just as he’s about to press the click of a shutter. 

“I’m sure you’re a lot better than you think you are,” your smile is warm, but it sends a chill down his spine. It feels wrong, like he’s stuck in the wrong picture frame, the wrong background. The ground is blurry, his head is light, and when he blinks, everything feels cold. 

“You’re a lot better than you think you are, Yoongi. I’ve seen the photos. I know you,” his voice is warm, and Yoongi can hear the smile in the way he grips his hands. “I want to see the exhibit you put up, and I know other people will too.” 

“Hey,” there’s a jolt of electricity when you touch him. He blinks, and your face is in front of his, brows knitted. “You okay? I lost you for a moment.”

“Fine,” his voice is scratchy, so he coughs to clear it. “I’m fine. Just-uhm-it’s been a minute. Memories. I haven’t stepped foot in a studio for a while.”

“You must have loved it. Taking pictures of people,” when he tilts his head and tries to make sense of your words, you smile and let go of his shoulder. “You wouldn’t have had such a visceral reaction if you didn’t love it. I’m a firm believer that the things we love never leave us. So you’ll find that spark again. I believe in you.”

When the shoot starts, Yoongi moves around, trying to remember what it was like to work with other people other than him, what it’s like to capture the soul of a human being through a split second. But his mind is still standing where you left him, trying to digest your words to the tune of shutter sounds and someone else’s voice. 

All throughout the shoot, he wants to puke, wants to unclog the memories that won’t drain and be forgotten. But they keep playing—over and over and over—and refuse to stop. He talks to Vante in a daze, but he’s unable to wake up from the voice that he hears over and over again—you’ll find that spark again, Yoongi. I believe in you—until your voice cuts through the fog. 

“Wait!” he grabs your wrist, and quickly lets go when you turn back, eyes wide. “Wait. i-uhm-have an exhibition and I was wondering if you would be interested. In being the subject.”

“I’m flattered, but-” you pause and bit your lip, eyebrows furrowed, and there’s that feeling again, the click of a puzzle piece falling into place: everything feels all too familiar and foreign at once, like a dream he knew long ago, a photograph he’s taken and forgotten about. Jamais vu and deja vu all at once.  

It’s stupid, he knows. But there’s something about you that he doesn’t know how to let go. He’s not sure he’s ready to let go. 

“What’s your exhibit on?”

“Love.” He takes a sharp breath in. The word feels a sucker punch to the gut, like touching a wound that hasn’t healed. “What it means to fall in love.”

He knows his face gives away more than he wants to, but you don’t press him for answers. You continue to smile and ask him other questions about his photography instead, but something about the way you pretend like everything is fine reminds him of him, and everything hurts more. He answers the questions, tries to see you instead of his outline over yours, but still sees him in the way your eyes smile, in the sharp raise of your brows, and the quick way you navigate his defenses and gives him his space. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready for an exhibit.”

“I don’t think we ever know if we’re ready for anything,” you smile, and he feels nauseous again, like something is trying to crawl out of him. He hears the voices in his head crash over him like a wave, drowning out the sounds of everything and everyone else. 

How do you know you’re ready? He hears his voice wobble from the weight of his sorrow, quiver from the pressure of composure. He can’t meet his eyes. 

“I don’t think we’re ever ready for anything, Yoongi. But we don’t know until we try.”

“But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?”

“Right,” he repeats soullessly. (He wasn’t ready then. He doesn’t know if he’s ready now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to move on.)

“So I’ll do it.”

Yoongi snaps out of his reverie at your words, blinks away the fog. “Pardon?”

“I’ll do it. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this,” you purse your lips. “I do have a favour to ask though.” 

“What is it?”

The smile that spreads over your face, slow and cheshire, makes him grip his camera tighter. “How do you feel about going to a party?”

[Are You In Love.JPEG]

[alt image. Nighttime. A girl in a white dress on a rooftop with skyscrapers behind her. Her hair is blown back by the wind. Although her face is mostly turned away from the camera, there’s a hint of a smile on her face. Her eyes are closed as she spins around, dress billowing around her. The ends of the dress are unseen because the photograph cuts off at what would be her knees to show the cityline behind her. The skyscrapers are out of focus, blurry, so the girl is highlighted. Despite the lights in the background and the moon in the corner, she is the brightest piece in the photograph.]

Yoongi has never been a fan of parties or crowds. He doesn’t like the rush of people, of bodies pressed against each other as they slide across the floor; he hates how the lights are too dim and too bright. It’s too loud, bass amplifying his insecurities and dampening his social skills. 

Even at this gala, stuffed with people with important positions and famous titles, where the music is moderately loud and the tables are posh with red velvet tablecloths, Yoongi feels out of place. His glass flute feels awkward in his hand, tie a little too tight no matter how much he pulls it down. He knows he doesn’t belong here (or there or anywhere. It was always him who belonged and Yoongi who followed): security had stopped him before he entered telling him “paparazzi not allowed,” and gave him a once over when he fished out the invitation from his pocket, hesitantly letting him enter the venue and side-eyeing him the entire time. Minutes tick by, and there’s only so many hors d'oeuvres s he can devour, so he pulls out his phone to send you a text of rushed excuses (i have food poisoning. My pipes burst. My car broke down?) and hasty apologies. Just as he manages to get halfway to the exit, squeezing in between crowds, he sees you. 

A smile dawns over your face, and all his insecurities melt into the background. “I’ve been looking all over for you”

He points towards the buffet at the back. “They have good crab puffs.” 

You laugh at that, and he feels his cheeks stretch into a smile. The silence that hangs over the two of you now feels comfortable, like the world is dimming down to highlight you both, and Yoongi takes the moment to watch your eyes sparkle under the crystal chandeliers twinkling above you. You look at him, quirk an eyebrow and nod towards the exit. “Want to get out of here?” 

“Yes please.” 

You grab his hand, lace your fingers with his, and pull him up the stairs to the roof, letting go to run to the edge. He feels where your palm was in his, the loss of your warmth, and wants to reach back out to you. 

“How pretty.” The wind is cold, sinking teeth through skin and tearing through hair, but you cross your arms and fight back, planted firmly where you are to look at the view beneath you: small glimpses at people living their lives. 

Yoongi can’t take his eyes off of you. “Yeah. Pretty.”

“I like coming to the rooftops at parties. Sometimes, when the world is too loud and too much, I go up to the rooftop and I just stand here. ” your teeth chatter, and Yoongi rushes to take off his coat and drape it over your shoulders. Your fingers brush against his and something about you, he realises, feels like a fever dream: hot, hazy, and electric, even in the bitter chill of the winter winds. “I come up to the rooftop and I just look at people living their lives and wonder what I would be doing if I wasn’t here.”

Something about the way you look, empty and hollow, carves a hole in Yoongi’s chest. His fingers itch to reach for the shutter, bring it back to his eye and catch you in his view, but he fiddles with the camera strap around his neck instead. “What does it feel like? Being at the top?” 

What does it feel like? To be at the top? Yoongi writes and deletes over and over and over again. 

Your laughter sounds as bitter as the wind, but your smile is still fixed in place when you turn your body to meet his. “Like a rollercoaster. Only it’s going backwards as it goes up, so I can see the floor, see the bottom. I am always aware of how far I have to fall. I see the damage before it’s done, so I am always anticipating the drop.” 

Your shoulders sag, his jacket slipping down, and Yoongi, for a moment, thinks he sees stars glimmering in your eyes, catching the light of the city and threatening to fall. But when he blinks, all traces of it are gone and you’re back to the girl in the ballroom, smile shy and coy and knowing. 

“So what about you, photographer? What does it feel like to be in love?” 

His brows furrow and there’s a flush of heat blooming on his cheeks. His heart beats a little faster, staccato against his ribcage, like it’s trying to outrun the shame of being discovered. He’s not sure how you know, so all he can do is stutter. “I don’t-I mean-”

You raise your eyebrow, quirk your head to the side. “Isn’t that your exhibit theme? Explorations of love?”

“Oh,” before he can stop it, a film strip of memories starts playing through his head, snapshots of a relationship shelved in the back of his closet. It’s a slow slide show that sticks to his throat with every image, printed and smudged into the corners of his thoughts. He feels the corset of his ribcage tighten until he’s breathless, so he looks everywhere. Everywhere but you. “I don’t really know what love is supposed to feel like anymore.”

When your hand gently presses against his chest, Yoongi’s eyes widen, feet gently fumbling backwards from the chill of your fingers. “Does it hurt here?”

“What?”

“Are you heartbroken?” 

The words fall off your lips casually, like you were asking him how he took his coffee (no sugar, no cream) or how he liked his steak, and not plunging into his insecurities the way the cold of your fingers sink into his skin. The two of you blink in silence as Yoongi struggles to find the words. Everything feels wrong, his tongue twisting and falling to form the correct sounds—

“Stop thinking about it. Feel it here.” you press a little harder against his chest, “Are you heartbroken?” 

(Empty coffee cups, songs unfinished, laughter in the walls that he’s unable to scrub off. Yoongi remembers all of it.)

“Yeah.” it’s quiet, his voice stuck in his chest, but he sees the corners of your eyes soften and knows you hear his honesty over the howling wind. “I am.”

You retract your hand and hug his coat a little closer. “I don’t think there’s just one form of love, just as I don’t think there’s just one way to love someone. We love differently, and we love different people differently. Heartbrokenness is just another form of love. Just because they’re not there doesn’t change the way you love them or the fact that you love them. It just means all the love you have to give is still sitting here,” you bring your hand back to his chest, cover his heartbeat, “with no place to go. Isn’t that love?”

Isn’t that love? Seokjin asks him, sitting in the corner of Yoongi’s room. The sun casts a golden glow over his skin, kisses his dimples, and Yoongi swears Seokjin has always been more ethereal than mortal. “You take photos and bring me food when I forget to leave my desk because that’s what you know how to do. I write you songs and love letters because that’s what I know how to do. We say I love you in different ways, but does that make it any less love?

“I guess it doesn’t make it any less love.” 

You look his way and laugh, brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, and nothing in the sky can compare: not the moon, nor the comets, nor the galaxies. You laugh, and Yoongi hears the sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. He fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the image through the lens doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice. 

But he tries anyway. He presses down on the shutter and tries to stuff your laughter into a freeze frame, even though he knows it won’t compare. 

It could never. 

[____Struck.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl sits with her chin over her knees next to a floor length window as a rainstorm blurs the background into hazy lights. The lighting is dark, but there’s a flash of lightning outside as it lights up the girl’s face. She stares outside her window, at the sky, deep in contemplation.]

Yoongi finds that Seoul sparkles when you’re next to him. Even the bitter winter winds that blow through his parka can’t steal the warmth of your hand in his when the two of you walk through the streets. The two of you start to spend more time together, getting food and eating in your apartment and taking pictures of nature. You’ll have glasses and a cap and a mask on, and there’ll be more of you he can’t see than he can, and still he finds you to be the brightest star in the night sky. But he likes you best like this: dressed with a smile and his t-shirt, face free of the traces of your day, in bed with him. He’s not sure when he’s found himself to be at home in your place, but he finds himself there instead of his studio apartment. Outside the window of your penthouse apartment, he can see the Seoul skyline and skyscrapers: if he looks down, he can see smudges of people walking through the streets, living about their daily lives. 

Sometimes, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find you sitting on the floor, against the floor length window, looking at the world below you. 

“Come back to bed,” he’ll murmur, sleep still fogging his vision, and you’ll smile, set your tea on the nightstand, and wrap your arms around him as he pulls you closer to him until the andante of your heartbeats lull him to sleep. 

Tonight, however, your head is leaned up against the glass, watching as the rain pours down, and there’s something about the moment that makes Yoongi reach for the camera to take a quick shot. He knows the lighting is off and the shadows are dark, but something about the way you’ve tucked your knees under your chin and folded in on yourself makes you seem so small, so different from the girl he sees on the billboards and magazine covers and television shows. 

You turn around when the flash goes off. “I didn’t know you were awake.” 

“The thunder,” he explains, just as another flash of light strikes through the sky. You hum, but don’t move towards him: this time, you look back out the window. He’s tempted to wait for the lightning to strike again so he could have the shot of your face illuminated in light, but the image through his viewfinder looks so different from what he’s used to, so he takes the camera with him and sits down across from you. He leans his face against the cool of the glass.

“Hey,” you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He sees the shadows under your eyes, the build up from over night shoots, and it tugs his heart. There’s something beautiful about you like this, in the normalcy. 

“Hey,” the two of you sit in the silence for a minute. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Another flash of lightning, then a roll of thunder. “Just thinking about how many people are out there, just living their lives. I wonder if they all know me, if they have an opinion of me, if they’ve seen me act. I wonder who I am to them, if I am anybody at all.”

“What do you mean?”

You pull your fingers away from the glass, but don’t look at him. “I feel as though I am always playing a character. So, I wonder what character they know me as. If they would be interested in knowing who I am.” 

His hand reaches out to yours, and he moves his body closer to yours, until your knees are knocking against his and your legs are entwined. “I’m interested.” 

Another flash. You smile, but it fades as quickly as the lightning does. “What about you? Anything on your mind? You seemed pretty distracted earlier.”

It’s Yoongi’s turn to not meet your eyes. There’s a slew of umbrellas below, a bunch of colourful blobs against the pavement. (Seokjin liked the rain. Do you like the rain? He’s not sure.) 

“It’s nothing.” He can’t meet your eyes. 

“Is it hard to let them go? The one who broke your heart?”

Yoongi hears the way your voice softens, the way it carries through the room gently, the same way you asked him if he was heartbroken up on the roof weeks ago. You’re always a little more perceptive then he gives you credit for, a little too good at reading in between the lines. He lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah he is. I still think about him sometimes. Sometimes, I still hear his voice in my head.” 

He feels your gaze on him, but neither of you say anything for a while. 

He knows you have a busy day tomorrow, jam packed with schedules and meetings and shoots and bits of sleep in between. (Not that your days are ever not busy. You’re always running from here to there, a blur of motion in the screenshots of his memories.) But the two of you just look out the window, at the storm that refuses to quell, and listen to the rain fall. 

He wakes up next to the lingering warmth of your body heat, your shampoo still clinging to the pillows and sheets. There’s not much to do today, so he takes his time getting ready to go back to his apartment and edit. Just as he’s putting his toothbrush into your toothbrush holder, his phone starts to vibrate.

Before he’s even said hello, Hoseok’s voice cuts through the phone. “How’s your exhibit coming along?” 

“Good morning, Hoseok. How was your sleep? Mine was lovely, thank you for asking.” 

There’s a sigh that comes through the phone. “I slept great. So how’s your exhibit?”

“It’s coming along.”

“Word on the street is that you’re getting close to Y/N.”

He catches a look at himself from the entrance mirror and is glad Hoseok can’t see him right now. There’s a small constellation on the dip of his collarbone from a couple nights ago. “We’re working together on the exhibit, yeah.”

“Yoongi, I’m serious. I’m glad that you’re editing and taking photos; I really am. I just think—if you are more than just coworkers—you should take it slow. You remember what happened last time-”

“It’s not like that this time Hoseok.”

“I know. But it’s happened before. You always fall too hard, too fast and then you don’t know how to dig yourself out of the hole when it’s over. “

Yoongi gently shuts the door behind him, shoves his free hand into his coat pocket. “When do I need to send you the pictures?” 

Another sigh. This one is heavier than the other. “Next Friday.”

“Alright. I’ll see you then.”

“Just take care of yourself, Yoongi.”

“I know,” there’s a hum from the other end before he presses end call. “Trust me, I know.” 

[Love Looks Pretty On You.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl turning around to smile at the camera as she holds the hand of the photographer. There’s a lens flare at the upper left corner of the picture. She glows as she smiles, sunlight hitting her cheekbones. The picture is a bust shot, and though the girl is in the centre of frame, she is slightly out of focus: the photo is mainly focused on the interlocked hands due to the depth of field.]

It’s strange how in love you are with the mundane. You like coffeeshop dates, holding hands in public, and the ability to walk down the streets without covering up your face, things Yoongi has never thought twice about. He prefers time spent in doors, tucked away with food and natural lighting. But you prefer the outdoors, the sun on your face, even if it isn’t the great outdoors. No, you like pavement and parks and everything in between if it means you don’t have to cover up. 

“I’ve never really had that,” you told him once, mouth stuffed with street food. “I’ve always been conscious of the way people look at me, how they’re going to view me, and the eyes. I’m always aware of people’s eyes on me. Growing up in the spotlight, working in this industry for so long meant I don’t get to have the normal things in life.”

So he tries to take you out more, though more often than not, it ends with the two of you running away from shadows and bright lights. More often than not, the two of you find your way to his or your apartment, tucked away from the eyes of everyone else with take out spread across the floor. He dreads the moment you pull your hands away from him, when the hands on the clock move too quickly for his taste. Tonight, however, he has you all to himself. 

So, he takes his time: delicately arranges the bouquet of purple across your chest and up your thighs, gently plucks your moans from your lips, and plants kisses on the field of your shoulder blades when the bloom of pleasure becomes too much. 

Your chest gently rises and falls under the white sheet, while his heart rapidly flutters inside his ribcage. Before he knows it, his fingers are on camera, trying to immortalise the moment before time takes it away from him too. 

When the shutter goes off, you bring your hand to his, pull his body to yours, and nuzzle your face in his shoulder. “So.”

“So?”

“Exhibition soon. Have you figured it out?” You pull back and trace your finger along the constellation you drew on to his chest. “What it feels like to fall in love?” 

He’s not sure. It feels fast: time seems to slip through his fingers when he’s with you. It feels slow: every moment is a picture frame, a freeze frame of a small infinity. It feels quiet: neither of you are loud, reveling in the silence and the quiet, sharing the same breath. It feels loud: you smile and he hears the sirens go off, ringing his mind until it’s drowned out by the pounding in his chest. I don’t know. It just feels different with you, he wants to say, but it sounds stupid in his head. It’s similar to how he felt like with Seokjin, but brighter, a saturation of colours and experiences. 

“Feels like you,” he tugs you closer. 

His brows furrow when you reach away from him, and he tries to pull you back: he reaches for your hand, but you slip away from him with a small smile. “Tea. I’ll be back.” 

He hears the pitter patter of your footsteps as you walk into the hallway, and he waits for you to come back. He waits and waits, until his eyelids grow too heavy.

When he blinks again, the light is shining through your curtains. The blanket is tucked under his chin, but the bed is empty. He rolls over, but it’s cold. 

The pillow doesn’t smell like you.

[Apparition.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A picture of someone’s eyes. The eyes are staring directly into the lens. One eye is lighter than the other, due to the angle of the sunlight. Although they are in the center of frame, the face is turned slightly to the side, as though they turned around for this picture.]

It gets harder and harder to meet you through the interstices of your schedule: you text him less and less, and he finds himself trying to find every possible reason to see you. 

Did you eat? 

Are you free anytime soon?

I miss you.

Every short text finds an even shorter response, crammed between short breaks. He spends more time fiddling with his phone, shooting up at the glow of his screen, than he does with his camera. His camera sits on his nightstand, untouched for the past few days: every time he tries to take a picture, all he can see is you. You laughing at dumb cat videos he sends you. You squealing in delight as the unpredictable Seoul weather brings rainfall. You leaning your head against the glass, lost in thought. 

He sees you in unfinished pizza boxes and unfinished netflix shows and half empty mugs strewn around. He finds you in everything. So when you show up at his doorstep, pizza box in hand and hat over your head, he almost dismisses you as an apparition. 

You stick your foot in his doorway to stop him from shutting the door. “You’re not kicking me out so soon? Not when I brought pizza?” 

He takes the pizza box from you, still a little unsure if you’re real, but then you call his name.

“Hi Yoongi,” you smile, and it’s so much prettier than he remembers. He knows you’ve had a long day—eyes glazed, shoulders drooping, smile falling—and something about the way you’re trying to hold your smile makes a corner of his chest squeeze tighter, until it hurts to breathe. He’s not sure what to say, not sure how to move past the breathlessness, so the two of you wordlessly chew on your pizzas. 

When the tension grows thick, the silence hard to breathe through, the clump of feelings in the pit of his stomach feels harder to hold on to, so he blurts out, “I love you.” 

His confession rings through the room, echoes in the silence, and crashes against your chest. Though neither of you say anything, he continues to hear the ripples in his head, his voice repeating over and over again. You don’t look at him, and his leg won’t stop bouncing, his hands won’t stop fidgeting with the camera settings. 

“I love you,” he says once more, just in case you didn’t hear it. He hopes your silence is because you didn’t hear it the first time. He knows better, from the way you bite your lip (your nervous habit) to the way you shrink into yourself (another tick he’s noticed). 

“I should leave. I have an early shoot tomorrow.” you stand. The smile plastered on your face makes him want to hurl, too reminiscent of your first meeting when you held him at an arm’s distance. When Seokjin held him at an arm’s distance, right before he told Yoongi I don’t think I’m the person you’re in love with. I don’t think this is going to work out. When Seokjin smiled and told him I’m sorry but wasn’t sorry enough to answer the phone when Yoongi’s heart was bloody and broken and drenched in alcohol. 

“But I love you,” it’s quiet and hoarse this time, and Yoongi doesn’t know if you can hear it over the sound of his heart breaking, but you turn around. The smile on your face—brilliant and dazzling and empty—burns something in him, the hollowness of his chest suddenly swelling with rage.“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“That,” Yoongi motions to you, brows furrowed and anger coating his tongue. “Stop looking at me like I'm a screenplay and a set, like you’re trying to read me and understand what I want. I don’t want anything from you.”

“That’s ridiculous. Everyone wants something.”

“Fine. I want you to be you. not what looks best on screen, not what you think I want you to be. But you. I want you to be you.”

“What’s that supposed to be like? Being me?” the anger lacing your voice, the way your smile drops quickly off your face, makes Yoongi’s anger fizzle out into a cold chill. “You don’t realise how biased the camera is, how you’re seeing the picture the way you want to, the way you want to frame things? Tell me you look at me and you don’t see what could be changed. that you don’t see how you would adjust the exposure, how to narrow or widen the depth of field.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, mouth glued shut and sticking together with shame. There’s a heat licking up his neck to his cheeks that burns through his skin and into his chest that only grows hotter when you continue. 

“My job is to give people what they want, squeeze myself into a character and a script. Become a fantasy they can project on. I’ve spent my entire life being different people and fitting myself into the role they want me to play. I don't exist, Yoongi. I only exist between action and cut. I am constantly in some form of a take. I am constantly shooting different movies for different people, being the different characters they want me to be. You want something from me too, Yoongi. Don’t you get it?”

He forces himself to look up at you. 

“Did you like me for me, Yoongi?” You tilt your head, eyes tired. “Or did you like me because something about me reminded you of your ex?”

Yoongi recoils, hurt spilling out of his veins. He opens and closes his mouth, but nothing falls out. Instead, it’s another roll of memories that plays through his head. 

I think we should break up, Seokjin tells him and Yoongi drops his fork. When you look at me, it feels like you’re seeing someone else, a version of me that exists only in your head. 

Who are you seeing when you take a picture, Yoongi? 

Who am I to you? 

What do you see through the lenses?  

When you smile this time, it’s more of a grimace, like his silence gives you an answer. Your eyes fall to the floor, shoulders trembling as you laugh humorlessly, and you start to leave.

Yoongi tries to say something—anything, the correct thing—and frantically pulls at his brain. “But I love you.”

That makes you stop. You stay at the doorstep, hand gripping the doorknob, but don’t turn to face him. He waits for you to say something, anything, for you to turn around. But you don’t. 

You open the door and close it behind you, never looking back. 

He’s alone again. 

[Blank.JPEG]

[alt.image: A black square. Darkness. The absence of light. The shade of broken heart. Is it nothing or everything? Is it too much or too little?]

Everything about you is intentional, from the tilt in your head (precise and exact, calculated) to the gleam in your eyes. The way your lips curl as you smile. 

He wonders if his broken heart was also something written into the script, if he was playing the role of a character he never signed up for, if his broken heart was something you calculated from the very start, just like the angle of your head tilts and degrees of your smile. 

His camera suddenly feels all too heavy, too fragile, and too much like his heart. If he wasn’t a photographer, would he have met you? In another world, would he have seen you through the view of his camera, just a subject and nothing else? No coffee dates and rooftop talks, no heartbreaks? He grips his camera tighter, and a flare of anger rushes through him, filtering every other thought and piercing through his vision. When he blinks and the lights settle, there’s a dull sense of pain near his foot and a dent in the wall. 

There’s shards of broken lenses on the floor, but he shuffles back to bed, sob clawing at his throat. 

Maybe you were like a film camera, brilliant and beautiful at first glance. Until the film is dipped into chemistry and developed and the errors are hung out to dry. 

So why does it hurt so much? 

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he doesn’t contemplate answering when his fingers make contact with his phone, pressing the side button to shut it off. 

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name. Neither does Hoseok.

Instead Hoseok gently shuts the door after slipping off his shoes at the entrance. He makes his way over towards the bed, and Yoongi pulls the covers over his head. He waits for the tug, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a gentle dip to the side of him when Hoseok takes a seat, silent. 

They sit like that for a while, Yoongi gently breathing—up and down, up and down—with a chest that feels broken and a heart that rattles inside his ribcage. He still feels the hum of alcohol in his system, sloshing in his lungs as they rise and fall.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” Hoseok’s voice vibrates through the silence. “I’m sorry you were hurt. But you can’t keep yourself holed up.”

Yoongi shifts under the blankets, but doesn’t say anything. He wonders if sleep would drag him under if he pretended long enough. His head is throbbing, and he wants another drink, but he knows Hoseok won’t let him while he’s still here. He knows because the last time he was heartbroken, he shut himself inside his apartment for two months until he was more alcohol than water. He stopped going out, stopped answering phone calls, stopped taking pictures because everything reminded him of Seokjin. 

Now that his camera is broken, he can’t be reminded of you. He drinks up until he can forget, until the film of memories is damaged, so he can fall asleep. When he wakes up and he remembers you still, he drinks up again to forget, shot after shot after shot. He doesn’t want to remember. 

“I called RKive. Told them you weren’t doing it.”

“Okay,” he whispers. Yoongi’s so tired and his head hurts, and he just wants to get this over with as quickly as he can so Hoseok can leave and Yoongi can pour out his sorrows into a shot glass that never seems to run dry. 

I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this. 

He wishes he could stop hearing your voice in his head, stop seeing you in every corner of his room, stop smelling your perfume on his sheets. He just wants to go to sleep, dream in black. Stop remembering you. 

“I’m sorry, Yoongi.”

“Okay,” he whispers. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Are you heartbroken?

“Yeah,” the tears fall and his shoulders shake when he sobs. “Yeah, I think I’m heartbroken.”

“Oh Yoongi,” Hoseok hugs him close, and Yoongi lets out the wail that’s been stuck in his chest the past week. For the first time, he wants to let go instead of take in, so he weeps into Hoseok’s chest, until his throat is dry from the sounds it’s making. His body trembles from the stuttering in his chest and the remnants of his sobs. 

“I just want to stop hurting,” he hiccups into Hoseok’s shoulder as Hoseok gently pats him on the back. 

“I know. I know.”

“How do I stop hurting?”

Hoseok gently peels himself away from Yoongi until he’s looking at him directly in the eyes. “You have to learn to find closure. Whether that’s talking to her, making art, or just going about your routines until it doesn’t hurt anymore. You have to try.”

“What if I’m not ready to move on?”

I don’t think we’re ever ready. But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?

“Moving on isn’t a step; it’s a goal, Yoongi,” Hoseok squeezes his hands. “You can work towards it. But it’s a conscious choice we make and conscious steps we take. And when you make those steps, it gets easier to breathe and visit places you used to. And one day, you’ll look around and realise that you’ve done it. Maybe not completely, but enough. But you can’t just hole yourself up in your apartment or flee the country. You have to try.”

Hoseok’s eyes are soft when Yoongi looks at him, and Yoongi understands that he’s never allowed himself to move on from Seokjin, just slapped a bandaid over his wound and pretended it didn’t exist. When he met you, he used you as a gauze to staunch the injury and called it healing. He didn’t notice that he bled all over you, didn’t see that you were bleeding over the red of his blood on your wounds. You were trying to tell him you were hurting, and he was too fixated on how similar you were to Seokjin, how he found love again, to hear. 

“Hoseok,” Yoongi reaches out for his arm, squeezes his hand. “I want to do it.”

“Do what?”

“The exhibit,” his voice is muffled under his insecurities, but he wants this. “I want to do it.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he lies. “I think I need to do it. For me. To move on.” He’s not sure if he’s ready; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready. So he takes the step anyways. 

Yoongi knows Hoseok is thrilled: he hasn’t stopped smiling since before the exhibition, when there was a crowd of people outside waiting to enter the exhibition, and even before that, when Yoongi was collecting the photos and taking more. Yoongi’s worked tirelessly through the nights to meet the Valentine’s Day exhibit deadline, but now that he’s here, he’s a little proud of himself. 

He should find Hoseok, tell him thank you. He should also talk to Namjoon, the owner, and congratulate Jimin, Namjoon’s assistant, on a successful exhibition. He should talk to Jeongguk, the painter, about the rose installation piece that’s at the centre of the gallery. He should talk to Vante about the giant photograph of a bird’s eye view of Seoul. He should, but he’s looking for you. 

You were the only guest he wanted to invite, even when Hoseok raised an eyebrow at him and asked him if he really wanted to do this. (He did. He texted you over the course of two weeks and deleted each message before it was sent. In the end, he sent you his heart the old fashioned way, with stamps and an envelope, and sealed it with the hope that you’ll receive it in time.) He doesn’t think you’ll come, so he tampers down the anticipation, tries to not look for your laughter or hear the way your eyes form crescents when you smile too hard. Despite the invitation, he doesn’t know if he’s ready to see you again, so he tries to keep himself busy and talk to the visitors about the pictures. He tries to not think about you. 

But it’s hard when you’re all he has up for his exhibit, when your face is at every corner. When you’re all he’s been able to think about. 

And as it slowly starts to get closer to the close, he tries to not be disappointed. He puts on a smile and asks Jeongguk about the sun and moon holding hands, discusses lighting techniques with Vante, and manages to make Jimin beam with pride when he compliments him about how nice the exhibit set up is. 

When the clock strikes 5, Yoongi packs up his camera and tucks it into his bag with his disappointment and begins to head out. 

“Take care, Jimin.”

“Bye, Yoongi!” Jimin chirps. “By the way! There’s a lady in front of your exhibit. I think she was captivated by it; she’s been standing there for the past half hour if you want to talk to her!”

A very familiar silhouette greets him. 

“I didn’t think you’d come.” 

You don’t turn around to face him, just stand there looking up at the picture of you smiling at the camera with the covers pulled up to your chin. He hears the people in the background, the faint hum of murmurs and laughters, but you stand there, quiet and arms crossed. He takes a step towards you before shuffling back to his original spot, shifting his eyes to the portraits before him. 

At first glance, you are the same girl in the portraits, but the longer he looks at the portraits, at you from the peripherals in his vision, the less the two of you look alike. The girl in the photographs is soft and bright and sunny, draped in warm light and colour corrections, saturated in happiness. The girl in front of him is worn down and exhausted, cloaked in disguises and fronts that she doesn’t have the strength to put on properly. “I remember this day, but I don’t remember it like that.” You nod towards the picture in front of you. 

“What’s it like? In your memories?” he asks, and wants to take it back. There’s too many questions bubbling inside of him—Did you love me? Do you remember how I smiled when you did? What do your frames of memory look like? Do they look like mine, painted in a golden filter?—but he doesn’t know how to develop them into words. He’s not sure he wants to compare the photographs of your memories in the fear it’ll corrupt his. 

You’re radio silent, so he stands there, shuffling his feet back and forth as his heart drops with each second. He understands what you meant, back at the rooftop, when you had said about riding a rollercoaster: he sees the answer to your question before you’ve spoken, sees the damage he’s caused through the lens of hindsight. Yet some part of him still wants to hear the words from you. 

“I don’t remember a lot of it. I remember it was going well. And then I just remember the hurt. I remember realising you saw someone else when you looked at me, just like everyone else. How I wished I could take back everything from the beginning. I wished I could take back the first time I met you. What would it have been like if I had said no? Would it still hurt?”

“I’m sorry,” his hand reaches out for you automatically, too used to the warmth of your body and the lull of your heartbeat to alleviate the stiffness in his chest, but he pulls his hand back as he realises there is too much space between the two of you: he’s not sure if you want to shorten the distance, if you want him at all. 

“Why did you say yes?” he asks instead of what he really wants to ask. “To this. To being the subject. You could have said no.”

“I could have.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because you seemed genuine.You looked like you were genuinely looking for a reason—for something, for anything, for purpose—and I liked that. I haven’t met a lot of people like that. Genuine. Earnest.” Your body turns to him, but your gaze is still brushing against the floor and clinging to your hands. “I think a part of me wanted, desperately, to be the source of your purpose. So I let myself believe that you genuinely wanted me for me.” 

“I think I loved you.”

“I think the both of us were looking for someone to love,” the corners of your mouth wobble, a pale imitation of the blown up picture of your smile on the wall. “Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. Because we were blinded by our desperation.” 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. The way you look—so curled up in yourself and so vulnerable—slowly makes him realise there’s so much to you he wasn’t able to see. Were there more moments you tried to open up to him, only to have him turn a blind eye because he was still thinking about Seokjin?

“I wish I had met you later. Maybe in a different universe, you and I have a different story line, one where when you and I meet, I have learned to accept love and you have learned to accept heartbreak. Maybe we would have been ready for each other then.” Your smile wobbles, just as it did last time, and Yoongi’s heart wobbles too. When you start to walk away, he tastes the bitterness of his memories surfacing. 

“Wait!” he reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezes it a little too tight. When you turn, eyes wide, it feels like a scene he’s seen somewhere before, a picture he used to know. “We could. We could start over. We could make that universe this one.” 

“I don’t-I’m not following.” 

He drops your hand and offers you his. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Yoongi.”

“Yoongi, I’m not-”

“What’s your name?” 

“Y/N,” you tentatively take his hand and shake it. 

“It’s nice to meet you for the first time. This is my exhibit,” you smile, head tilted in confusion, but the light in your eyes is warm, so he keeps going,” and I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee? 

You bite your lip, but don’t let his hand go. He tries to keep his smile on his face, but his heart is beating with the force of a supernova and he feels his nails cut through the skin of his anticipation. When you look down at his hand, he knows you can feel the tremors that run through it, the electricity of anxiety crackling through his veins, but he keeps his eyes on you and the way your eyes search his for clues, for cues and stage directions. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” you smile, and it feels like the first time he’s seeing you. 

He’s not sure, this time, of the damage: he’s not sure he can anticipate the fall, the wreckage caused. Doesn’t know if he wants to. 

It’s a brand new film strip. A new camera. A new storyline. 

He’s never been more ready. 

[liladiurne]

Brighter Than Bright - extract from chapter 13

So, as promised, here is a little bit from chapter 13. The writing is slower than anticipated, as I haven’t been feeling very well these past few days, but hopefully I’ll pick up the pace soon. This is the opening of the chapter, and probably the less spoiler-y bit I’ll be able to isolate to share here. Some things might change, as I tend to add stuff here and there in my final draft. But hopefully, it will satisfy your curiosity for now, and give you a general idea what will happen this chapter. 

EXTRACT FROM CHAPTER 13

For the last year or so, ever since Ron’s departure for London after the others, most of Harry’s life has been spent trapped in endless monotony. Time in Hogsmeade has the tendency to drag by sluggishly, the days succeeding each other with little differences between them, and apart from the occasional letter or book, Harry generally does not have much to look forward to. All the commotion caused by Mr Longbottom’s arrival was quite an unusual occurrence, a truly peculiar distraction from the peaceful, mundane life of the town. Following the young man’s departure and that of his unfortunate company, Harry fully expected that the monotony he knows so well would simply recommence, perhaps worsened this time by Ginny’s absence. Of late, however, he has had very little occasion to feel lonesome. Charlie’s presence, it seems, has the ability to hasten the passage of time.

October soon rushes by, colouring the trees bright red and golden before divesting them of their leaves altogether, and settling on the air a chill that grows more permanent each day. Charlie takes Harry riding as often as possible, to their mother’s absolute dismay and utmost displeasure at the constant, unpredictable borrowing of the horses. They take to regularly visiting the surrounding towns or wandering the countryside with no true destination in mind, often settling near the lake for hours when the weather is kind. Harry sometimes takes a book and reads it aloud to Charlie while his brother, who often carries his drawing supplies, drafts pictures of the scenery, of the swans, of the horses, or of Harry himself. Whenever presented with the finished portrait, Harry always frowns and insists that the handsome young man on the page looks nothing like him, accusing Charlie of taking artistic liberties, but his brother only smiles softly and shakes his head.

Yet another blessing brought about by Charlie’s presence is that Mrs Weasley is so often engrossed in nagging him that she rarely bothers with Harry anymore. The war is over now, she will insist nearly every day, and is it not well past time for Charlie to find himself a spouse? Whenever confronted with this sort of statement, Charlie simply tells her that he is in no hurry to marry and that she should not worry about him at all. Such assurances, however, are not enough to convince her, and she often persists for the whole duration of breakfast or supper. Would he not prefer spending the day in the company of a beautiful young lady rather than gallivanting through the wilderness with his little brother? Absolutely not, Charlie will respond resolutely with a grin in Harry’s direction. But then again, Mrs Weasley will often reiterate moodily, stabbing at any piece of food that happens to be on her plate at the time, what young lady would have him in this state? If he had only shaved that horrible beard when she first told him to, he would surely be engaged by now!

Indeed, since Charlie’s return, Harry’s life has been so filled with distractions that by the time October ends, he has nearly managed to forget the unforgettable, to forget what November will bring. And then one evening, he finds himself unexplainably queasy and exhausted as they settle for supper. There is no possible reason for this sudden fit of tiredness, as he has been forced to spend the whole day lazing about the house, his usual wanderings with his brother having been hindered by the heavy downpour outside, which threatened to turn into snow. And yet he struggles to keep his eyes open and to find any interest in the conversation or even the food. When he finally informs his parents that he is not feeling well and would retire to bed if they will allow it, he is taken aback by the gentle way his mother agrees and urges him to get some rest, and even more so by the way Charlie avoids his eyes as he leaves the dining room.

The notion is there in the back of his mind, waiting to be acknowledged, the simple explanation for both his sorry state and his family’s behaviour. But as he slips into bed with a satisfied sigh, Harry refuses to pay it any mind. He is so tired, and the blankets are warm and inviting. He wraps them around his body like a cocoon and his last thought before falling asleep is that this very place, his bed, his home, is truly the most wonderful place there is.

It is only in the morning, when he is awakened by a throbbing pain in his thighs and lower back, that Harry finally acknowledges what is happening. This pain is familiar and recognisable. Unique. And the time is right. Every ninety days or so, Dr Granger assured him. And indeed, it has been nearly three months to the day he found himself taken ill at Longbottom Manor. It is happening again.

Heat, a little voice drawls somewhat mockingly from the depths of his mind, and a sob manages to escape Harry’s throat, but he stifles it into his pillow.

From the daylight and the noises, he knows that it is considerably late already, but he has no desire to leave his bed. He grabs the blankets and pulls them over his head, engulfing himself in safe, comforting darkness. Perhaps it will not be so horrible this time, he tries to reassure himself. Dr Granger did say that the first heat is always worst, and it does seem like the pain is milder. But it has only just begun. No, it has not even truly begun. It started this way last time, with discomfort and soreness. But then it grew and grew until Harry felt he could not endure it any longer. The foul-tasting medicine helped somehow, but it never managed to make the whole of his suffering disappear. There was a pain that was bone-deep, originating from his very core, from a depth that he did not know he possessed before it began hurting. It was not only pain, it was longing. It was a vacant space, a chasm, raw and ripped open, begging to be filled, to be soothed. Remembering this pain now, curled up on himself under the blankets, Harry begins sobbing openly, begging it not to return.

[lencir]

( NADIA HILKER, 254, SHE/HER ) We opened the gates to the seelie court for GENEVIEVE LENOIR and we are curious to see how the VAMPIRE, that is often described as the tempest, will contribute to the new era ━ are they the hunter, or are they the prey? We will find our answers in due time and until then, we hope that they can keep their little secret from getting exposed. It could be dangerous if everyone knew what we know…

FULL NAME: genevieve lenoir

AGE: 25 (apparent), 254 (actual)

SPECIES: vampire

SEXUALITY: bisexual

BIRTH DATE: dec. 1, 1766

GENDER: cis female

PRONOUNS: she/her

HEIGHT: 5'8″

MBTI: entj, the commander

From what she can recall, Genevieve had an unremarkable childhood. Her father Henri, a French soldier, died from tuberculosis when she was twelve, and her mother, a German midwife named Syele, never remarried. She adored her brother, Félix — a boy nine years her minor with curls so much like her own. Together, they lived in an unassuming cottage in Château-Chalon, a small commune in Eastern France.

Her uncle, a hunter by trade, would visit often, feeding her love for the wilderness. From an early age, she was taught how to listen for animals, anticipate their movements, and, most importantly, shoot. By the time she was fourteen, she could easily outshoot her uncle with the beautiful red oak crossbow he’d made for her. She had the patience of an experienced hunter too, a valued asset when hunting season came around and the town required the thinning of rabbit populations. But, for Genevieve, there was more to life than killing.

It might surprise people to know that she wasn’t always the gruff, stoic figure she is today. She wanted to practice medicine with every fiber of her being and would often stay up at night practicing her stitches. Her mother would often call on Gen’s help, teaching her the skills necessary for a successful midwife. That all ended the night Syele uncharacteristically arranged for one of her patients to deliver in the Lenoir family home.

It was a difficult delivery for both mother and baby, and Syele sent Gen to fetch the village’s other midwife to aid in the delivery. She was only gone for a few minutes, having run the entire way, but she returned to a massacre. The front door had been kicked in, furniture overturned, and amongst the wreckage lay the drained bodies of the two people she loved the most. For years, there had been rumors of vampyre killings throughout Europe. Neighbors would return from travels claiming sightings and strange disappearances. It was out of curiosity-laced shock that she bothered to check… only to find small puncture wounds in the necks of each of the bodies.

Something broke in Genevieve that night. She gave herself the night to mourn and by sunrise, she abandoned her home with only a crossbow and the family’s stallion. Medicine was no longer an option.

She met her mortal end a year later at the hands of nomad clan who had caught her scent just outside of Écrille. They ambushed her horse, slipping a sack over her head and dragging her into the night. For four agonizing nights and five balmy days, Genevieve found herself locked in a cellar. The vampires’ sadistic goal was simple: to punish her. And they dealt the final blow in the form of dripping blood into a just barely conscious Genevieve’s mouth.

She tried to resist her thirst, fought against the temptation to drain the innocent they brought in to tempt her. It almost worked, until the opening of the door blew the fragrant scent she’d longed for into her nostrils.

When she awoke into her new life, the house was empty with only blood-splattered curtains to show for the temporary vampiric guests. Alone and forced to teach herself, Gen stole away to the mountains. She remained in isolation for five months, coming to grips with her newfound immortality while feeding solely on hunters who strayed too far from the village. The adjustment period was difficult and filled with bloodshed. Needless to say, her attackers didn’t survive her vigilante justice once she found them. Killing her sire was painful, but what he had taken from her was worse. She gave their followers a choice: die or join her.

The newly formed clan —named Lamoura for the lake where Gen spent her first months of vampirism— made its way through the French countryside with sights set on Paris. After all, 1792 was a great year to be a vampire, and the violence of the revolution blurred with her own reign of terror; no one had the time to notice all the missing people. She made a name for herself across Europe, becoming known as la femme sanguinaire des boucles.

Neutrality suited Gen best, so the Lamoura would never pick a side in any of the battles they joined. As a result, she attracted the most ruthless members of her kind and had no choice but to enforce order. Those were the bloodiest years, constant challenges of her authority driving her to take more lives than she would have liked. Her form of justice was strict but fair; loyalty was rewarded and betrayal of any sort was unacceptable. The ultimate betrayal being the killing of families. A husband at war? Fine. Following someone home to where they lived with their spouse and child? Banishment or worse. The latter became a less likely punishment as her reputation came to precede her.

The same is true today, which has made her stay at court… manageable. The years have certainly hardened Genevieve, shaping her into the blunt, battle-worn woman she is today. She’s indifferent to anyone she meets until proven otherwise, existing in a moral gray area. She can recognize that she has done things that others might deem distasteful but in the name of survival, who can judge?

Her sense of humor is sarcastic, her form imposing, and she generally does little to discredit assumptions made about her. She’s passionate about the causes she believes in and is willing to give anyone a chance — one chance.

It’s a misconception that she makes rash decisions, especially given her past. On the contrary, she carefully thinks through all of her moves. It’s key to how she’s been able to maintain leadership for over two centuries.

Restlessness is something that has never sat well with Gen, and it shows the longer she stays at court. Where once she was keen to bide her time, she is now coiled and ready to seize any opportunity to escape. She has always been sure in her aims, confident in her, at times, brutally selfish way of life. Like a poison seeping into her pores, the court is slowly starting to change that, and she wants out.

THE GREAT ESCAPE x someone who’s part of her clan – esp. a. someone she’s trying to recruit (she is careful about every aspect of her life, especially who she puts in her inner circle. now that she’s established, she doesn’t want any threats to her authority) b. someone who’s been in her clan for years (either a positive or begrudging relationship) ❛ This rage will lead us through the burning plains. No matter what they say, we're heroes. ❜

AIN’T NO REST FOR THE WICKED x someone with whom she crossed paths during her “bloody” period. she didn’t use much discretion at this time so anyone who knew her then l i k e l y would’ve perceived her as a strong cold bitch ❛ There ain't nothing in this world for free. Oh no, I can't slow down, I can't hold back. Though you know, I wish I could. ❜

VENUS x gen doesn’t have many longterm ties outside of those she believes can help her down the road. that said, this is someone she seriously considered changing her rule for. she has a heart??? ❛ At first I thought you were a constellation. I made a map of your stars, then I had a revelation. ❜

BANG BANG YOU’RE DEAD x she hates this person’s guts. do with it what you may, but this is someone who really makes her wish she was as vicious as the stories say. ❛ I knew all along but I was loathe to believe. There was nothing but spite, fury, and lies in the words that you weave. ❜

hey guys! i’m taylor and i’m super hype to write with all of you :) this is my sarcastic asshole gen –  feel free to like this and i’ll hit you up for plots

[jbbarnesnnoble]

Battle

Summary:  You see the way Bucky looks at her and decide to end things before you get your heart torn to shreds. 

Features:  Mild angst; Cameo appearances by America Chavez and Doreen Green

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader

Request: “Hope you can do an angsty fic for Bucky or Sebastian and Reader, where she gives him up because she feels that he's in love with someone else - a colleague perhaps. But a month after they separated, he realizes that his life is a living hell without her. “

Notes: This took me a bit. I unexpectedly moved back home on Sunday from Ireland. I packed up most of my things Friday and Saturday and flew home to the States on Sunday. If you have requests feel free to send them. I still have schoolwork to do, but I also need the distraction. 

Word Count: 1672

You caught the glances he shared with her. Saw the lunch she brought to him when you were going to see if he wanted to go grab a bite to eat. Anxiety and insecurity twisted in the pit of your stomach. You’d gone down this road before. You knew where it ended. You sat on the couch of the common area of the compound, staring at the television that was playing some Hallmark Channel movie you weren’t engrossed in. Your mind was wandering to what you knew you had to do. Bucky sat down beside you, putting an arm around your shoulder. You shrugged it off. You saw the look of confusion on his face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. You sighed. That was the million dollar question. Your eyes were watering.

“We need to break up,” you said, not turning to look at him. You were struggling to keep it together, to not fall to pieces over one of the hardest things you’d had to do. Sure, you could take down HYDRA operatives with no issue. But ending things with Bucky, that was uncharted waters you never saw yourself entering. He frowned.

“What?” he asked.

“I know where this ends, James. And it ends with me getting hurt. I asked for a transfer to the west coast. Might be temporary, might not be,” you said, managing to keep your voice steady, turning to face him.

“Doll,” he said, reaching up to cup your face. You flinched away. There was no denying the hurt on his face. 

“I see how she looks at you. I can’t go through that, again, Buck. As cliche as it is, if you love something, or someone, let them go,” you told him before standing up.

“Can we talk about this?” he asked, his voice raising. You shook your head. You had already packed a bag and a quinjet was waiting for you. It wasn’t the mature route, but you couldn’t let yourself fall to pieces again. Not after the last time you let someone in. You never wanted to hurt him. But if ending things before you lost him to someone else meant you could protect your heart in the long run, you would do what you needed. You stood up, grabbing the bag that you had set next to the couch. You didn’t look back as you walked away. 

And so began the care and keeping of you. You were doing your best to keep it together. When you spoke to Natasha, she avoided the subject. She checked in on you daily, worried about you and about how you were coping. You broke your own heart to keep someone else from breaking it. 

The first week had been hard. You opened and closed your texts with Bucky more times than you could count, doing your best to ignore the last message he sent, asking you to come home. Home. You felt like the compound could never be home again, not when he was your home. You wanted to believe it was a misunderstanding, that he hadn’t been pulling away and toward someone else, that it wasn’t your insecurity. 

Three weeks into your move to the west, your division was working with the team on a mission. You landed at the compound with two of the group you’d dubbed the babies, the teenagers who were part of the west coast initiative. America and Doreen. You saw the looks they gave Bucky as the three of you entered the room. She was with him. You felt your heart crack a little more. 

“Why are there children with you?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow. You just smirked.

“Trust me, Cap. This is America Chavez and Doreen Green. Miss America and Squirrel Girl,” you said.

“Squirrel Girl? What kind of name is Squirrel Girl?” Sam asked with a laugh. You and America shared a look before you heard Sam let out an “oof” as Doreen’s fist connected with his gut.

“Like I said. Trust me,” you said. You heard a high pitched laugh from the other room, your arrival going unnoticed by the pair. You just rolled your eyes. 

“A few days,” Nat said quietly when your group entered the conference room, answering your unasked questions. 

“I figured as much,” you told her. Bucky wasn’t part of this mission. Clint, Nat, Sam, and Steve were going with the three of you. Some alien tech had fallen into the wrong hands and once Captain Marvel arrived, the eight of you would be preparing to head out, anticipating at least a week if not more, of being on the mission. Once Carol arrived, Steve started the briefing.

“We don’t know who this group is. It’s not HYDRA. We’re flying blind and I don’t like it. We’ll recon the best that we can, try to get the advantage. We know they have alien tech, we don’t know what,” Steve said. 

“Whatever it is, it isn’t leftovers from the 2012 invasion. Chemical composition of the scraps we found didn’t match,” you said. The eight of you charted out a game plan over the next hour and a half. Steve wasn’t keen on the two youngest joining the mission, but you insisted. The two of you were left in the conference room as the others left, with the two girls talking excitedly with Nat who insisted on getting a training session in with them before the group of you left for the Canadian wilderness that night. 

“Trust me on this one, Cap. We need them. They both have superhuman strength. Doreen can jump several stories, America can literally kick through reality,” you said. Steve sighed.

“Why did you ask that Bucky not be on this mission?” he asked. You stared at him.

“Steve...you know things ended. And he seems happy with Emilia...Evelyn? Emma?” you asked.

“Emalyn. She invited herself up, by the way. She has access as Tony’s assistant. Buck’s just too nice to brush her off,” he said. You glared at him.

“Try that again with a little more honesty. Nat told me,” you said plainly. Steve sighed.

“He doesn’t like her. She’s convient. He misses you, you know. We all miss you. He still doesn’t understand why you walked away. Why did you leave?” he asked. You scoffed.

“He was clearly falling for her. I’d go ask if he wanted to grab lunch and she brought him lunch. I saw the looks they shared. I wasn’t about to get my heart broken again, Steve,” you said. He shook his head.

“He only accepted a date with her because he was miserable. He’s still miserable. I know him. He loves you. More than anything,” he said. 

“We’re done, Rogers. This conversation is over. We have work to do,” you said. 

What was meant to be a one week mission stretched into two and a half. You found the base of operations and made a plan, but one of the men you were chasing down managed to get the drop on you. THe next thing you saw were the bright white walls of the medical wing of the compound. You heard the movement of metal, the sound that Bucky’s arm made. But that couldn’t be right. Bucky and you had broken up. He wouldn’t be at your bedside. It took a couple minutes for your eyes to adjust enough to fully open. You saw Dr. Cho watching you and then you turned your head. Bucky was sat beside you, eyes bloodshot, whether from emotion or a lack of sleep you weren’t sure. There were deep, dark circles under his eyes that screamed he was exhausted. And you were confused.

“What--,” you were cut off by a coughing fit. Bucky was quick to have a cup of water with a straw, holding it to your lips as you took a sip.

“Easy doll, you’ve been out a few days,” he said.

“Why are you here?” you asked. Your voice was soft, far from having the bite you so desperately wanted to have. You were the one to end things, that much was true. But it still hurt. He frowned.

“When Nat said you needed medical...and when I saw you...I can’t lose you. The past month has been hell,” he said.

“What about Emmylou?” you asked. He just shook his head.

“Emalyn was there. I was lonely. I was hurt. Doll, I never, I never wanted to hurt you. Why didn’t you just tell me what you were feeling?” he asked. You sighed.

“You know my history Buck. I didn’t want to get hurt again,” you said.

“So you broke both of our hearts instead,” he said. 

“You have to understand how it looked from where I stood, Bucky. She brought you lunch multiple times. She was constantly flirting with you and the way you’d look at her,” you said.

“I always turned her down. I’d see you coming, and smile before seeing you walk away. This last month has been hell. You chose to walk away instead of talk. You made that decision on your own. Never gave me to chance to say my piece,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” you said. He sighed, 

“So am I. She and I...I was hurting. I’m not proud of it. I ended it after you left on the mission. Seeing you again...even if you hadn’t gotten hurt, I was determined to talk to you, talk this out, talk about us, if there could still be an us,” he said. 

“Let’s take it one day at a time, yeah? Starting with me getting out of here. You know how much I hate the medbay,” you replied, sending him into a fit of laughter. The two of you sat talking for a while, until a crash from the doorway drew your attention. America, Doreen, Natasha and Steve laid in a pile in the doorway. You and Bucky stifled your laughter as you looked at the group.

“Some things really do never change around here,” you said.

[thehoneybuzz]

Chasing Baker

My Nana was my greatest adversary.

In an otherwise charmed life, Nana was an immovable force and the only legitimate challenger to my willpower. Not without the warmth one would expect from a grandmother, Nana could be sharp - like a sun-warmed pane of glass. Lesser hearts might have bent to me when I requested accommodation - but not Nana. Nana set a firm bedtime, insisted on efficient tooth brushing, and rather than negotiate with hair tangles, made short work of them in single, swift wrenches when brushing your hair. No nonsense. When you stayed with her - in one of two twin beds in a room made precisely for grandchildren - you often found yourself in bed with the lights out, with no real memory of having gotten there, swept away in the tide of your sheets. Nana was uncompromising, and no arena was more suited to our mutual stubbornness as the dinner table.

I grew up a notoriously picky eater. After a weekend at my Uncle Jerry's, my mom received a hardcover copy of "The Strong-Willed Child" from him as a gift. He had spanked me for not eating chicken nuggets. As evident by its title, the book was meant to coach my mother on parenting strategies for mitigating my innate obstinance. This would not be the only copy of the book my mother received. Though, I think she could have written one by the time I turned 4. I simply refused to eat the things I didn't like, and that was a long list.

A relative once applauded - clapped his hands together in joy- upon learning that I had graduated from having the crusts cut off my bread to full-blown sandwich eating. The peanut butter and honey sandwich was my signature dish and an absolute staple. I'd like to say I've grown out of it - and I've certainly grown having tried llama steak in Peru, lamb heart at the table of a Lebanese family, and Greenland shark in an Icelandic cafe - but it took me a long time to let go of my habits and permit myself to try, and it took some coaxing. My preferences ran deep.

My diet from ages six through eleven included Eggo waffles, peanut butter and honey sandwiches, an assortment of cereals, a handful of specific fruits and vegetables, and the occasional steak when mom thought my iron was low. My mom - on the advice of a pediatrician who told her that if she force-fed me, I'd develop an eating disorder - catered to this preference. Nana did not. They must have been seeing different pediatricians.

Nana took the clear your plate approach - The approach driven by reward and consequence. Finish your plate, cookies delivered. Fail to try, become hungry and hungrier still as dessert passes you by. I took to swallowing food whole, and my mom took to sending me with granola bars on visitations. She'd line the interior of my suitcase like we were smuggling drugs. I'll admit it was an unusual form of contraband, but the measure seemed necessary in a divorced child's duplicitous world. What my mom saw as nourishment, my Dad might see as undermined parenting strategy even under the best of circumstances - which they often weren't. I was hungry, so decided it best to keep things a secret and wrappers out of the trash.

Despite Nana's apparent best efforts, I avoided the eating disorder. Thanks to my mom, I avoided most foods until my early 20s. I don't know who was right. What I know for certain is that I was loved.

When I sat down with Nana after my trip to Mt. Baker, she clutched her heart as she said. "Ally - to think about you as this little girl - and that you would only eat peanut butter and honey sandwiches - to think of you climbing mountains…" she shakes her head, "… well I just can't believe it."

I started to laugh and asked her, "Want to know the best part?"

She nodded, smile in her eyes, full of that sunny warmth - playful and kaleidoscopic.

"I ate peanut butter and honey sandwiches up and down the side of that mountain, Nana," I told her, laughing, and then we laughed together. Growing up is fun, I thought, especially in moments like this.

Laughing with your grandmother is a gift you receive in exchange for time, and it is a beautiful gift indeed. Here is a woman who bathed you, clothed you, fed you - and by the time you're old enough to understand the magnitude of the life she held before all that, she is often gone. I'm lucky to have this time. Nana is 90 years old now, and my mother's mother passed at 74. I never got to have the conversations I wanted to have with my grandmother, who died. To ask her questions like, 'Who were you?' 'What lifetimes made up the love you gave so effortlessly away?'

There is something about mountain climbing that makes you consider those kinds of questions in real-time. There is something about mountain climbing that makes you feel as if you are in the process of 'becoming.' So when, at the parking lot of Grandy Creek Grocery, I met my fellow climbers and our guides - there was a feeling of anticipation and nervousness about who I'd be sharing that story with. Dropping me off, my mom described it like the first day of kindergarten. The first person I met was Sharon.

I had been worried about Sharon. Weeks before, on the pre-trip Zoom call, she stood out from the digital crowd as the most visibly senior person there. Sharon did not look old - she looked undoubtedly the oldest. I think this is an important distinction - particularly to Sharon. I remember thinking - "I hope she is not on my trip because I'm worried she will show me down." A very judgmental thought and the universe saw to its reckoning. Sharon surprised the hell out of me.

She paced the parking lot, and I jumped out of my rig to greet her. We quickly began commiserating. Baker would be her first mountain. I had Mount St. Helens under my belt, but it's not much in the way of experience. We talked about our training plan, recounting long drives to taller places. Sharon was from Wisconsin, and she had to drive 45 minutes to get to peaks at 3,000 - the same as me in Eastern Washington. We had a lot in common. Where I ran, she had been hiking with weight and jogging. Sharon wasn't afraid of hard work. On our drive to the trailhead, I learned that she had just lost 75 pounds last year. I learned later that when Sharon signed up for this climb, she hadn't told anyone in her family she was doing it. She was 62 years old and had never once traveled alone. What on earth possessed her to climb a mountain? I'd be afraid of that question, too.

Sharon eventually fessed up to her family and made the trip official. That's how we found ourselves on the side of a mountain together. I'm embarrassed to have been so fundamentally wrong - but my confession is not without meaning, and I learned an important lesson. Never underestimate a Sharon.

When Melissa, our guide, described Mt. Baker for the first time, she called it by its indigenous name, Komo Kulshan. She then gave us its epithet - "The Great White Watcher." Having now met Kulshan face to face, I can tell you that's precisely how he feels. The summit looms as you navigate through the trees. Stoic in the face of the wilderness that surrounds him. Ice cold, he waits. In the Lummi language, he's called 'white sentinel.' He is persistent, vigilant, and watching.

I focused my nervous energy on preparing to meet this mountain by learning what I could about him. I learned that Mt. Baker is 10,781 feet tall, an active volcano, and the second most glaciated mountain in the continental united states (Rainier's got it beat, and you don't count Alaska). It's a formidable mountain, known - as nearly all alpine environments are - for its quickly changing conditions and the perils of its geology. This all, somehow, frightened me less than the thought of meeting Melissa Arnot-Reid. Her legend loomed not in the Cascades - where only a single peak resides above the threshold of 14,000 feet by which the Rockies measure their formidable "fourteeners." Melissa's legend loomed as large as Everest, on who's summit she has been six times - the only American woman to summit without the use of supplemental oxygen and survive. 29,032 feet. Melissa was someone I wanted to learn from, and I was scared shitless of her by reputation.

Suffering a bit of social awkwardness around celebrities, I prepared to meet Melissa by seeking to learn nothing about her at all. The antithesis of my mountain strategy - I told myself our experience would be what it was when we met on the mountain. My job was to learn - to ask my questions courageously - and be vulnerable and bold in seeking truth. I spent a fair bit of time wondering if she might be an ass hole, too. The age-old adage, "don't meet your heroes," drifted in and out of my mind.

In the last 15 minutes of our drive to Grandy's, my mom started reading Melissa's Wikipedia page aloud to me as I navigated the road, undoing months of my concerted preparation. I let her continue, greedy for information. "It says she trains by depriving herself of things - that she'll go without food and water."

"Probably a good idea if you're ever going to be stuck on the side of a mountain without it," I told her. I braced myself for a response. In the past few months, my mother had a growing sensitivity around topics that might suggest I could die on the side of a mountain. Admitting, so blatantly, that mountain climbing was a dangerous sport left me vulnerable to excessive mothering accompanied by exclamations of "Don't you dare!" Instead, my mom sort of nodded and continued, "I'm surprised her baby came out healthy."

My brow furrowed. I hated my mother for saying it. I had avoided a lecture from the mother of the mountaineer but failed to account for the mother of the daughter aged-almost-thirty. My uterus is a topic of conversation around my mother's table. Apparently, so was Melissas. Not wanting to discuss either, I let my mother's comment go unchecked as she continued to list accomplishments. "This article says she's focused on business, not emotions. That she is an incredible problem-solver." Now her reports felt more like cheating - it felt like an unfair advantage to meet someone armed with publicly available information about them. When you Google "Allyson Tanzer," you won't find much about my disposition under pressure. I told my mom it was time to focus and turned up the music.

When we parked, and I went to introduce myself to Melissa, three things happened. As I introduced myself, she first quickly let me know that she would not be giving out hugs due to the pandemic. Then, taking my hand in a firm grip, Melissa detailed that she and our other guide, Adrienne, had critical guide business to discuss and would be with us in a moment. She reported being thrilled to be meeting us as she quickly dropped my hand. Within thirty seconds, I was apologizing profusely and backing my way into the grocery. What can I say - first time formally climbing mountains, and I wasn't sure of the protocol. I fiddled with a bag of Cheetohs and continued to hope that she wasn't just an ass hole.

I went to the bathroom for something to do and remembered what my mother said. Task-oriented. I figured Melissa probably didn't hate me, after all. Despite my earlier misgivings, I was grateful to know a bit about her character, regardless of how 'honestly' that information was obtained. Thanks, Mom.

Our climb began. We left Grandy's in a caravan and parked near 3000' at the winter routes trailhead. On the first day, you ascend to 6000' and establish camp. You carry about 40 pounds, walking 1 mile and about 1000 vertical feet per hour, stopping for 15-minute breaks in those intervals. Conditions are warm, which means you're doing something the mountaineers call "post-holing" - ramming deep holes (as if for a fence post) into the ground as you step through snow that's washed out underneath. It's slow-going and rigorous. An hour and a half in, Melissa reports that we're standing in the location where she usually takes the first break. Unseasonably warm weather with a heavy snow accumulation has made for an exciting start.

You walk along a canyon ridge formed by a retreating glacier. You realize that time here is not measured in the same cadence that it's known to you. Mountains measure time in millennium, not decades. The formations of rock are carved by years, not minutes. The ground holds a history you can't conceive of - an ancient history of rock and ice. You are constantly struck by feeling small both physically and in your very chronology. I spent the first day happily in awe.

At camp, you maintain - guides (and playfully designated junior guides), boil snow, establish a base, dig a toilet. You assess whether or not you need to poop in a bag and carry it down the mountain with you as you try - for the first time - a rehydrated meal claiming to be chili Mac and cheese. Melissa teaches us how to walk on rope over a glacier. I try to mimic her knots. She redefines your concept of efficiency - breathlessly describing a packing order that accounts for calorie intake, warmth requirements and weight distribution - Every contingency considered. When I win the Ice Ax Rodeo by landing my thrown ax in a particular configuration - all is right in the world. Melissa is a drill sergeant giving instruction. She outlines the next minute - next five minutes - next hour - next day.

Her matter-of-fact nature reminds me of something. When I gave my parents a ride in an airplane for the first time with me as the pilot in command, I provided them near the same briefing as we were parked on the ramp. It ended dramatically with, "And if anything should happen, you have to exit the aircraft first in the following fashion." At which point I launched myself from the plane. I wanted them to be prepared to fight their instincts to protect me. I’m the only pilot on board - and my job is to protect my passengers, no exceptions. They both described a sense of foreboding and peace at the demonstration. It’s precisely how I felt when Melissa explained how she would be rescuing herself from a crevasse. “If you fall, I get you out. If I fall, I get myself out, but I need your help as an anchor to do so.” She took the approach of coaching us in only what we needed for the next challenge. We would learn crevasse rescue on a need to know basis. At Grandy’s, she told us to expect 48 hours of endurance. At camp, we’re at hour 9. She painted a picture of the following day.

"We'll begin between 11, and 2 am. Expect switchbacks up the glacier, a series of flats, and gains over the next hour. In 3.5 miles, we'll gain an additional 2000 feet - meandering a path through the glacier's crevasses, and it will gradually become steeper over time. About 1.5 miles to the summit, we'll hit the Easton glacier culminating in the Roman Wall. Then, because God has a sense of humor, you have a long flat walk to the summit after the steepest portion. All said it will take us between 5-7 hours to the top."

Frankly, it was just about as simple as that.

My eyes opened at 11:50 pm to the sound of movement outside the tent. Melissa had coached us here, too. "You may not be sleeping," she told us as we readied for 'lights out.' Days from the summer solstice, the sun burned brightly above us at 7 pm. "Remember that you don't need sleep; you need rest. That's what you're getting here at camp. You're horizontal; your feet are out of your boots. Close your eyes, and know you're getting what you need." Felt like a lie, but sure enough, with two hours of sleep, I couldn't describe myself as tired.

I did, however, feel cold. Chilly night temperatures had crept into our tent, and dressing for the day was arduous. I knew to keep my clothes in my sleeping bag. It was a trick I learned from a friend made trekking in the Andes for dressing in the cold. I knew to shorten my trekking poles while climbing, thanks to my guide on that same trek. I'd be leaving my trekking poles behind today, though. Ice axes only. We divide into rope teams. The race begins, but there's no starting pistol - only wind.

Fifteen minutes into our climb and we're struggling to find the rhythm. I'm still shaking the bleariness of the cold. The rope between climbers takes on an interesting dynamic. While it connects you to your fellow climber, it also isolates you from them. You have to maintain a certain distance away from one another while maintaining the same pace. It's a dance with crampons on in glacial ice - a delicate dance indeed - and it's where climbing feels like a team sport. You're all in it together.

Voices rang out in sequence like a game of telephone - one of our team would need to climb down. We said short goodbyes and waited as Adrienne (guide) descended with climber to camp. We were lucky - we hadn’t been climbing long which meant Adrienne could climb down and back to rejoin her rope. Guide redundancy is a safety net when groups of climbers work together.

Darkness continued. We continued. As you persist, darkness seems to persist along with you. In the first hour, it grows heavy. Your world begins and ends at the light of your headlamp, and that's where you find it—your rhythm. Crampons crunching, breath steady, and the gentle swish of your layers create a sort of timpani, a medley of percussion sounds. Clink, brush, crunch, and clink, brush, crunch, as ax bites ice, the movement of your clothes, and the toe of your boot kicks crampon into snow propelling you forward. There isn't much to think about in this grinding meditation. You're grounded in tugs from ahead or behind you as you march, slowly up. You can count steps, miles, feet of elevation - whatever keeps you moving. Whatever keeps you going up.

Moments before sunrise, we would lose another on our team. I listened to Melissa coach her. "What we're headed to is going to be harder than what we've just done. If how you are feeling is taking away from your ability to focus on your next step - I can only tell you that it's not going to get easier from here." That's when I saw the decision on her face. Another round of goodbyes - this one a bit more somber. She had worked so hard.

The decision to descend is a difficult one, but it’s one of the most important you can make. There are steep consequences to being in over your head in a place so remote. The summit is a siren, beware. Melissa - aware of the remaining teams intention to summit - advised us to plug our ears as she told the descending climber the Sherpa belief that a mountain won't let you summit for the first time if it likes you. Mountains bring you back. Further, she coached, the decision to go down can lift an entire team's chance of success if you feel you're a liability. Recognizing yourself and your limitations truthfully is a mountain in itself. That's the summit this person made in her decision to descend.

Like a good Agatha Christie novel, our list of characters dwindled. We added layers and continued - five of the original eight. Melissa was right, again. After we lost the second climber, our ascent became a proper climb. From that point forward, if anyone decided to turn around - we would all have to. There was only one remaining guide, and she had to protect all her climbers, no exceptions - me in the cockpit all over again.

She didn't show it, but 62-year-old Sharon was genuinely frightened. She had realized the same thing I did. If she didn't make it - no one would. Sharon kept climbing. Remember when I was worried she would slow me down?

When the sun starts to rise, everything begins to feel possible again. I don't mean to say that things were hopeless, just that with the sun comes energy and a sense of renewal. Color returns to the landscape, and you can begin to be able to measure your progress concretely. The mountain casts a shadow across the earth, stretching miles. You can't believe that you are contained within that shadow, on the face of such a giant who stands so impossibly tall. Melissa stood there, and I took her picture.

She had turned out to be not an ass hole at all. Where I sought to be her student, she aspired to teach - at once brilliant and kind. Her stride - her sport - a work of art. The precise art of what she calls slow, uphill walking. Her shadow and the shadow of the mountain impressed upon me the power of legends.

As the Roman Wall came into view - I knew we had it. We short rope in and make one last push. If Mt. Baker is a joke from God, the ending of the Roman Wall is its punchline.

Atop the incline awaits a long, easy walk to a haystack peak some few hundred yards in the distance. I was bubbling with emotion as my heart rate settled and the view became clear. There wasn't much difference between where we stood and where we were going. We dropped our packs, unroped, and ran up the summit. I was in tears.

Melissa broke her no-hugs-in-the-pandemic rule and celebrated us each in turn. I snapped countless photos and spent each frozen moment smiling. I pulled Melissa and Sharon in close. I had felt something on my heart and only needed a moment's bravery to share it.

I started awkwardly.

"I'd like to say something to you and Sharon," I muttered, barely audible over the wind, as I tugged on Melissa's sleeve. I grabbed Sharon's arm and pulled her in too. I don't remember the exact thing I said or the exact way in which I said it. I remember pausing to make sure I got it right and wondering for a long time if I managed to do so.

I told them that I had come to the mountain expecting to be impressed by one person. Melissa promised an impressive education - on which she delivered. She is of that rare quality - the kind who’s presence improves you. I came to Baker with that expectation, I confessed, I expected Melissa. I paused before telling Sharon, her gloved hand in mine, “You?” I laughed nervously. “I wasn’t expecting. A 62-year-old woman….” I nodded back to Melissa, “And you, the mother of a 3-year-old…” I didn’t want to get this wrong. “You are two people who our society labels and confines. Yet, here you are - on top of a mountain. I have to tell you….” I was choked up in earnest here and struggled to continue.

"It matters.” I said. “What you do matters. It matters to have an example of what is possible. Both of you have provided that example to me and women like me. Thank you." I sobbed. "I am so grateful for it and grateful for you." Melissa smothered me in her jacket as she embraced me, once again, in a hug. Pandemic be damned. My tears froze. While I expected a "There's no crying in mountaineering" a la Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own (it was a climb of mostly women, after all) the admonishment never came.

Sharon grabbed hold of me next and we shared the alpine view. Before I knew it, we were the last two on the summit. The wind howled a steady cheer. Celebrations concluded, it was time to leave. I stayed for just a moment longer, watching Sharon as she left. They don't make anything more beautiful than a mountain, and it's a view worth savoring. I descended, joyfully, to my team.

I didn't bury Jake up there. In Ashes to Ashes, I told the story of taking my old farm dog's remains to the top of my first volcano. He's not so much a good luck charm as he is an omen of protection. I don't need luck as much as I need safety, and he serves his duty well. Jake stayed with me through our descent to camp. I needed a little protection coming down off the Roman Wall, I thought. I wanted him close until we were off the glacier. He lays now at the foot of my tent—a very good place for a very good dog.

There's a natural mindfulness to climbing. I often find myself living in the present step - not thinking about the route that lies below. You forget in moments that the trip up is accompanied by an equally long and perilous journey down. From the summit, your journey is far from over. Yet, time flies by even as you stop to admire the steam vents. The rainbow that surrounds the sun refracts joy and color the same.

You reach camp, celebrate, pack up. Miles and thousands of feet remain even from there. That's when you realize it's ending and when I realized I didn't want it to end.

We spent the next few miles getting to know each other in earnest, savoring time and mountain views, chatting in the way of long-form hikers - about the nature of things and through storytelling. Melissa regaled us with vulnerable truths and comedic parables. We laughed. I kept sipping at the wells of knowledge around me, drinking in the moments. Laughter distracted from hunger, from wet feet, and from the dull and dim realization that all good things must come to an end. We made our way to the bottom of the mountain. Just like that - we say goodbye.

Sharon drove me back to Grandy's. We chitter like school girls - adrenaline and nostalgia collide in our post-climb delirium. We talk about the future. I realize that we are good friends. I am humbled by just how wrong a person can be to believe something about someone for no good reason.

Mom picks me up, and with her embrace my adventure is over. I’ve come full circle - safe and sound, parked in the lot of Grandy Creek Grocery.

Melissa found us there and knocked on our window.

"Your daughter is really special. The MOST special,” my hero and friend told my mom. Mom beamed with a special pride reserved exclusively for mothers of strong-willed daughters. I had been misreading things - the adventure had only just begun.

There are eight years between Melissa and I. I’m not sure I’ll be chasing Everest in that time, but I know I won’t be finished. I’ve got thirty-three years to catch Sharon at 62. In the mountain blink of sixty-one years, I’ll be as old as my Nana and I hope at least half as wise. Good thing there are so many years - for there is so much left to climb.

[hyacinthsgirl]

@carnivorarium MERRY CHRISTMAS >:3

It was months ago, perhaps years, and she isn’t sure she can tell the difference now – not when time keeps washing over her, dragging her down and pushing her up on the surface following its whims. But she still remembers it all so vividly and clearly – the ending of a night spent chuckling and talking and eating while watching movies that she had never watched before and that had left her with ear-shattering noise in her ears and scenes burnt inside her retinas. She kept tugging at Micah’s sleeve and ask him about a detail or two, and he had answered all her questions, stuffing his mouth one gloved handful of popcorn after the other. It wasn’t even midnight when the movie eventually ended and both of them found themselves stretching arms and legs on the floor of Micah’s apartment, surrounded by empty bowls and plastic cups. In the silence that followed Chris glanced at the stack of CDs to her left, eyes wandering from title to title, feeling her curiosity grow till she ended up tuning the rest of the room out. It took a light tapping on her shoulder to take her back and have her turn to her friend, his grin in sight where she had always seen it. A detail that never stopped feeling right.

“Seein’ anythin’ you like there?”

Her smile was attuned to his. “I don’t know. I don’t know any of these people.” Now that she had his silent permission, Chris scooted closer to the stack and read band names and album titles more avidly than before, looking not for a semblance of familiarity but for the spark that would light up her curiosity for real.

Behind her, Micah chuckled and patted his hands clean on the trousers. “Yeah, guessed so.”

She laughed under her breath. “Well, I think Asher made me listen to a few of these, but I don’t remember.” She ran a finger on rigid plastic, imagining, thinking, feeling on the edge again and wanting to jump forward and down. “Do you think I’d like any of these?”

“Uuuh, lemme see.” His arm came into sight from above her shoulder, his naked wrist brushing against her cheek briefly and his fingers wriggling before the stack before deciding to pull a CD out of it. “This’d be a good one to start.” Now Chris turned her attention back to him, her gaze following him as he got up from the floor and walked to the stereo on the other side of the room. She rose to her feet as well, watching him carefully pulling a thin metal disc out of its case and pushing it into the device. When he turned back to her, his eyes were already shining in violent anticipation. Her eyes mirrored them, and for a moment they seemed to shine from the inside like miniature dying suns. She felt something build up inside her chest and fill her lungs, clawing her insides in such a soft way and refusing to let go.

It exploded when the music started.

It wasn’t as loud nor as energetic as she expected, but it stirred that something sitting next to her heart. It was nothing like Father or Mother would play in the old and dusty Muir house, either, and yet the melody pulled her in the same way she was used to. One, two, three steps and she was closer to Micah again, who had just started humming and then singing while swaying from side to side to the rhythm. I have never seen him dance, she realized, too excited to truly feel surprise. He has never seen me dance. This is a first time again. And now he would see her in all of her joyous glory - her hands grabbing his, her fingers running on dark leather as she pulled him to the centre of the room, the hem of her blue dress swaying around her ankles when she started to get into the rhythm, let the music take control and pull her and Micah alike into endless circles. He seemed to be taken aback by her sudden change – by the wilderness on her features, the light filling every EVERY part of her body, the golden melting halo that appeared for the briefest moment behind her head, demanding for attention and worshipping and everything a martyr could ever want and reject, the light to every moth SHE WAS NOTHING AND EVERYTHING AND THE END WOULD COME WITH HER – but it didn’t take him long to join her, letting whatever inhibition behind. They would never remember if there had been any complaints from the neighbours, if someone had yelled at them to turn the damn thing off and let people sleep. Chris is still sure that the night went on and on and on forever, longer than it should have, even if only to allow them to dance to one more song, to laugh one more time, to feel each other’s body warmth and feel so close, oh so close, like there had never been anything nor anyone else outside that room.

Now, she didn’t expect the stereo to be still around.

How weird, to see something so mundane amidst all that chaos. So much to get used to, but that one thing is still here. From inside the mirror, she takes a step closer, head tilting to the side and smile trembling on her lips. The fingers that touch it are still Micah’s but not quite the same – just like he is not quite the same, just like she is not quite the same. He was the first to go and change, and even if he is out of reach Chris still remembers the feeling of her hands on his new body, the bugs whispering in her ears, the disgust she never felt because how could she ever feel it in front of him, no matter how different he looked. And now it’s her turn to be something else – a pale reflection of herself on the other side of every mirror, forever lost in that small place between death and life, voiceless when once she had sung her love for the world. But she is still herself, even if Micah keeps finding traces and memories of her (them) he hasn’t seen in a long time, and when his hand rests atop of the stereo and he looks at her that light is the same. Her eyes mirror it once more. She hasn’t kept track of what he has been doing these past few minutes, but when the music starts it all clicks into place.

The glass around her lips seems on the verge of shattering at any given moment.

Micah’s movements are a little less coordinated than before and his voice doesn’t sound the same and Chris’s light dulled out in a fire a long time before, but it’s them. It’s always been them. Even with a thin layer of glass between them, even so far away, really nothing seems to have changed. Her dress moves the same way, his smile – however crooked – hasn’t changed in the slightest, and there’s no need to pretend. It feels right all the same, even if the inches of space between them feel like miles. And when the song ends (because it must, because it’s how it works, even if she would gladly make this go on and on and on) Chris twirls one last time before pressing a hand against the only door and window she’ll ever know now. She can’t feel Micah’s touch when he does the same, and yet she smiles.

And for a moment it’s like it’s never been any different.

[kaiekasunwhisper]

The Drink

(( Co-written with @thefugitivemango / @avehi-the-adamant ! @grakkar-gorefang and @nedemus​ for character mention ))

~*~*~

Three Months Ago...

Kai’eka slammed open the tavern door, causing many to gasp and turn their heads in surprise. The warrior was in a foul mood, and gave no care or glance to the onlookers. She’d been kicked out of a few bars in town already, but it was hard not to beat the shit out of people in times like these!

Her self-destructive spiral started almost immediately after returning from her meeting with Grakkar; upset, frustrated, heartbroken, embarrassed… all feelings she’d decided to just drink away. It wasn’t often that Kai’eka turned to alcohol, but situations like these were the exception.

It was otherwise silent as her plated boots clanked across the wooden floor towards the bar. Thankfully, by the time she’d placed her large blades against the counter and taken a seat, the other patrons grew less tense, and had returned to their regular conversations-- save only a wary eye or two turning towards her from time to time.

One such curious glance came from Avehi. She turned, curiously, to look the elven woman over - rarely, if ever, had she seen such a large one! She almost mistook her for a male... but even then, most ren’dorei males weren’t as bulky and fit as she was! It wasn’t hard to figure she was upset, based on that scowl on her face and that anger in her tone.

“Strongest ale you’ve got,” Kai’eka said in Common to the bartender as she slipped some coins across the counter.

“On me.” Avehi interjected, as the barkeep reached for the coins the elf placed upon the bar. “Make it two.”

The Draenei set her own coins out for the barkeep to take. He did so with a shrug, before going to prepare the drinks. Avehi moved to stand beside the elf, nodding in greeting to her.

“Looks as if the day has taken its toll on you.”

She had half a mind to ask her what was wrong… but didn’t want to pry much further. All the same, the woman was very obviously upset, and wandered into a public place. Perhaps she wanted to talk it out? Avehi took it as an opportunity; she’d recently become a member of the Ebon Blade again… and knew changing the negative connotations people had about them started with simple acts like this. 

“Heh… try month…” Kai’eka grunted.

She’d had enough to drink by this point to dull her crankiness towards uninvited company. Kai’eka eyed the Draenei over, sizing her up as she normally did with everyone she met. Strange... this one was the first Draenei she met that didn’t immediately give off an aura of Light. But the reason why became obvious enough upon closer inspection; her lichfire gaze, dark armor, rune etched hammer and cold aura.

An Ebon Knight. 

Her attention shifted briefly as the barkeep handed them their drinks.

“This stuff affect you at all?” She couldn’t help but ask curiously before gulping down a few mouthfuls of ale. 

Avehi took her drink, and held it in her hands for a moment to let it cool in her icy grasp. She looked to the void elf, and shrugged.

“Yes and no. My digestive system isn’t autonomous anymore. The drink just sits, unless I want to digest it.” she explained, before shaking her head. “Essentially, I have to will myself drunk.”

She chuckled, before taking a refreshingly cool swig of ale. She didn’t often drink, partially for the aforementioned purpose. But aside from that, she never experienced the beneficial aspects of inebriation. Her memories remained, her mood soured, and her inhibitions lowering usually led to regrettable decisions. And not the fun kind, either. All in all, drinking post-mortem wasn’t very enjoyable for Avehi. Still, the flavorful ale was nice.

“All the taste, none of the regret.” she added, before taking another swig.

Kai’eka raised an eyebrow at the explanation. It was strange, yet convenient. She had been certain that undeath prevented inebriation of all kinds up until now. Being able to choose whether or not they felt the drink’s affect was surprising.

“That’s impressive,” she had to admit.

Normally, she didn’t take much interest in other people, but Death Knights had always intrigued her. This one seemed decent to speak with. A welcomed conversation after the woman that had been all over her at the previous bar. Avehi wasn’t the first Death Knight she’d met of course, having exchanged blows with one or two in the past. Formidable opponents. Endless stamina and surprising strength. Although she’d never admit it out loud, Kai’eka had always envied their state of undeath and the benefits that came with it. Never having to eat, or drink, or sleep… 

“So which is it for you tonight? Drunk, or not?”

“Tch… perhaps a bit?” she shrugged, idly swirling her drink about in her frosted mug. “I am to have an unpleasant conversation with an old friend later. A bit of inebriated courage for it might not be such a bad idea.”

Again, the Draenei chuckled, before shaking her head. A long sigh followed; the dread of having to explain her reunification with the Ebon Blade to Nedemus was potent. Distracting, almost. She’d come to drink in preparation for that conversation in the first place. Another swig. Her tail swayed gently behind her, kicking up her cloak now and again as she stood at the bar beside the elf. Her lichfire eyes kept affixed to the void elf, both interestingly and cautiously. She’d had bad run-ins with their kind before, but hoped to withhold judgment on this one for now. So far, the conversation was pleasant enough…

“And you? It seems you’re well on your way.”

“Tch, drinking these bullshit couple of weeks away.”

The warrior gripped the mug tightly. It seemed she obviously wasn’t feeling much better. The ale wasn’t helping in that, but it seemed enough to keep her lips moving.

“My brother died,” she stated, “He was a fucking dumb-ass and pissed off the wrong people.”

“My condolences.” Avehi offered, brow furrowed deeply. “Losing a loved one is always tragic.”

‘Especially now’, she almost added - but thought better of it. It seemed the elf was grieving enough. She didn’t need to know that these days, death was only the beginning of a very perilous journey…

Of course, Kai’eka left out that she’d been the one to kill him, and of course nothing about the cult had to be mentioned. The drink made her relax, but didn’t make her stupid. Her eyes fixated on the counter.

“Raised that little shit myself,” she shook her head, “Thought I taught him better but…”

She shrugged, tipping her head back to chug down the rest of the ale.

“I never had siblings. Never raised anyone, or anything. I can only imagine how painful it must be to lose someone so connected to you.”

The Draenei motioned for another round, anticipating her new drinking companion would need it--and she was right! Kai’eka immediately reached for the fresh mug as it was set before her.

“Count yourself lucky, never having one. No one to take care of, no one to protect, no one to worry about. No one to ungratefully throw away everything you’ve given them.”

Another drink. Another sigh.

“Want to know what else?” She continued, turning her head to look at the near stranger she was pouring her heart out to… Didn’t matter. 

N’Zoth would be taking care of everyone soon enough.

“Had this casual thing going with a guy. Went on for a while and we got close. Went to see him after Alt died… I was frustrated and upset. Just needed to burn off some of the stress. Turns out that’s the evening he decided to break up with me to be with some old flame.”

She scoffed, tipping her head back for another couple mouthfuls of ale.

“Tch… the hits don’t stop, it seems.” Avehi shook her head, before taking another swig of her drink - still her first. “And this happened all within the same short span?”

She surmised the answer, with a sigh. Her tail twitched; she was fine to listen, but this quickly began to seem beyond what a sympathetic ear to bend and a couple free drinks would make better anytime soon… worse still, she couldn’t really relate to the big issue of her brother dying, having no siblings herself. Sure, she lost her mother. But she knew that wasn’t quite the same. 

Break-ups, though… 

“On Draenor, I had a casual thing with someone, like you and your guy. But one day he ended it to commit fully to some Rangari we both knew. It was… upsetting.” Avehi shared, idly swirling her drink… as a smirk crept across her face. “... You want to know what I did?”

Kai’eka’s ear twitched in curiosity. She brought the mug down and turned her full attention to the Draenei. Her posture relaxed, relieved to hear that the Ebon Knight could relate. It certainly helped her feel less stupid about it!

“Beat the living shit out of him?” She asked--oh, how tempting that challenge from Grakkar had been…

“Hehe, no, not exactly… I beat the shit out of her.”

Avehi grinned her fanged grin, before hiding it behind her mug of ale as she took another drink. She rarely got to tell this story; most of her Draenei friends in life didn’t approve of it. And during her tenure as a Vindicator of the Light, such behavior was more than frowned upon. She was told to be repentant of it… but she was proud of it, damn it! Vindication was in her blood - and it still was!

“I took her out for drinks at a local bar - just the two of us. We became quite inebriated… back when this stuff affected me no matter what.” she chuckled lightly, swirling her drink again. “Then I started speaking ill of Rangari as a whole, calling them glorified wilderness guides. You know, really goading her. I told her I, a simple smith’s apprentice, could take a Rangari in a fight any day.”

She brought her hand up, and punched it with the other, tail swaying.

“That’s when she threw the first punch. All bets were off, then.” she went on. “And - as promised - I crushed her. Bloodied her up, shredded her face, and chipped the end of one of her horns.”

Avehi reached up and gently rubbed the tip of her right horn between her fingers, smiling proudly. She recalled the day well - as well as could be expected, through the haze of being drunk at the time. Still, it was a memorable fight, through and through.

“The best part was, the guy broke it off with her shortly after, because he no longer found her so attractive. Shallow piece of filth…” she scoffed. “It felt so good to turn him down when he tried to come crawling back to me for intimacies.”

The corners of Kai’eka’s lips couldn’t help but twitch up into a smile. She was starting to like this Draenei more and more! 

“Nice!” 

It was, of course, nothing she’d have the patience for. Kai’eka always dealt with her problems directly. Going after Grakkar’s girlfriend would be time consuming; not to mention a distraction from more important tasks.

“Guess I should have gotten her name before throwing my sword at him,” she shrugged, “Could get a friend to track her down…”

What was that thing called? Mak’gora? She could find out who and where this woman was and challenge her….

“Mm. Something to consider. Though not sure I want to see his dumb face anytime soon.”

"I understand. I never would have wished to see that guy again, after dismissing him. Fortunately… I haven't." the Death Knight shrugged. "He likely didn't survive Shattrath."

The thought used to trouble her; how many of her kin were killed at Shattrath on that terrible day. She'd never forgive the orcs for what they did, demon-spurred or no. But now, knowing what she knew about death, she knew those who fell that day were at least in a truly better place. Most of them, anyway. It didn’t bring her nearly as much sorrow to recollect on that tragic day as it used to. Partially accepting it, and moving on. Another part comparing it to her own fate… things could always be worse. 

Kai’eka shook her head again. It was bad enough she’d have to see Grakkar every time Doofus and Kronk would want to mate - all while leaving her dissatisfied and pent up! She sighed.

“I hate this body. Didn’t have this dumb sex drive when I was Sin’dorei.”

“Becoming a void elf enhanced your sexual desires?” Avehi asked, brow askew

“Not sure if the switch to Void does that to everyone. My friends mostly stayed the same in that regard. But they were pretty active before. Annoyingly so. I was actually repulsed by it before. It was nice not having that need; getting distracted by men.”

 “Curious…” Avehi commented, before taking another swig of her drink. “For many Death Knights, the opposite is true - the dead sometimes lose such urges, post-transformation.”

“Shit, you’re serious?” Kai’eka’s ears flickered and she turned to face Avehi fully.

“So what’s the downside of being a Death Knight? Don’t need to eat, sleep, drink or fuck? Sign me the fuck up!”

Avehi nodded, passively… but it was an odd notion. To not want a sex drive? She felt fortunate hers remained postmortem. But this elf wished otherwise? Vexing. 

She took another swig of her drink, swallowing down the urge to question it. She knew people held sex in differing regards than she did. Some valued it higher, others like this elf clearly valued it much lower. 

“Like anything else, you learn to control it. To bridle it if it becomes too overbearing, or to tap into it when you need a bit of elation.” she explained, with a shrug. “Dealing with undeath is the same way, too. The unquenchable Hunger, the gnawing pain that constantly eats at you… all manageable with practice. Sex drive is no different.”

Her tail twitched, eyes looking over the elf once more in an appraising fashion. Curiosity crept in, and got the better of her. She knew she may regret it, pressing such a question, but… to understand requires insight.

“... Bad sexual experiences in the past, I presume?”

Kai’eka snarled; an answer in its own right.

“It’s just a big fucking waste of time! Time I could spend training and working on more important tasks! Not getting distracted by a guy’s bulging muscles and abs when I’m supposed to be concentrating on battle!”

Even as she ranted, Grakkar’s amazing physique appeared in her mind. His face wasn’t much to look at, but damn he had a nice body! She shook her head.

“And intimacy is just… being that close to someone and being that vulnerable… all because your body needs a Gods-damned orgasm?”

She slammed another empty mug down. Turning back to the bar, she crossed her arms over the counter and rested her chin over them with a huff, a sour expression on her face.

The Draenei was almost sorry she asked. Despite being mostly a big rant, it confirmed her suspicions. Not the bad experience she was thinking, but clearly distraction from whatever she felt was the pinnacle in life had cost her once, perhaps twice, before. Or perhaps being close to someone in such a way cost her more than she wanted. More than she could afford.

Still, a foreign concept to Avehi; not wanting such indulgences wasn’t something she ever considered. Carnal needs came as naturally as hunger and thirst - or now, in her undead state, The Hunger... and blood lust. 

“Mm. Poor control, it seems.” she muttered, without thinking. “Your drive has increased dramatically since going void, you said, yes? So you missed out on adolescent years learning to manage such urges.”

She nodded, succinctly, before taking another swig.

“How long have you been like this? A void elf, I mean? Perhaps all you need is time to adjust. To keep such urges in check without difficulty takes practice.”

Kai’eka scowled, ears twitching in annoyance, though didn’t bother moving from her position. She didn’t need anyone explaining her predicament away to her. She already knew. She still hated it.

“A year and a half,” she stated in answer to the question asked, “And I already know all that. Had a friend helping me out with keeping it all in check, but then I broke his pelvis and he got whiny and doesn’t want to fuck me anymore.”

“--Tch… apologies.” Avehi waved a dismissive hand. “I’m certain you’ve heard all that, yes. You mentioned your… amorous friends.”

The Draenei took another swig of her drink, shrugging.

“Nonetheless, condolences. Such needs can be frustrating, particularly when unwanted.” she nodded. “When I was in Vindicator training, I lusted after my mentor. It was infuriating to deal with those particular feelings. I knew nothing would come of it, but it didn’t stop that yearning. Looking at him, and having my focus completely undone…”

She shook her head, as if to keep it from happening here and now, in the moment. She sighed, as her thoughts returned to that particular subject. Still a sore one, and one that hadn’t really been resolved. Not to her satisfaction, in any case. Of course, resolving it to her satisfaction would be twice as problematic now as it was then! 

“In any case, I understand.”

“Meh… I’ll survive. Always do…” the elf mumbled in her drunken stupor. She let out a heavy sigh, “Pick myself up in a few days and go back to work.”

In a way, she’d gotten what she wanted. There were no distractions left for her with both Alteris and Grakkar out of her life. With Nepen’thea gone, Brent had been reassigned to Uldum, and she was due to report to Pandaria soon. She just had to push through a little longer and then this dumb world would finally succumb to the Old Gods.

“For now, I should probably call it a night. Else I won’t be able to make it home.”

“Mm, we can only endure.” Avehi nodded in agreement, pulling out a few more coins to pay for the last round of drinks they shared. “A pleasure to meet you, void elf.”

She realized she never learned the elf’s name, nor gave her own - but seeing her lucidity slipping further from her, Avehi doubted she’d remember it even if she told her. It made little difference now anyway, for their first meeting. She could always introduce herself later, should they ever cross paths again. Nonetheless, she turned to the elf, and dipped her head respectfully.

“Suffer well.” she bid her, before turning to depart.

“Heh… I like that. Suffer well…”

Kai’eka finally detached herself from the counter. Despite the amount of drinks she’d had, she still appeared rather stable on her feet when she stood. She picked up and harnessed her large blades, the runes etched on them glimmering in the bar’s lighting. 

She took a step forward to leave, then paused.

“Come see me in the training yard if you’re ever looking for a good spar!” She yelled after the Draenei.

Gods knew she needed more sparring partners... With that, she made her way out of the bar and towards the Rift.

[ofvergen]

Fallout Verse Notes

Saskia runs a shelter called The Golden Dragon in Freeside, under the facade of being a motel, though it’s a rather well-known fact it’s much more than that. She welcomes and offers protection to all sorts of downtrodden people without asking for much in return. Her story is that the building has been in her family for a very long time and her father passed it on to her a few years back, though nobody seems to remember a time when it wasn’t administered by Saskia. Her shelter runs independently of the Kings or Followers, though she’s cooperated with both in the past.

There are many rumors surrounding Saskia and The Golden Dragon: some say her family has access to pre-war technology that is kept hidden from all major organizations that would seek to use it, that Saskia and her father are not humans, but ghouls or super mutants or something else entirely, that their family wealth is much greater than it seems, and so on and so forth. 

Saskia gained the respect of the local community after allegedly fighting and killing a deathclaw all by herself, thus earning her the Deathclaw Slayer moniker, though many doubt the veracity of this story. There are of course many more who would see Saskia’s shelter destroyed, but none have been able to disrupt her activity so far. Everyone knows The Golden Dragon is a well-guarded establishment, but if asked, nobody would be able to tell exactly by whom or what it is guarded.

The truth is, she did have an encounter with an adult deathclaw dangerously close to New Vegas, but she didn’t kill it, and instead merely knocked it out and released it somewhere out in the wilderness. It had been lured near The Golden Dragon by Saskia’s enemies who were hoping it would wreak havoc and kill enough people to destabilize her activity and jeopardize her legitimacy as the leader of her organization. That, however, didn’t happen as Saskia managed to deal with it swiftly and without losses, and the whole affair remained shrouded in mystery to the general public, becoming something of an urban legend and Saskia a local hero.

The Golden Dragon isn’t just a shelter; it’s a brewing rebellion, a network of informants, an army in training, and most importantly it’s a place where people can find hope and purpose. Much like in her original verse, Saskia’s goal is to establish an independent state where everyone can coexist peacefully, especially all those who wouldn’t be so readily accepted somewhere else– ghouls, synths, super mutants, the sick, destitute, elderly, orphans, etc. Basically, she takes everyone in as long as they behave and respect the rules that exist within their small community. It’s nothing culty though. She doesn’t try to groom people into joining her– they simply choose to do so.

Saskia is much older than she looks– she’s over 200 years old in fact.

Her father, known to most as Borch Three Jackdaws, is indeed a ghoul. He’s elusive and mysterious, never staying in one place for too long, but many of those who’ve met him would describe him as gentle, intelligent, and soft-spoken.

Their story goes a long way back, before the Great War. Saskia is biologically related to her father, just not in the traditional sense (bear with me here, it’ll make sense in a minute.)

Back then Borch was known as Villen. As the sole heir of a very old, very rich, very influential family, he chose to use his family’s wealth and status to fund research into nuclear medicine, anticipating a nuclear war. From here, his interest in medicine and science compelled him to get involved in this field as more than an investor. Soon he would become known as a brilliant medic and savant and open a private laboratory equipped with the best technology there was, all within a secure vault.

Mere months before the Great War broke out, Villen met Myrthe, a fellow nuclear medicine scientist and single mother of a 4-year-old girl, Saskia. Villen and Myrthe became lovers quickly, but their newfound happiness wouldn’t last too long. Shit hit the fan and the war broke out while Myrthe was away on a business trip and had left Saskia in Villen’s care. The two of them found shelter in Villen’s vault, but even so, Saskia still became ill from the radiation.

Cue many long, painful years during which Villen did everything in his power to keep Saskia alive. Ultimately what it came to was exposing himself to radiation, promoting the ghoulification process and “lending” Saskia his very genetic code, re-programming everything and hoping that her body would gain the ability to fight back the radiation. Even that wasn’t sufficient to bring her to a stable state, however, and it was at this point when Villen decided to begin replacing the parts of Saskia’s body affected by the radiation with cybernetic implants.

Thus, Saskia became a cyborg, Villen a ghoul, and genetically speaking they’re more twins than father and daughter, but they do regard each other as such after everything they’ve been through.

Although she is over 200 years old, Saskia has been out and about in the world for a much shorter amount of time and she has the maturity and life experience of someone in their late 20s.

So that’s Saskia’s most closely-guarded secret-- she’s a very convincing cyborg passing as human.

[falloutdialogue]

Logs from the Railroad’s Leaders

After completing the main storyline with the Railroad ending, the PAM mainframe terminal will allow you to access terminal entries from the Railroad’s past leaders, revealing some more backstory. Wyatt was leader from 2266-2273, Pinky was leader from 2273-2277, Desdemona has been leader since 2277. Desdemona claims Wyatt’s reports are the ‘earliest surviving records of the Railroad's history.’ 

Wyatt (66-73)

2266 Nov

Gathered surviving runners, held an election. I lost, or won, depending on how you look at it. After the HQ massacre, most people simply left the Railroad. Only one person survived HQ, a runner named John D. He called out for volunteers to get some of the old files. No one stepped forward. My job is to rebuild the Railroad from scratch. I think where Agamemnon went wrong, is that HQ was known by too many people. I'm theorizing here, but once the Institute hit a safehouse and leaned on anyone the HQ would be easy to find. But how could Agamemnon know just how deadly those damned Coursers are? Current count: 13. 0 synths. How the hell do we rebuild from here?

2267 Feb

Got our first synth out of the Commonwealth last month. Threw one Hell of a party. What people don't know is another runaway was recaptured by the Coursers before we even got to them. John D has been finding tourists at a pretty good clip. But he keeps their identities to himself. Operational security he calls it. It makes me grind my teeth, but he's probably right. I think our whole organization needs to be more like a pyramid. A broad base of tourists that help out, mainly with information. Then the runners and safehouse owners in the middle. Then agents. Then HQ on top of that.

2273 Mar

A whole work crew of synths escaped together. Five synths at once. We're scrambling to keep them hidden. Coursers have been spotted looking for them. They found one of our safehouses, but no one there knew where our HQ is. John developed a dead drop system we've been using. Some vocal elements (Toby) say we should shut down. But that's a year and a half worth of synths.

Pinky (73-77)

2273 Dec

I just found Wyatt's journal. For whoever runs this outfit in the future, I figure you should know how we messed up. We were running the Workgroup Five out of the CW when Coursers found our HQ. Total shitstorm. Deacon (that's what he's calling himself now) had an escape route planned, and most of the survivors owe him their life. Wyatt didn't make it past the first hail of bullets. Something everyone should know: if one safehouse goes down assume that all Hell's coming for your ass, because it probably is. Always, always, ALWAYS assume the Institute has resources beyond what we can imagine. From now on only the heavies leave HQ. And we got to move our packages fast. This slow crap hurts more than it helps.

2275 Jun

Damn it. We got two synths, or packages as we're calling them now, out of the CW. Running the 3rd and a Raider gang caught them. Total blood bath. P.K. almost lost his package near Danvers, too. I kicked Deacon out of HQ, got sick of the lying, face-changing son of a bitch. That month he spent as a Ghoul freaked a lot of people out. Going to keep running hard.

2276 Jan

Lesson: move all packages outside the Commonwealth. Lamda 8 homesteaded off Parsons. She got married to a farmer. Coursers found her and it got bloody. Lost Lamda 8. Her wife almost bit the bucket, too. Courser spotted heading south (with company). Watts volunteered to track them.

2276 Sep

Desdemona is a real pain in the ass. Keeps harping on every little damned thing. Worse than Deacon and Carrington combined. We lost a safehouse and went to ground. SOP. Desdemona says I'm being sloppy. I'm getting sick and tired of leading these misfits.

Desdemona (77-)

2277 Dec

After we lost Trinity, Pinky Thompson stepped down. It took some persuasion. We held a vote on who should run the Railroad. It came down to me and Carrington. Might be a problem there. The doctor, Deacon, and I have been analyzing the many, many mistakes of Pinky. Our "batting average" is roughly 50/50. Only a few synths a year make it out. It's hard to keep motivated when failure is so epidemic. We're going to hit the fundamentals: operational security. Look outs, counter-intelligence, and compartmentalization. We need to reduce the response time to find a new synth runner.

2279

2 escapees. 1 loss. 2 reclaimed before interception. Added a new member to core HQ. Thomas Weatherby. An Institute grenade did a number on his family farm. He's rattled but very, very smart. Hoping he can arm us with something better than pipe pistols. Organization grown. Devised rail signs and improvements to dead drops. No Coursers spotted all year. Merry Christmas.

2280

One of our rescues, G7-81, took a strange turn. Most synths are traumatized and go through the procedure with Doc A. G7 opted out. Begged to join. Did some crazy stunts with High Rise at Ticon. Called her into the HQ. Promoted "Glory" to heavy. She's well suited for the role (perhaps too much so). Been working with Tom. Brilliant, but he's getting increasingly eccentric. Carrington says the stress is causing severe psychological problems. But he's too damned essential. God help me, I'm keeping him on. 2 escapes. No losses. 1 reclaimed. Quiet year. Less chrome domes in the field than the last two years. No idea why.

2281

Where to begin? Year started like shit. Coursers came out of nowhere. They found the Farm, lookouts only gave us 30 seconds of warning. Torched what we could, casualties light. Relocated to the Beast. Then one of the B team scouts, Tommy Whispers, made the find of the century. An old DIA facility, "Switchboard." Called him up to HQ (overdue), Glory's taken him under his wing (God help him). Tom relocated to the Switchboard or Facility X as he calls it. Then he sent an urgent message. My first meeting with P.A.M... Can't describe. She made some predictions, frighteningly accurate. Asked for data. Started feeding it to her. Very reluctant to help the cause. But after a long talk with Glory she's on board. No one knows what Glory said to PAM. Deacon jokes that PAM has a crush on Glory. Certainly PAM acts different when she's around. But there's nothing emotional about PAM. With PAM's prediction managed to anticipate a run-away. Year ended badly. We had a synth infiltrator at Mercer. Deacon caught her before P.A.M. But damage done. Blew the Beast and moved to Bolthole. Only an hour to spare before the coursers came. 2 escapees, 1 loss, 0 reclaims.

2282

Promoted Tommy to be our second heavy. Tom made him a custom pistol, the kid's frightening with it. P.A.M. has us running strange ops for data. She's not always right, but right enough to be a trap. Too tempting to rely on her predictions. One day Deacon recommended moth-balling her. Took an hour to talk him down. 2 escapees. Not many runners this year.

2283

One word: PATRIOT. Our second package of the year was different from the start. Didn't behave lost. Ran in a straight line to Diamond City. Old Man Stockton caught her before she caused too many waves. She wasn't supposed to be on the work detail and had a care package: a map, instructions, and a coded holotape. Tom's been useless all year trying to decode the damned thing. Third package sent straight to Diamond City again. Set up Old Man Stockton as the gatekeeper. Then a fourth came in after a week. All with care packages. All with more codes. Someone on the inside is helping us. Code-name PATRIOT. All told 5 escapees this year.

2284

An incredible year. Everything's coming together. Tom broke PATRIOT's code, said it was designed to be broken (whatever that means). Just two words, "Mass Fusion." Sent some recon there and found nothing. Found out later why. PAM's been trying to find the location of the Institute in earnest. Failing. Deacon's convinced the solution lies in the past, not future. Deacon already knows the big secret - we know nothing about the Railroad before Wyatt was in charge (or is Deacon Johnny D???). Deacon's been digging into Institute sightings from years, even decades before. Or at least, that's what he says. Getting really tired of all his lies. Coursers caught Package 7. Almost nailed Old Man Stockton, too. One of our scouts found Package 8 heading to Mass Fusion. The coded message he carried was another location, Prospect Hill. 8 escapees this year, 1 loss, 1 reclaimed.

2285

Busy. We're in Switchboard now. Bolthole went down on fire. Coursers getting very active. But, by God, we're rescuing synths. 9-2-1. Both of those 2 were from goddamned lynch mobs.

2286

A dry year. Coursers, work crews, and synths vanished for three months. No idea why. Worked on fortifying Switchboard. Deacon was barely here all year. Chasing ghosts. 4-1-0.

2287

PAM's errored out on trying to find the Institute. Took a good month to get her to run without crashing. Her being down hurt the numbers. We now have 12 safehouses and I don't even know how many people. Carrington worries we're getting too big. But in order to move all the synths PATRIOT's sending us we need places to hide them. Deacon working on secret project. Code-name Wanderer. Deacon has a wild theory and an even wilder plan (Tea Party). I agree there's something strange there, but I'm withholding judgment. 9-1-1.

[tothewaterhq]

ACCEPTED // ELIO ‘WILDER’ SARTORI

district seven → tribute → noah centineo fc

pronouns: he/him strengths: creative problem solver, strong, sneaky weaknesses: uneducated, easily distracted, gruff weapon of choice: railway spike token: red bandana with a yellow sun stitched in the corner

tw: child abandonment

did they volunteer? if so, why?: No, Wilder did not volunteer.

bio:

A cold night a little more than 18 years ago. Enter a young woman, wrapped in a black shawl, her feet bare and covered in brown dust. Her eyes are bright and wild. They dart back and forth as she sneaks through the lumber yard, crouching behind piles of logs every few seconds. The bundle of blankets held in her arms lets out a little noise and the young woman rocks the bundle quickly, her eyes filling with tears.

Quietly, her footsteps bring her to the open door of a train car that is filled with lumber. A pile of sawdust blankets the floor of the boxcar and she gently places the little bundle on a small pile of the pale yellow flakes of leftover wood. A sleeping baby holds tightly to the girl’s finger as she pulls back from the car. With a shaking hand, she moves the baby’s small fingers off of her own and bites back a sob.

The baby looks peaceful as his mother sheds tears. Her shoulders shake and she covers her eyes with her hand. The fingers on her hand are slender, but worked hard. The way she holds her body, even while tensed, looks tired and thin. She’s young, but she looks like she has seen so much already. “You will be better off without me,” she whispers to the little bundle, her hand moving to swipe a smear of dirt off of his forehead. A smaller handkerchief is wrapped around the little baby boy under the blankets. A little yellow sun is embroidered in the corner and his little hand clutches at the edges of it.

A kiss is placed on the baby boy’s forehead. “You will find a place where you can grow up right.” With her heart breaking, but her resolve strong, the young woman closes the door to the train car and runs out of the lumber yard.

An orphan was not necessarily a rare occurrence in District Seven. They were usually rounded up and put in an orphanage or sometimes adopted by sweet couples or small group homes. Fewer lived on the streets in the few towns in the District. Fewer still found small little homes in the forests that dotted the District. The most rare orphan was the one that would roam the District on trains, finding work and people in the new places that they ended up. Wilder was an orphan of the rarest variety.

He didn’t start out that way. As a baby and a toddler, Wilder had been an orphan of the most common variety. Maybe not in a conventional way, but he had been adopted by a family - it was just the railway workers of Train #0345 and Train #0923. They took him to the Justice Building when he was new to them to register him, but Wilder already was registered under a name that the workers weren’t allowed to know. His closest guardian, Boll, deemed him Wilder and that was the only name he had known.

As he grew, Wilder learned the ways of the railway and of the trains. He would sit up with the conductor on some trips or he would play with coal in the engine room. Wilder would drag the smallest pieces of lumber to the open train cars to help his family load during their stops throughout the District. He slowly learned his ABCs and his basic math, but otherwise his education was all about how to run a railyard and drive a train.

When he was about 8, the peacekeepers decided that it was inappropriate for such a young child to be working with the railroad workers. It was abrupt and out of the ordinary for them to care so deeply about one orphan kid running around the lumber yards and around the trains. Wilder remembered the look of anger on Boll’s face as he was rounded up and transported to the nearest orphanage. As he grew, Wilder realized that it must have been a punishment for one of his little family.

Wilder never made it to the orphanage, escaping the custody of the Peacekeepers and running back to the train yard, dismayed to see that the train had already left. He was now an orphan of a moderate variety. Wilder fell in with a little group of orphan kids who set up a little safe house in an abandoned storehouse at the edge of the town. He spent a couple of years with these kids, stealing what they needed and finding odd jobs to make a little bit of money. Wilder did not like stealing, but he knew he had to do it to survive.

Those five years were the worst of his life. He didn’t like the feeling of being stuck in one place. He missed the men and women who had raised him and let him explore and feel love. Every few days he would try and sneak back into the rail yard, but he didn’t have the skill to make it past the Peacekeepers that stood guard.

The year he turned 12, Wilder finally learned his real name. The Peacekeepers had rounded up all of the orphans, broadcasting that anyone that didn’t come to the Reaping would be hunted down and killed. Wilder was brought in and he was told his real name was Elio Sartori. They sounded like foreign words to Wilder. That wasn’t his name, it never really was.

When he turned 13, Wilder climbed the fence of the rail yard and snuck onto the back of a train. He was tailed by a young girl of 12 who thought life with Wilder would be better than life with the little orphan gang. The two of them rode the rails for the next 5 years together.

After jumping from train to train, riding back on the same lines and getting chased by various storekeeps, lumber yard workers, and Peacekeepers for a couple of years, Wilder and his young accomplice, Stefie, managed to find his old family. It should have been fast and easy, but so many obstacles stood in the way between Wilder and his little family. But, the euphoria was short-lived. Boll encouraged the two orphans to continue to jump from place to place, believing it was unsafe for them to be watched like he was being watched.

So, Wilder and Stefie went on their way, stopping in to see Boll and some of the other workers every few months when they passed on the rails.

Despite, the fact that Wilder and Stefie wouldn’t spend more than a month at a time in a place, their faces would become familiar to some of the residents in each town and they would be treated like long-lost regulars at some of their favourite places. The two orphans would take odd jobs where they could and find abandoned houses to sleep in while they worked where they could. Occasionally they would make camp in the forests to just enjoy the nature that surrounded them.

This changed after Wilder met a girl named Laurel. The train-hopping and wandering stopped while the two dated and fell in and out of love. Wilder came to the realization that while he loved the girl he was dating, he loved exploring and seeing new places more. He broke up with Laurel and with Stefie, the two set off again, taking some of the less used trains to more remote parts of the District.

His life was good, maybe better than he anticipated. It had been a year since he had walked out of Laurel’s life and back into his own. Stefie and Wilder were still moving from place to place, working (sometimes stealing when they absolutely had to) and living happily. Although, there were people that got on his nerves or prevented him from living the way that he wanted to, Wilder didn’t think much about what he didn’t have. He didn’t think much about the parents he never met and where he could have been. He also barely thought about the Hunger Games. But, maybe he should have paid more attention.

PLAYED BY // CASSIE

[monigheandonn1743]

Ceart-leth

Chapter 1

A delicate shiver ran down her spine and she took a deep, shuddering breath, surrendering herself to the simple beauty of the moment. It’d been years since she’d seen anything so moving and she lost herself, swaying gently with the soft voices, as the sights, sounds and smells swirled around her.

Outwardly ignorant to all but their task, the Druid dancers twirled and dipped around each another, and the ancient stones of Craig na Dun. Their movements so elegant that they appeared almost weightless as they weaved their magic, hypnotising the small crowd that had gathered to watch.

Synchronised to the last, the dancers fanned out gracefully, forming two flawless semicircles around the centre stone and stopped. Their delicate silk gowns, fluttering softly in the early morning breeze, were suddenly the only thing that moved. Silence descended, and there was a moment of breathless anticipation before the caller stepped toward the cleft stone and, as one, the dancers raised their arms, offering their torches in thanks to the heavens. It was a breathtaking sight, but it was the caller herself that had Claires skin erupting in millions of tiny goosebumps.

Palms stretched, she placed them flat on the ground and rose slowly, gracefully, like a Phoenix rising from the flames, seeming to draw the sunrise up with her from the very centre of the earth. It burst in bright rays of red, pink and orange through the cleft in the centre stone, blinding Claire and dropping everything it touched into momentary shadow.

How the hell did they time that so perfectly?

A warm ripple of applause rose from the small crowd but she was still spell bound. Lost in a trance, the ambiance having drawn her in, luring her towards a distant time. A simpler time, when the pagan myths that surrounded the fairy hill, were held more in truth than legend.

She could picture the camp fires and the highlanders surrounding them, decked proudly in their clan colours, singing uproariously in Gaelic. She could smell the heavy peat smoke and almost taste the warm, smooth whiskey as it trickled down the back of her throat.

She sighed in longing. The ritual and her rudimentary imagination made her nostalgic for her own simpler time. Those unorthodox years of her upbringing, immersed within one tribe or another, in the far flung corners of the globe. She’d spent her childhood living off the land and absorbed in rich local cultures. She’d been fascinated by the telling of legends, sat surrounded by new friends, their own fire pits glowing as she listened to one story after another. She missed the simplicity of that life, and silently cursed her uncle Lamb, one again, for forcing her out into modern civilisation.

Who needs a university education when you’ve had the whole world as your own personal school room?

“Well there’s two hours sleep I’ll never get back.” She blinked, coming out of her daze, and turned to face Frank, a deep scowl etched on her beautiful face.

Here we go again.

He’d moved from his own blanket to Claires, displacing Joe who had been sat beside her when they’d first settled down to watch. She shuffled further away from him.

“Nobody forced you to come,” she huffed, turning back to watch the dancers as they collected their belonging and merged seamlessly into the slowly retreating audience. “If you were that bored you could have gone back to the tents.”

She wanted to slip back into the moment. She’d been looking forward to this since she heard about the ritual months ago. In fact, her whole trip had been planned around it to ensure she was sat on this very hill at the dawn of the summer solstice. She would not let Frank Randell spoil it for her.

“I never said I was bored, I just don’t understand your fascination with this kind of…stuff.”

“How can you specialise in Scottish history and not appreciate folklore? The highlands were a breeding ground for superstition and legends, the two practically go hand in hand.” Joe argued as he pulled Gail between his legs and wrapped his arms around her.

Claire sighed and closed her eyes. This argument had come up more than once during their three week trip through the highlands and, like Frank himself, it was grating on her last nerve. How she was going to survive another two weeks without drowning him in a loch she’ll never know.

“I disagree,” Frank retorted hotly, “The history of the clans, the Jacobite armies, the annihilation of the Scottish way of life. They happened, they were real. Water horses and selkies and Godforsaken fairy hills were not.”

She growled low in her throat and scrambled to her feet. The bloody ignorant bastard was determined to ruin it for her, and though usually even tempered, she’d had enough. Giving her tartan blanket a swift tug, she pulled it from beneath Frank and snapped it through the air before bending to roll it up. The gradual slope of the hill had aided her attempt to displace him, and he toppled sideways onto the grass.

Serves him right.

Dickhead.

“To the people that lived in the highlands, those stories were as real as the barley growing in their fields. Most of them never travelled further than a days walk from their homes. They knew nothing of the world, folklore practically shaped their way of life, Frank. Jesus, I’ve never known a historian to be so bloody narrow minded!” She snapped finally loosing her patience.

“And I’ve never known a medical student to be so whimsical!” He snapped back as he stood and dusted the grass of his jeans.

“Whimsical?” She hissed, furiously. “Taking an interest and understanding local custom and cultures is not whimsical, it’s respectful. Disregarding them, on the other hand, is the height of ignorance and disrespect. If I expect to practice medicine in third work countries, where superstitious still runs rife, I think it’s more wise than whimsical to have a basic understanding of their beliefs.”

“Well said, LJ,” Joe nodded rolling his eyes as Frank threw his arms in the air and stormed off toward their camping ground.

“I don’t know why he even bothered coming on this trip at all. It’s not like he hasn’t toured Scotland before, and he knew full well we’d be visiting cultural sites as well as heritage.” She complained as she sank down against one of the outer stones, all the fight leaving her.

She was close to tears. Was it too much to ask for one day without being subjected to his…his…

“We all know why he came, LJ and it has nothing to do with his history major.” Gail whispered sympathetically.

“Ugh!” Claire buried her hand in her hands, and Joe laughed as he nudged her playfully with his shoulder. “As much as he likes to argue the contrary, he’s not in love with me. There’s nothing about me that he wouldn’t change given half the chance. That’s not love.”

“No, it’s not,” Joe sighed, tightening his grip on Gail. He knew first hand what love was, and Claire was right. Frank was obsessed with her, not in love.“Frank’s a good guy, and when he’s not being an ass, he’s a good friend. But he’s not the guy for you LJ. He’d suffocate you.”

“I know,” She agreed, raising her head to look at him, “and he’s starting to give me the creeps. I swear he was watching me when I was washing yesterday.” Joes eyebrows shot up and he cast a murderous glance at Franks retreating form.

“Do you want me to talk to him for you?” He growled, his teeth set on edge.

“No. I’m going to use the stream on the other side of the hill, if you wouldn’t mind keeping him occupied. I only managed to wash my extremities yesterday.” Joe looked from her stuffed rucksack to the last remaining spectators and it was Claires turn to roll her eyes. “I’ll wait until everyone’s gone.”

“Okay. Gail wanted to hike into Inverness for some essentials, I’ll drag him with us if you’ll be alright up here on your own?”

“I’ll be fine, thanks Joe, I really appreciate it.” She reached over and squeezed his arm in reassurance.

The truth was, she’d be more than fine. Living a mostly solitary existence, she was used to being on her own. After living in such close quarters with three other people for the last few weeks she was almost itching for some peace and quiet.

“Are you coming back down to the camp first?” Gail asked, though she already knew the answer. Claire was in her element out here in the wilderness, like a caged bird who’d spread their wings for the first time. She’d never known her to be so content, and she hadn’t noticed until this trip just how out of place Claire was in a bustling city.

She was a feminine version of Bear Grylls, completely at one with nature.

“No, I want to explore the stones, I’ll go back to camp after I’ve cleaned up.”

Gail smiled and, wiggling out of Joes grasp, she pushed to her feet and offered him a hand to help him raise.

“Come on, lets leave Claire in peace and go deal with our misguided Casanova.”

Claire laughed and accepted Joes brief kiss on her cheek before watching her two closest friends wander away. Hands linked and swinging softly between then, they whispered and laughed as they walked idly down the side of the hill. She let out a sigh before quickly pulling out her phone and snapping a candid picture of the pair.

Joe and Gail were soul mates. They’d grown up in the same small town in Boston, but hadn’t met until they moved to Oxfordshire and walked into the same pre med classroom at oxford university. It was almost love at first sight and they’d been together ever since.

While not altogether envious, Claire couldn’t help a small wistful prang. She’d dated a few guys since her return to civilisation seven years ago, but not one had lasted past a couple of stilted dates and awkward goodnight kisses. She never experienced the excitement or the nervous butterflies she’d read about, or seen first hand with Gail, and she was starting to wonder whether she was destined to spend her whole life alone.

Shaking off her moroseness she put her phone away, spread out her blanket again and lay back. It was still early, really early, and she had hours to kill before anyone would expect her back at camp.

Taking a deep breath, she let herself relax. She hadn’t really stopped for months. With her placement at the hospital, end of year exams, planning the trip, and spending the past three weeks touring one historical site after another, she was exhausted. Yes, they took breaks during the day, but there was conversation and games, plans to make and supply trips to complete. Not to mention Franks unerring advances to thwart. This was the first chance she’d had to really be alone and she basked in it.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, her eyes drifted closed. She wasn’t sleeping, not really. She just drifted from one light doze to the next allowing the stillness of the day to completely wash over her. When she felt the gnawing pangs of hunger, she pulled a granola bar out of her bag and sat up to take in the view. It was so beautiful out here, the only signs of human life, being the electric pylons that scarred the mountainsides.

Part of her dreaded going back to Oxfordshire, and if it wasn’t for her desperate need to be of aid to some of the communities she’s spent her childhood amongst, she’d be tempted to disappear back into the wilderness.

Sighing, she shoved her empty wrapper back in to her bag, rolled up her blanket, attached it to the bottom of her rucksack and pushed to her feet. She wanted to take in as much of the stone circle as she could before it became too hot and it was already almost eleven o’clock.

They hadn’t anticipated a rare British heatwave when they planned this trip, and with the afternoons being too hot and humid to do more than vegetate beside a river or loch, they were cramming in as much sight seeing as they could in the early mornings.

Hiking her heavy pack onto her shoulders she moved around the outer edge of the circle, studying the formation with awe. She’d seen her fair share of stone circles, but there was just something about the massive granite rocks of Craig na Dun.

They called to her somehow.

They were more rustic then any she’d seen before, almost as if they’d stood there for as long as time itself. It was easy to see why the highlanders of old thought it a portal for fae and other mythical creatures. There was definitely a magical element to the place.

Gently, as though it might crumble beneath her touch, she ran her fingers across the first stone. Despite the warm weather, it was icy to the touch and she shivered in response. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling and she sought it out again and again as she moved from one stone to the next, examining, touching, admiring.

To an outside observer she would have appeared as though she was lost in a world of her own, but she was very much present, taking in every scar and crevice of the ancient granite.

They were magnificent.

A welcome, cool summer breeze picked up as she moved within the circle and the air seemed to hum at a pitch just out of hearing range, but she could feel it. It vibrated through the very marrow of her bones drawing her towards the centre stone. She raised one tentative hand, then the other, almost afraid to touch it, but powerless to stop herself.

As her palms made contact, one on either side of the cleft, the stone screamed. It was a heart wrenching scream of unimaginable agony, that burned through her like wildfire, incinerating everything in its path. It was as though she could feel the exact moment that the ancient granite was ripped apart and now the same forces were attempting to sever her soul, to consume it, to destroy it.

She was paralysed with fear. Everything she’d known, everything she was, everything she could be, was slowly being consumed by the flames. Everything was gone, there was no anchor to tether her to the earth. No point of light drawing her to safety. No home or love or dreams to fight for. She was truly alone, free falling into the abyss and, helpless, she surrendered and let the darkness take her.

Chapter 2 

[imaginecoderealize]

I recently found your blog, and I have to say the headcanons are lovely. +1 follower ^^. How about headcanons about being siblings to Lupin's crew (or more characters if you wish)? (Younger or older is up to you)

Thank you for your kind words. Mod Apostle is pleased to answer your request! This is long, so it is going behind a cut.

Lupin was a street kid with no memory of his parents. His fellow urchins were his family. He had a special bond with one, a little girl a few years younger than himself with the same golden eyes. She was cute and harmless looking. No one guessed how quick her little fingers were or how keen her eye was for the sign of hidden valuables. Lupin was a little jealous of the little girl’s skill, but also proud that he had been able to teach her so much. She called him “mon grand frère” “my big brother.” She shadowed him everywhere when they weren’t working. He grumbled about her following around sometimes, but in truth he didn’t mind too much. He realized she was as important as a little sister to him. 

When he met his teacher, she was growing up, too. Becoming too pretty and eye catching to be as good a thief as she was as a cute, scrappy little girl, so she started dressing as a boy and became even better. As he spent more time with his teacher, the two began to go their separate ways. He last saw her on the day he left for England. She promised to see him again someday… as a rival! 

He keeps an eye out for her. Expecting to someday see those same golden eyes looking back at him from some genius disguise, as they both reach for the same jewel!

Van: Van had a frail little brother. Van loved him very much and always diligently nursed him back to health when he was sick. Though he didn’t understand why the  meals he cooked for him didn’t seem to help very much, despite the care he put into them. When his brother was healthy the two were rarely apart. Van liked to read him fairytales and his brother would sketch while Van read. He wanted to be a painter when he grew up. Van had no artistic gifts himself, but always tried to support his brother however he could without… much… complaint. His brother found the archery and play fighting Van enjoyed tedious, but he sometimes participated to enhance his strength. 

He didn’t want Van to go join the military. He had a bad feeling about it. He gave Van a sketch of himself and their mom on the day he left. Van told him he would send money so he could pursue his art and take care of their mom without worrying about not having enough to eat. His brother made him promise to write frequently, and not to be too sad if they couldn’t see each other again for a long time. 

Van waved at his brother from the train. That was the last he saw of him. But, much later, he learned that his brother’s skill as a painter had improved, and his handful of works were in high demand and  very valuable. Van takes some small comfort in the fact that part of his brother’s spirit lives on in his art. 

Fran: Fran has three boisterous younger sisters, two of them identical twins. Fran spent much of his childhood trying to find a peaceful place to read and study away from their calamitous fighting and noise. He was absolutely convinced that his parents had them for the purpose of frustrating his goals to become a great alchemist. The twins in particular fought constantly. He wasn’t the most patient older brother until his youngest sister, a little quieter and cleverer than the twins, took a liking to watching him perform experiments. She was 6 years younger than him, but he began giving her simple tasks of writing numbers in his book and measuring harmless ingredients. She was an able little lab assistant, and the two became very close. The family was divided by the twins on one side and Fran and his youngest sister on the other, with the two sides rarely able to come to an understanding. The twins stayed close, got married to a set of twin brothers and settled down to raise their families. Fran sees them only occasionally over the holidays. Fran and his youngest sister continued to pursue their scientific dreams. With Fran wanting to become an alchemist, and his sister a doctor. Fran is very proud of his sister’s accomplishments and the two write and meet as often as their very busy lives allow. 

Impey: Impey and his older brother were separated when their parents died. His brother was taken in by distant family in another vampire village in northern Scotland, being the more promising and well liked of the two. After the war, Impey assumed that his brother had died as so many others had, but like Impey, he was traveling when his village was attacked and was one of only a handful of survivors. He was sure his brother had perished upon learning the fate of his hometown. Impey’s brother has a more serious personality than Impey, but he is also smart and kindly. He helped a small cluster of survivors who were destined to freeze and starve in the wilderness to build cozy cabins and arrange food for themselves. In time he became the mayor of their village. 

It wasn’t until Van and Delly began gathering the vampire survivors that Van met Impey’s much more tolerable brother in the snug little village. Van told him that his brother was still alive. He was astonished and very happy. A few months later the brothers finally got to meet after nearly twenty years. While they are very different people with different lives they stay in touch and Impey went to stay in his brother’s village for awhile to bring them technology to help them live better lives. Impey’s brother promised to come to watch Impey take his rocket to the moon. 

Saint: Saint has no memory of his birthplace or family, but he wasn’t truly born a slave. He lived with his older brother and family on a dry hillside in western Mesopotamia, where his family had dwelled for thousands of years. 

In each generation a wisdom keeper was designated, and Saint was clearly the best choice in the village, being possessed of a extraordinary intellect and brilliant spirit from birth. His 10 years older, sturdier brother looked nothing like Saint, being of darker complexion and having a much heavier build. He was Saint’s guardian, protector and playmate. He loved his gentle, delicate, genius little brother with all his heart. He taught him to read and write, though Saint quickly surpassed him. Above all he protected Saint from all harm. 

When the slavers came he tried to hide Saint in the back of their sacred cave, but he cried when his brother tried to leave and the slavers heard them and took them. 

Saint’s mind shut down after the horrors of what the king’s slavers did to his village and their parents. Saint no longer recognized his brother when he awoke in a pen of other dirty children. It hurt him, but he still did all he could to protect Saint… though in the end there was nothing he could do, and Saint was purchased. 

Years later, when all slaves were assigned to build the king’s tower, the brothers met again. Saint’s brother’s heart broke at the shadow of suffering and trauma he saw in his eyes. Still, he provided him with what few small thing he had been able to steal back from their captors, and a knife to protect himself. He made sure to take twice the load, since he knew that the life Saint had led did not prepare him for hard labor. They nearly made it to the end when one of the slave drivers caught Saint’s brother doing Saint’s work and decided to put him to death as an example. As he died he prophesied that the tower would fall before the next full moon and they would all die. It was a prediction that turned out to be very true. 

….. thousands of years later, the artifacts Saint’s brother gave him will lead him to discover his lost past and true identity. 

Nemo: The story of Nemo’s siblings is as sad and tragic as Saint’s and Van’s. I think we’ve hit critical levels of sad already. So, let’s look at Nemo and his adoptive little sister Cardia! Nemo, in awe of the glory of the science that created her, Nemo once asked if she would be his sister. Her first inclination was to tell him to get lost, but something in his pitifully pleading manner made her feel almost sorry for him. Reasoning that she needed any help she could get, she warily told him that, yes, he could call her his sister. 

The effect was… even louder and more violent than she had remotely anticipated. But… somehow, she thought he genuinely appreciated it somewhere under the histrionics, and she warily decided to embrace the opportunity. 

Finis was predictably bitter and disgusted, and Aleister amused by the turn of events.  Nemo declared them both wonders of science! Isaac’s daughter and his star pupil! He still obnoxious and loud, but he perhaps didn’t call her a soulless doll as often and was a little less callus about her situation. She decided to ask him questions about her father, hoping to learn more about him. She became adept and decoding his rambles and learned a great deal that helped her defeat her father. 

After Isaac was defeated and Finis saved, Cardia had a new problem- an unexpected new family member who still very much considered her his little sister. She didn’t quite know how to push him away, so she dutifully visited him in prison and brought him homemade cookies and milk. She thought he even became quieter, seeming as if he understood more than she thought possible. She even enjoyed her visits sometimes. Once he shocked her by giving advice. All in all she began to think being Nemo’s sister, even if it annoyed Finis, wasn’t so bad. 

….until he finally got out of prison and decided he would live with Cardia and her newlywed husband. 

It was… not an ideal situation. To put it lightly. There are times a newlywed definitely doesn’t want her “brother” popping up. He was a little too good at that. It took time, but he became marginally less obnoxious, and they settled him in a cottage with a huge science lab to play in. Both Cardia and her husband were very grateful that he was occupied. He still came over frequently from then on. Everyone in the gang called him Cardia’s big idiot brother. 

….

And that’s it! Please let us know if you would like anything else! 

—Mod Apostle

[succinct-assbutt]

Ghosts From The Past.

Pairing: Sam x Reader, mentioned and potential Dean x Reader.

Request:  “Honestly you're my favorite writer on here and I'm surprised you aren't super popular. I was wondering if you could write something where the reader is one of Sam's college friends and they used to be a hunter and had a fling with Dean before they met Sam. If you don't want to that's cool. Have a great day!!!"

Warnings: none.

A/N: First time writing Sam and it came out not so horrible (..i hope?)

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She’s impossible to be around like this.

 For most of exam season it’s the same: late nights, the apartment reduced to a den of empty cans of monster and red-bull in every corner, worksheets askew the room and the only illumination being the robotic glow of her laptop screen onto her face.

 When Sam gets home from his lecture Thursday night, ruddy-faced and starved of sleep, he finds her on the couch in their living room, fingers clacking against the keys of her computer. The apartment is tiny. Only a few square meters and their kitchen is practically the same breathing space, separated only by a marble counter.

 Y/N’s eyes flick up at the sound of the door clicking open. He shrugs off his coat and dumps it on the table.

 “Hey.” She smiles at him, but it doesn’t meet her eyes; she’s just as tired he can see, the exhaustion written out in the dullness of the her skin and effort it takes just looking up from her screen, and he crosses the room in three long strides, settling down beside her with a sigh.

 Sam pulls her in, kissing the top of her head. “Working?”

 “Yeah.” Y/N sighs, gaze drifting to the opened tab before her. “Theology exam tomorrow.”

 “You know that whole last minute revision doesn’t work? Believe me, I know first-hand.”

 “It’s not last-minute.”

 Sam almost laughs at her stubbornness as she shuts her laptop and leans into him like it’s been an anticipation all day. She curls against his side, shutting her eyes as his hand swoops around her shoulder.

 “Do you think I’ll do well…”

 “I don’t know.” Sam’s voice just barely scratches the silence around them, hoarse and drenched in exhaustion. “With the way you’ve been studying I’m sure it’s nothing to be afraid of. Just relax.”

 “Kind of hard to do. It’s finals.”

 “It’s just an exam.”

 “Yeah, and my college fund is just money.”

 He knows how antsy she gets when it comes to school; for all the time they’ve known each other, wound together by fate, Sam’s witnessed all the breakdowns and bitten nails and ink stains on her skin, almost like, overwhelmed with knowledge, the words were diffusing themselves to the surface. And in a way he’s always envied her devotion because it’s talent just picking yourself up after a failure, he knows that much.

 Both of them have had a long day. Sam stands and leads them into the bedroom, the gentle lull of crickets and traffic acting as their lullaby as they lay down to sleep. Y/N attaches herself to his side and he lets her, feeling a warmth settle over them like a cloak. A comfort settles in his chest. Miles away from Kansas, but he can’t remember ever feeling more at home.

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He completely forgot to tell her Sam realizes. A little too late.

 It’s three weeks into April and he’s juggling lectures and assignments with what little time he has for himself spent studying when the thought strikes him. In the comfort of their kitchen, stirring a pot of noodles, the younger Winchester feels his muscles tense up. He glances back at Y/N—with the exams over she can finally put her feet up, and she lays sprawled out across the sofa, socked feet suspended in the air as the record-player buzzes.

 He’s not sure where to start.

 He got the call about a week ago. It was alarming and new and he’d just stepped out of one of Mr. Linley’s lectures, expecting anything but his phone to go off. Not to mention, before then, they hadn’t spoken for—what? Eight months? Brother or not, Dean wasn’t one for keeping in touch when he felt slighted.

 And that was the odd part.

 The call hadn’t been stilted and painful. Sam remembers it clearly: the baritone of his brother’s voice, the nonchalance that wafted between them like it hadn’t been ages since they talked. Like there was anything but poignant memories and resentments between them. And then Dean had dropped the bomb—a visit.

 When dinner’s ready Sam takes the pan off the stove and flicks the flame off. He carries it to the dining table, setting down their bowls, lobbing full ladles of stew into the dishes like this is the domestic life he was built for—he knows it’s a ruse. If second thoughts about his destiny weren’t already uprising thoughts then this whole situation has just set the freight-train on its tracks.

 Because there’s always been the stubborn inkling of doubt that tells him his hands are just too bloody, and his heart too heavy, and his past too dark to pretend he’s fit for anything other than hunting.

 “Pasta again,” Y/N looks up at him, a shimmer in her eyes and lips rested in a gentle smile. “Not that I’m complaining, but don’t you get tired of all the carbs?”

 Sam glances up at her, then laughs as he settles down. “Do you?”

 “Sometimes.” He picks at the skin of his palm and she teases, mouth curved like a Nike tick.  “It wouldn’t kill for us to try something fancier—bake turkey strips with potatoes? Fillet mignon?”

 “Peanut butter sandwiches—the possibilities are endless.”

 “Samuel…”

 “Y/n.”

 The coil in his chest finally snaps and Sam finds the courage to look up at her.

 His voice has turn solemn and low. Moonlight seeping in through the curtains paints the girl in front of him luminescent and glassy, like she’s a mirage, some wicked dream his mind’s conjured up to play a trick on him—and it sure feels like it.

 Swallowing, he pushes his food away and straightens out.

 Y/N’s waiting, her food untouched. It’s sudden and foreign and he can trace the worry in her lulled voiced.“What is it?”

 “I have something to tell you. Don’t worry, it’s not…” He shuts his eyes, breathes. The words come clumsy and jagged. “It’s not bad, just—maybe a little out of the blue? Y/N, you remember Dean, right?”

 “Your brother.”

 “Right. Well a few weeks ago…” Sam tells her everything; he tries not to come across as overbearing with the suggestion and laces his words with careful undertones he hopes will convince—law-school’s taught him the art of sweet-talking (maybe even manipulating?) and in the end he feels he’s made a decent enough argument.

 Because Y/N looks at him, lip tugged between her teeth and face twisted like she’s registering his words—not disregarding or judging. No. Just…understanding.

 His brother visiting?

 “I thought you guys had some sort of beef going on?” It’s a vague memory but she remembers Sam mentioning it: a hotheaded brother and the ties he’d severed just to come here. An absence of a father gave way for their relationship to root itself and flourish. Until law school came. Y/N and the life he built himself, Sam says, convincing himself more than anyone else. There was the decision to study and the stark difference between the people either of them had grown into. And then somewhere amidst the turmoil of their relationship she’d met his brother.

 Lime-green eyes and constellations on his cheeks and hands layered with thick callouses. Dean was everything she’d expected him to be—a little too much. A little too rough around the edges, a little too complicated and broken little boy and she’d welcomed him into their hole-in-the-wall-home because he was her friend’s brother.

 Neither of them knew what would come from it.

 There wasn’t any way that they could—Dean with his bright eyes and lopsided smiles he’d throw at any girl and her, taken up by school. No one would have guessed; not even Y/N, hungry hands clawing at the hem of his shirt one night, not six shots down and looming on the edge of bad decisions while Sam was out studying for a final.

 Y/N hasn’t told her boyfriend this.

 Not for the past couple of months. She’s not sure she can. Sam is kind and patient and nothing like her, and maybe that’s why she was so drawn to his brother—calloused from a life on the road, one scratch away from caving into himself. Y/N remembers Dean. Not that she wants to. It’s more of a guilt than a fondness.

 And it shows the next day when they’re at the airport, a pit yawning open in her stomach.

 In the distance they can the planes descend with a whistle, heightened by the chatter of intercoms and travelers moving through transit.

 With her arm looped through his, she keeps close to her boyfriend. There’s a sea of people blocking out the gate from the arrivals section, and, watching Sam stretch his neck for a better view, she tugs on his sleeve.

 He glances down at her and Y/N strains a smile. “Do you see him?”

 “Not yet.” He answers. His gaze shifts back to the gate and her own eyes follow his in wait of the elder Winchester.

 If she remembers right, Dean hates flying. Sam’s mentioned it before and she even got hear it right from the horse’s mouth that one time they were driving to Michigan for spring break, so it’s a wonder what got him on the plane here in the first place.

 They stay close as travelers scud by. She clings onto Sam’s arm, more out of anxiety than fear of crowd and it only takes a few seconds before she feels the hammering in her chest halt at the sight of Dean.

 It’s a fraction of a second. She doesn’t have time to respond, anyway—Sam’s already tugging on her arm, moving towards the gates, and she swallows as they cross through the crowd. Dean hasn’t changed; he looks wilder, hair askew and stubble-jawed and there’s traces of fear still prominent in his green gaze, but it suddenly melts away once he sees his baby brother

 The younger Winchester’s face splits into a smile as he goes in for a hug, chuckling. “Finally.”

 “Tell me about it.” Dean pulls away, mouth quirked at the corner before his focus slides to her.

 Y/N tries not to stare, but it’s impossible. There’s a stiffness in her back. A reluctance running through her. The elder Winchester eyes rake over her like he’s trying to remember if he knows her and she can’t blame him considering how long it’s been.

 “Is this…”

 “You remember, Y/N, right?” Sam wraps an arm around her shoulder warmly, the skin on her arms prickling.

 “Y/N...” Dean draws out the name with his eyes narrowed; she’s sure he does, it reads in his green gaze, but the confirmation is a delayed ‘ah’ and nod. “Yeah—yeah, freshman year, let you stay at her dorm.” He finally smiles. “Hey.”

 “I didn’t tell you but we’ve been dating for a while.” Sam says and shrugs. “So…surprise.”

 “Dating?”

 “A lot’s happened in the past couple of years—don’t worry, we can catch up on the way to the dorm, but we should get going. Traffic and all.”

 “Rush hour.” Y/N supplements.

 Dean’s eyes shift to her briefly. She’s sure she catches a feint confusion swimming in bloodshot green, but if there’s anything to it, he doesn’t say. There’s not time to. A lot swimming in his head mixed with the panic from the flight and they’re trying to dodge the chaos on the roads, so instead she strains a smile and they begin moving.

Lugging his bag onto his back, he follows Sam out the airport, but as Y/N trails closely behind she can feel the pit in her stomach growing wider...

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It’s been over a month since this request was sent in and I’m an actual tool for posting this late, but I wanted to be as content with it as possible.

I hope you enjoyed this, anon! I’m still figuring out Part 2 and what comes next but feel free to message me and give some ideas of what you want to happen next.

Likes, reblogs and follows are greatly appreciated (a little less than 100 away from my next thousand so ayye); despite my irregular posting schedule I do take requests lol. My inbox is always open.

Thank you for reading!

[justbarrymawonga]

The Tetramancer Part I

It has been seventeen summers since the event. I was only a laaite when it happened so I don’t remember much about the world before, the old world. I never understood that phrase ‘old world’ that is what my pa and Uncle Bob always called it whenever they reminisce about their lost old world. If their world is old than this one is new but this is not a ‘new world’. 

This world I live in, is dying so it can’t be new, this is the only world I ever knew. People say there will be a day when the messiah comes; he will have the power to push back and eventually defeat the Morphs. No one person can say for sure what exactly the Morphs are, if you would believe the stories the Morphs are probably fallen angels, demons from hell, dinosaurs that were hibernating, aliens, people from the future blah… blah forsaken blah.  

The point is the stories are endless and there is no way to be sure of what the Morphs exactly are, we call them Morphs because supposedly  they can change their shape. No one is sure about this too, our biggest concern has always been survival. There are very few humans left; the few of us, who still hold a sliver of their sanity, live in pods. Yeah, that’s right we call ourselves pods now. Stupid, I know but not the point. 

These ‘Pods’ cannot be allowed to be bigger than 50 humans. That amount of people will attract Morphs even this far south, and raiders won’t attack a big enough pod so the number fifty is defense and camouflage from both Morphs and Raiders. No one in our pod I know has ever killed a Morph, but that’s not saying much because I never actually seen a Morph. Uncle Bob says that the only way to kill a Morph is with gold, I don’t exactly know what Gold is but uncle Bob told me it’s a shiny metal dug from the earth, with a golden color. It is supposed to be really rare I don’t think anyone in our pod has actually seen gold, even before the event none in the pod had seen gold, maybe on their televisions. 

The Pod lives in the Fish River Canyon, the world second largest canyon, or so my Pa told me. I never left this Canyon. This is all that I know, so saying things like the world’s second largest means nothing to me because this is my world. We have a stream of fresh water, we have some goats and there is game to hunt. Our lives are relatively comfortable, since we moved here thirteen summers ago we have only been attacked by Raiders twice and never by Morphs. I lived a charmed life. Sure a charmed life, in a post-apocalyptic world. But why do I feel like all that is about to end? Well, maybe it’s because it is about to end. Maggie is and has been pregnant for the past nine months and right now she has been in labour for the last  seven hours. When she does bring that bundle of joy out, the population of our pod will officially be 51 humans, 17 goats, 8 cattle, 7 horses and 5 donkeys. One of those numbers has to be 50 at all times, meaning someone has to go.

That someone is going to be me. I am what our pod calls none essential. I am a writer, not much use in that, in writing. I can’t mend fences, heard cattle, tend the garden or even ride a donkey. All I am good at is writing and telling stories late at night for the pod. I am pretty sure telling a story around a camp fire is indeed none essential. I can’t blame Pa. I never picked up on these kinds of things. I tried so hard to learn but I kept messing up.

   My bags are packed, my clothes are dry and my knife is sharpened (All the good that will do me). By day break I will head north to the old city Windhoek. My Pa says there is nothing left in the city, only ghost stories of Familiars and Enhanced. Familiars are humans that are willing slaves to the Morphs, they crave the power of the Morphs, pathetic if you ask me.

The Enhanced however are the ruthless to the Familiars pathetic, technically Enhanced started off as human too but now they are some grotesquely mangled creatures from the imaginings of a rather creative writer maybe Stephen King level.  They feast on anything and everything in their path. Wait a minute so why was I going to a place where these things roamed, the reason was simple I am a writer I need adventure and frankly my life is super boring.

  Maybe I will find myself or perhaps far more likely die a horrible death. Right now either option seems more appealing than living the remainder of my unremarkable life in the wilderness with people who thought of me as a burden. If that’s the case I would rather be my own burden- or die. Yep those were my two options live or die. Sun was about to rise I had to get going. As I was about to leave my poor man’s excuse of a room there was a knock on the door. ‘May I come in Son’ it was Pa. I didn't say anything but he came in anyway. He saw my packed bags. 

For a moment I thought my Pa came to stop me, but the look on his face showed relief. That only fueled my resolve. I won’t beg to stay I will leave with my head held high. I was tempted to lash out and ask Pa what he wanted, but I didn't want to leave here with a blacked eye or missing teeth, so I waited for Pa to speak again. The man had a temper. ‘Son, I tried to teach you as best as I could.’ His way of saying you sucked at everything and you are probably going to die because you never learned properly.  ‘I wanted to give you this…’ he pulled out something that was wrapped in a raggedy old towel. As he unraveled the raggedy old towel I saw a silver barrel of something I only saw once. Once it was completely in the open Pa picked up his Smith & Wesson Model 500. Pa told me his Pa gave it him when he was two years younger than me and that there were only 7 that were made in the world. Again a fact that means nothing to me, so what there were only seven, wouldn't that mean finding bullets for this gun would be even more improbably after the apocalypse? Pa had a tear in his eye not because he was about to watch me walk out of his life for good but because he was giving away this virtually useless hunk of metal. I felt like saying sarcastically ‘Geez thanks Pa that’s very nice of you’ but my fear of a blacked eye and/ or missing teeth was too great.  So I just nodded and put the gun in my backpack.

  I walked out the room without embracing my pa or saying a word. I walked all the way to the kraal and Kubis almost stopped me but Sister Merriam told him it was okay I could take a horse. Which surprised me because I was expecting to take the old ass Ousie, no one would miss her but an actual horse. That stunned me so much that I stuck to my original choice and made the correct movements to mount Ousie. Sister Merriam looked at me so intensely that when I looked back at her, her gaze melted away so quickly that I assume she must have thought me as worthless as the ass I was mounting, maybe slightly more worthless.

‘Come on Ousie’ I said trying to steer the stubborn and confused ass to the gates of the community. Ousie moved after what seemed to be an eternity of waiting for a reaction. One by one the members of the pod came out of their houses to see me leave. There wasn't a sort of sadness in the air not the kind you would expect to find in place where they were saying goodbye to their beloved acquaintance as he or she is leaving town to go to war or on a journey of self-discovery .There was no melancholy, no regret not even worry just this desperate expectation, that wanting, nay that hoping that I would leave and never come back.

I would love to say that this only fueled my resolve more but it didn't, it hurt I knew these people all my life and here they were wanting me to leave so badly. That intense burn in my throat, eyes and chest made me grab the harness tighter as me and Ousie made our slow creep out of the community. The only thing I felt was dread and hope. Hope that somebody would call out to me and say ‘Hey man where do you think you are going? Stay, we all know that you having to leave is nothing but a rubbish rule.’

But alas there was no such luck. As I got closer to the communities gates I could feel the anticipation welling up in the air like a storm cloud after a particularly hot week. Just as the gate-men were opening the gates I heard hurried footsteps running towards me. I did not want to turn and see who it was lest it be only a figment of my, as determined useless, imagination.   But as I was trying to convince myself that I must be hearing things I heard the voice of the hurried footsteps screaming ‘Wait!’ and in that instant hope forced its way back into my throat and made me want to scream out crying ‘Oh God yes thank you. I don’t want to go’ I could feel the other people in the community hold their breaths. Praying even, that I do not even dare try to obey the voice and wait. 

Before I could decide on anything the old ass Ousie obeyed and waited as the footsteps drew nearer. It was our oldest resident Axel. He is the second most none essential person in our pod, remember me being the first. As he reached the backside of Ousie, Axel just stood grabbing the saddle trying to catch his breath. The anxiety of the pod just grew fouler. Threatening to turn maybe violent, maybe?  

These people were afraid and their way of life was being threatened if I stayed. Fear has a diabolical way of turning into anger and hate, the longer and harder it clings to the hearts of men. And these people only knew their fear. Their hearts and minds would not have to strain hard to find that anger and hate. It was fermenting in the darkest parts of their collective heart.  Axel just stood their gasping for air. Still holding the saddle Axel pulled out a scarlet envelop from his raggedy and, I should add real, smelly jacket. 

He looked at me and said in the most nonchalant way ‘Can you deliver this letter for me boy?’ I have no idea why the next words came out of my mouth ‘Sure, Axel. I will, where do I deliver it?’  ‘Give it to a lady called Ursula Queen. ’ I was stumped and as many stumped people before me I muttered ‘Okay…?’  

[allenarabella]

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