#life is only a borrowing of bones. / echo thread.

[shrinkthisviolet]

Director’s commentary for "there will come a soldier (who carries a mighty sword)"?

Finally getting around to this 😅 hi! I’m happy to talk about this one.

So this is the installment taking place during the Kenobi show, and really the first one I planned since I came up with Lucy while watching the Kenobi show. It changed, of course, because during the show’s run, I entertained the idea of Lucy tagging along with him, befriending Leia that way. That didn’t pan out, mostly because it didn’t really make sense for Obi-Wan to take such a risk with a Skywalker child when the Larses were pretty capable of taking care of her for a while. Though you can see the bones of that in Lucy and Leia’s meeting, which is an aspect I wanted to keep (and really, the only reason I considered having Lucy tag along on the adventure).

By the episode where Reva came after Luke, I’d figured out that I wanted Lucy with Luke when it happened. That scene of Lucy standing protectively in front of an unconscious Luke, shielding him from Reva, is one of the first clear images of this AU that I had. It’s so very Lucy, so pivotal to her relationship with Luke. She’ll put her life on the line for him without hesitation, and that’s something that carries forward.

Another common thread of their relationship is Luke’s tendency to soothe/protect her. Even though they’re the same age, he sometimes feels older, and feels like he has to protect her…Lucy will often insist that’s her job, not his, but every once in a while, she’ll let him do it (just like every once in a while, he’ll let her do it without a fuss). An example is here, in this fic, when Luke is soothing Lucy back to sleep when Reva’s attacking the homestead (of course, he thinks it’s just Tuskens)…and Lucy’s so exhausted that she lets him.

This was also a nice chance to borrow a little from Fialleril’s Tatooine worldbuilding, regarding Amatakkan and the culture of Tatooine! I find their worldbuilding very compelling, and I was glad for the chance to include some of it 💞 and for the chance to distinguish Luke and Lucy’s names, because although they’re nearly the same name in English, I wanted to make it clear that they were different names in Amatakkan and Nabooian, and Luke was named for his Amatakkan meaning (“free”), while Lucy was named for her Nabooian meaning (“lion”).

The title is, of course, from “Soldier, Poet, King”, and the title refers to Obi-Wan 🥰 Lucy really looks up to him. Though really, in this fic, she’s the one inspiring him! Obi-Wan’s journey to hope is propelled by two little girls 💞

This fic is also one that has echoes: the memory of that night stays with Lucy, Obi-Wan calls it a “dream” to keep from traumatizing her too much. Lucy inspires Obi-Wan, and Leia later inspires him too. Lucy meets a friend who will turn out to be a) her impetus to join the fight, and then Lucy herself is Luke’s reason to join, and b) her sister, though she doesn’t know for a while. Lucy and Luke’s bond is strengthened (it will, of course, fracture when they’re 18, but few things like their bond can be torn apart so easily). And of course, Reva…her involvement in the triplets’ lives may not be over just yet 😉

(Pretty sure canonically she’s not dead, so 🤷‍♀️)

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[rune-echos]

The Flow

The city whispered the secret in the thrumming of its forgotten veins. Not an audible sound, but a vibration that wormed its way into the bones of the lost, the seekers yearning for a truth that shredded the fabric of sanity. It was a call only they could hear, a resonance with the ancient pulse that beat beneath the streets, in chambers older than the stones of the Earth itself.

The descent was never planned. One step led to a forgotten stairwell, then a crumbling passage, and always, the thrum throbbed stronger. The tunnels weren't built, but grown – impossibly smooth, cylindrical, a disconcerting warmth radiating from their walls. In the absolute darkness, a thread of sickly luminescence drew them onward, a river of liquid, flowing in defiance of gravity through the center of the tunnels. It pulsed, and split, and coiled back into itself, changing direction on a whim, a perpetual dance with no source, no destination.

To touch it was to touch nothing. Yet it reacted, rippling in patterns too complex for the eye to follow. In the tunnel's mirrored surface, however, the watcher's reflection began to subtly change. At first, it was barely noticeable – a faint blurring at the edges, a hint of luminescence seeping into the figure's outline. But with each passing moment, the transformation accelerated. The reflection's form grew hazy, its features dissolving into the flowing light. A strange, unsettling euphoria flickered across the distorted face, a happiness tinged with a desperate eagerness. It was as if the reflection itself was yearning to be absorbed, to become one with the endless flow.

Then, the chamber: a monstrous cavern glistening beneath a ceiling lost to darkness. Here, the thrum was a roar, barely tolerable. At its heart lay the vast, iridescent pool, shimmering like spilled starlight. The ancient entity stirred in its depths, its presence a vast, incomprehensible thing older than time. It summoned with the promise of an end to isolation, a transcendence into oblivion. Thoughts stuttered and dissolved. Hope was an absurdity. Here, the only truth was annihilation, an irresistible absorption into the endless, mindless flow.

Why the call came, why certain souls answered it – those were mysteries for another age, perhaps one that would never exist. For now, the pulse echoed, and somewhere deep beneath the streets, another lonely soul felt the resonance in their bones, and began to descend. Theirs would be a sacrifice, a tithe paid in flesh and sanity to keep the veil thin, to keep the entity slumbering in its ancient prison. The cost was oblivion for a chosen few, a terrible secret to carry, but a necessary price to ensure the continued, oblivious existence of the rest of the world. The city above would never know the horror that lurked beneath, the monstrous hunger that pulsed in the darkness. Theirs was a life on borrowed time, a fragile normalcy bought with a soul.

[theundecider]

[ @halbermenschen​ / starter. ]

Rarely is Echo drawn to other ghosts -- in fact, it’s more like a crossing of wires, which tends to happen more often than actually being drawn to them, although there’s been the odd occasion where has just bumped into others on pure coincidence -- but it seems that this salesman fella’s got some pull. Perhaps it’s the whole ‘keep doing your thing even in death’ thing (which is kinda scary to think about because what if you end up lost in it forever?) that’s tugged on Echo’s strings. At least the dude’s lucid enough.

“Mind if I walk with you?” he asks, supposing he can just leave the Q&A session for later if this guy ever asks anything, although Echo isn’t keen on the typical interrogations, the who-are-yous and why-are-you-heres, and so on. “You look a bit on the glum-chum side, which I can understand.”

[octaviasdread]

DPS Pairings as Taylor Swift Drabbles

Um, so this started with hc bullet points but (as usual) I got carried away. It's been a hard week and I deal with stress by listening to Taylor so here we go again, this time with some Mitts, Chameron, Chadd, Noelbury, and a group one : Anderperry as Gold Rush and Knarlie as Betty and Story of Us as Dark Academia.

Anderperry ANGST EDITION ~ Haunted

Neil stands tall, silhouetted in the window with his crown of berries and bracken, his eyes go cold too far gone from the recollection of Todd on those theatre steps as he stood there and watched you walk away, from everything we had, but I still mean every word I said to you. He thinks of those desperate whispers as his father hauled him away, and months of sacred quotations from Whitman or Wilfred Owen in the private paradise of their dorm.

Alone in the vast and empty snow, Todd can't breathe whenever you're gone, the pressure in his chest, and his eyes, and in the cracks of his heart are unbearable. He kneels there, in the frozen hell of their old lakeside spot, a bargain with God on his lips: come on, come on, don't leave me like this, I thought I had you figured out, something's gone terribly wrong, you're all I wanted.

The days pass, each calendar page falling like leaves and he won't see you again but something keeps him holding on to nothing...you're not gone, you can't be gone. Neil's everywhere, pressed between playbooks, sewn into green jumpers, and echoes of laughter on the roof. I'm haunted.

Anderperry FLUFFIER EDITION ~ Ivy

Spots of light waltz from Todd's blade as it carsses rough bark, glimmering like wings or cobwebs threading through his verse. Pure Shakespearean energy distills into his moonlit carvings: I'd meet you where the spirit meets the bones, In a faith forgotten land. This woodland hideaway where dead poets convene to thrive, and their chairman, Puck, a sprite from a literary fairyland of his own. Not a boy, but symbol of how to dare and dream. An incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand. His flame is catching, igniting on his roommate, a solitary soul stuck grieving for the living. "I can take care of myself," Todd insists. "No," Puck commands, brown eyes holding the promise which Todd immortalises in bark, my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand.

It wasn't always easy to make space for the words inside of him, all the love inside of him. I can’t stop you putting roots in my dreamland. I’m covered in you, the poison ivy itch of belligerently falling for his first best friend under clichéd crescent moon nights. At least his anger is eloquent, loving in its accusatory acceptance. It’s a goddamn blaze in the dark and you started it/ it's a war, it's the Goddamn fight of my life and you started it.

So Todd gathers his wits and issues a challenge with the shape of lips. A reciprocated gift to live and die for in moments that we stole on begged and borrowed time. Todd's opal eyes see the prophecy, the price of Kronos' kindness in his lover's passion, the fatal flaw that makes you long to be magnificently cursed.

So dare me to run, he chants between lines of poetry, wielding his pen as a mighty blade of Carpe Diem. Seize the day, Neil. Let's make our lives extraordinary.

Mitts ~ Lover

Contentment. The word stands at eleven letters long, worth only fifteen scrabble points; yet it remains close to Meeksie's heart. This is our place, he reminds himself, casting a fond gaze across the cluttered apartment. It lingers, soft on the long-limbed man curled up on a pillow of blueprints and springs. Dark hair shines beneath the dulled glow of ruby Christmas lights up in January, a remanent of last month's midnight festivities and friends crashing on the living room couch.

Coffee appears by the sleeping lump, steam curling in a dazzling haze around his smiling lips, a veil between Meeks and the mysterious way of Pitts' dreams. It's a rare state, this stillness in a magnetic force of a man like Gerard Pitts. The kiss pressed to his forehead is barely a brush of lips, a mere tickle to broaden his slumbering smile, and evoke one of Meeks' own.

The quiet seclusion almost feels like their Welton days. An echo of eleven year-old Pittsie - or Gerry, as he was known then - emerges like a welcome phantom. Can I go where you go? He'd asked, eyes wide with fragile hope. Meeks had nodded solemnly, red hair flopping in its youthful, gel-less state. "Forever and ever," he'd sworn with the contract of an extended pinkie finger.

Time passes in a blink. Have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years? Meeks sits, instinctively shifting his body closer to his husband. A finger curls into the folds of his jumper. He leans into it. Twin flames, Ginny had called them. Twin Nerds, Charlie had corrected. Meeks had always known their closeness was unusual. Living in one another's pockets is, statistically, supposed to inspire hate. Instead, it brokered silent promises. You'll save all your dirtiest jokes for me, and at every table, I'll save you a seat. These portions of themselves reserved for the sanctity of their space. Calm. Contented. Everlasting. Meeks exhales.

This isn't Welton, we make the rules.

Chameron ~ Delicate

"This ain't for the best," Charlie mutters. But the bruised rose of his lips press back to Cam's own. There's an equal softness and fervency to the motion which makes him shudder as tears threaten to follow the path Charlie trails down the sharp, untouched territory of his jaw.

"I like you." The confession slips with the last of his composure. Charlie's eyes widen. In their hazel tones Cam sees the string of fate which led them here, through dense foliage and dirt to their own midnight mass in the ancient cave. It's hollow cove had been a chapel built on the labour of teenage hopes. He'd torn down those hopes, denying that they were his own. My reputation's never been worse, so you must like me for me.

The spectre of his brilliant, red lipstick boy flickers. He swallows, voice thick with something wrecked yet healing. We can't make any promises now can we, babe? But you can make me a drink. And Richard Cameron does. He learns to pour coffee like a love language amidst endless, palm to palm kisses. Long night with your hands up in my hair. Echoes of your footsteps on the stairs. Stay here, honey, I don't want to share.

Deliberation becomes the third in their relationship. Sometimes I wonder; when you sleep. Are you ever dreaming of me? Cameron rumiantes, teetering on the knife edge of recklessness or fink. On those torturous nights of the latter, his not-quite lover is quick to pull him close. Is it cool that I said all that? Is it chill that you're in my head? Hands grasp, curl, and pause as they reach towards this culmination of old and new. Is it too soon to do this yet? Cause I know that it's delicate.

Chadd ~ State of Grace

Green was the colour of Todd's first love. Young and fresh, it had emerged gradually, breaking through ground like the first shoots in spring.

His second love felt different. Charlie was different. Blood red in his recklessness, pushing against Todd like the burst veins beneath a healing bruise.

It had snuck up on him, the long lost warmth. The skipped heartbeats and the drawn-out looks. I never saw you coming.

He should've seen it. Falling in love 'til it hurts or bleeds. Cupid's games had always been cruel, firing arrows to kill. And Charlie had been there, a walking, smirking target filling the spaces Neil had left behind.

Yet the look in his eyes was indomitable, a dare to the hands of fate. And he lends his voice when Todd cannot speak, and the crook of his neck to hide the desperate tears. Now all we know is don't let go.

So Todd stitches his heart, and opens his arms to the thrum of a body alive. You come around and the armor falls, pierce the room like a cannonball. There are no expectations, only a hand, or an ear, or soul feeding quest.

Up in your room and our slates are clean on long afternoons in tangle of laughing limbs. We are alone, just you and me, all wounded memory contained in lyrical ballads and blues.

Their verse is a collision course - the 'nobody' boy and 'the rebel without a cause.' You were never a saint and I loved in shades of wrong. They're a patchwork pair, mosaic broken hearts, held together by the barest golden threads of something good and right and real.

Noelbury ~ Fearless

Christine Noel had a complicated relationship with her tiny, one horse town. Cheerleading had always been her ticket out, just one more year of tumbling until she could twirl right out of town. But sometimes, she didn't mind it here. In these moments where the rain shimmered, casting a rainbow glow off the pavement.

The engine purred as Ginny turned by Everett Theatre, a secret smile blooming in the upturned corners of her lips. Or people, Chris amended, some people are worth staying for. We're drivin' down the road I wonder if you know, I'm tryin' so hard not to get caught up now.

"Can you grab my keys?" Gin broke the silence, taking a second to glance at the girl beside her as she changes gears.

Chris startled.

"What? Did you think we'd just drive in circles all day?"

"Um." Warmth flooded her cheeks. "Kinda?"

Ginny laughed, her head thrown back as they passed beneath the theatre lightbox. It's soft, golden tones highlighting the column of her neck. Chris struggled to catch her breath. But you're just so cool, run your hands through your hair, absent mindedly makin' me want you.

"Shit," Ginny huffed, blinded by windswept hair. But before she could drop the steering wheel, Chris lay half-way across the drivers seat.

"Here." She balanced above the console. Soft fingertips brushing back the brown tendrils, tracing down to part the strands stuck to red glossed lips.

Ginny looked up from beneath her lashes. "Thanks."

Rain thundered down, but Chris barely noticed. She nodded stiffly, almost leaping from the car as they swung into an empty parking lot.

"Come on, Head Cheerleader." Ginny beckoned her closer, rain drops glistening like stars in her dark hair. I wanna ask you to dance right there, in the middle of the parking lot. "You said storms are your favourite."

"Gin." She stumbled back, Mary Janes sliding on the slick pavement. "This is my favourite dress."

You take my hand and drag me head first, Fearless. "And?" Ginny pulled her closer, pink skirts melding into blue. "It's better this way." With you I'd dance in a storm, in my best dress, Fearless.

And it is. Chris wants to bottle this moment as a perfume scent, to capture it, remember it, and wear the feeling of this sunset waltz forever. My hands shake, I'm not usually this way. You pull me in and I'm a little more brave. It's the first kiss, it's flawless.

I don't know how it gets better than this.

The Dead Poets Society ~ New Romantics

Shadows of 'Mr. future lawyer, doctor, and banker' haunt the hallowed halls of Welton and its stringent expectations. We're so young, but we're on the road to ruin. They're a car crash waiting at the monochrome stop light of Whitman.

Keating's class, where 'poetry dripped from their tongues like honey is an ambrosia, an antidote for their scarlet letters. The Promethean 'light of knowledge' stolen from Nolan and passed down, generation to generation, where wisdom reigns over curriculum. Carpe Diem, boys, life is just a classroom.

Moonlit woodland and magical caves of verse scream intellectual rebellion. A castle built out of all the bricks thrown at seventeen year-olds with dreams. Every day is like 'a battle, a war with the casualties' their 'hearts and souls' torn by the shrapnel of Welton's values, by its neglect.

We need love but all we want is danger, we team up...we’re the New Romantics. A ramshackle bunch of pledges who 'wail and and cry and scream’ the best people in life are free. New lyrics fill their souls as they radio free America, too busy dancing to get knocked off our feet, and fill their lungs with forbidden air, deep in the woods where every night with us is a (midsummer) dream.

And to finish, one of the original head canons:

Meeks ~ Hey Stephen

I didn’t make the rules. Taylor watched dps in 2008 and wrote the entire song for him. Seriously: 'I saw a light in you…I never seen nobody shine the way you do…feel this magic I've been feeling since I met you...Hey Stephen, I could give you 50 reasons why I should be the one you choose' <3

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

I wanted to pay back some of the love given to me by @loosesodamarble so I borrowed her OC ship Nachsele for a moment, and this fic was born. 

I apologize if they’re out of character, but I wanted to do some fluff (aka hurt-comfort) for them, but their history doesn’t translate into fluffy fluff in my head. But, I tried. I hope you like it! ^_^

Pairing: Nacht Faust x Josele (OC; Erika’s and not mine)

Genre: hurt-comfort

Words: 2581

The rain outside

Why was she there again? She couldn’t remember. No, wait she could, she came here to retrieve something. But it didn’t really matter anymore. It didn’t matter, because she had thought that she would have been strong enough to do this now, after all this time. But instead, she had found the weight of the two rings hanging from a necklace around her throat to be too much. The burden of two bands that would have decorated the ring fingers of a husband and a wife in the future.

In the future… but never did.

And the pain, the pull of the depths of the hells beneath the Faust estate pulled her closer to the floor, to the dirt, the mulch and the stones. Closer to Morgen. It was as if he was still holding her in his gentle embrace, and yet… she knew that he wouldn’t pull her along like that. Oh no, he’d want her to live. He wanted her to live.

But still… The weight of her bones tried to implore her; beckoned her to go closer to the one she loved. One of the men she loved. One of the men… because she did, she did love Nacht too.

I do…

Nacht blamed himself for what he did to Morgen. And Nacht blamed himself for what he did to her, to his beloved Josele. Or rather what he did to beloved Josele, for she wasn’t for him to call his own. She wasn’t his.

“Nacht…?” She asked with a quiet tone that was laced with the sorrows her heart still harboured and the veil of empathy that she felt for the man she also loved; the man who now had raven hair, much like his brother used to have.

He was looking out of the window of his father’s office. The harsh rain beat the window relentlessly and the shadows that always followed him, danced on the walls.

He’s blaming himself for it… And he won’t let go of it… she whispered to herself somewhere in the back of her head. She would have called herself a hypocrite if she had had the energy. But she didn’t, the weight, the burden, and the draining exhaustion of the rings around her neck. The memory of Morgen that she still refused to let go.

“Go home Josele,” he told her without as much as looking.

“Nacht…” she repeated, but this time her tone had become drained of emotion. It was as if she was running out on it all, even sorrow. Even her tears were running dry.

“Go home!” He yelled this time, turning his head slightly over his shoulder.

She flinched. She didn’t know she still had that in her, but she supposed that it was a reaction that was imprinted into her muscles, something that would take a long time to fade.

“Nacht… What are you…?” She asked with hesitation dripping from her lips.

He stayed silent for one sixth of an eternity as he grit his teeth and wondered if he should reply to her. But. How could he not? For his heart, the tick tick tick of it, or rather what was still left of it, belonged to her.

“I’m bringing this house down…” he finally admitted.

She couldn’t quite grasp his statement. She wasn’t sure what extent of it was really intended and what was only her herself jumping into conclusions.

“Nacht… please…” the syllables dropped from her. She wasn’t sure why, and what she meant by them. The only thing her still ticking heart, even if ticking by a faint thread, told her was that she didn’t want him to be in pain. Not in the kind of pain she was in.

There was a brief pause, lasting only a few seconds, not more. Perhaps even fractions of seconds. Fractions during which she took a few shaky steps closer to him.

“Go home Josele,” he insisted once more, as if it was the only thing he wanted. The rain outside of the window before which he stood, tapped the glass into the pitch-black evening, not even night yet.

“Why?” She asked before she could really even think. A spur of the moment. Something that only happened in the presence of her near and dear. Near and dear…

“Because….” He paused for a moment. Did he really even need to reply her question? Perhaps not, but he owed it to her; he owed it to her. After all he had killed her fiancé, his own brother. “I can’t have you here.”

“Why?” Again, the same question, as if playing on loop. Why do I even need to know? She questioned herself. But the answer she knew was in the withering fragments of her heart. Because whatever waltz there was left in her soul, would be his, for she had always loved him too.

But this time the question irritated him to no end. And the steps that she had taken closer to him certainly did not help. He had heard every single one of them. He could feel her mana, so gentle, and soft, and as if a proclamation of everything that was still good and true in that cold, harsh world, and it… made his heart crumble.

He couldn’t have her there, not while making the estate crumble. She shouldn’t see it falling down. She shouldn’t see him tearing it down, as foolish as it sounded. Because the difference that it made, was insignificantly small. But to her, watching the home, the former home of him and Morgen, the house where they had spent so much time while growing up… He couldn’t quite know just how it’d impact her. But it wouldn’t be pleasant anyhow.

So, she shouldn’t be there. She shouldn’t be there to see it. She should just go home and leave him be. She should just leave. And not insist on asking why he said what he did. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t.

“Wh-“

“Because I love you!” He spun around, furious and tense, staring at her with eyes wide open and clenched teeth.

She looked at him, only a few steps away from him, and she was holding her hands close to her chest. It was as if she was curling inside of herself, even further than she already had.

You see… I am a monster. I can’t-, even confess in a proper manner…

His tense posture melted away, and instead composure took a hold of him again. He straightened his back and looked at her with a blank expression, much more like the one he always wore and repeated: “Go home Josele”. But this time his tone, it was more of an echo of his previous statement, as if this repetition had never left him.

Her eyes were empty. They had been empty, throughout it all. There might have been a hint of sorrow, a veil of melancholy, as if a distant echo of what was slowly dying inside of her; that which he had killed.

She stared at him, with a gaze that struggled to fixate on him, and instead looked somewhere far, far away. But she didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t sure. What was there even to do? Morgen wouldn’t want him to… She thought to herself, as if she didn’t have a wish of her own, as if what she wanted didn’t matter anymore. And all that did matter, was what Morgen would’ve wanted.

“I can’t,” she spoke with a tone that was devoid of everything, as if simply going through the motions. And that sound, the tone that wasn’t hers, it pricked Nacht’s heart. The soft melody of her voice that had once been so full of life, the voice that had breathed life into him, even if it wasn’t meant for him. “You shouldn’t,” she said, not quite sure what she meant with it.

“I have to,” Nacht replied, taking a step forward, as if stressing his point.

“No,” she shook her head, even if the motion was weak and faint. “You shouldn’t-, be alone.” Her mind was still, as if a dead calm sea. The statement was true, and hypocritical, since she too, longed to be alone. She didn’t wish for the company of others, and instead wanted to embrace her own longing and sorrows, hiding them away from the world.

He frowned at her. Spoken like someone who has locked herself away. He thought to herself, knowing fully well that she had hid herself into the shadows of her room, much like he had. “Why do you care?” He asked, because he truly wanted to know. If anything, she should hate him. She should loathe him. She should wish to throw him into a dungeon, take his grimoire, and throw away the key. He had killed her fiancé! She should-, she should want to-

“Because I…” she stopped, trying to think to herself. How should she phrase it? How?

She felt her heart tugging in her chest, but she tried to reel it in. She shouldn’t let it be free again. She shouldn’t allow it to beat together with another again. She shouldn’t. Because this pain; feeling as if her heart was carved out of her body, her ribs that once shielded the sanctuary of her tender emotions, were cracked and shattered, pricking through her lungs to the point that she could barely breathe. And yet, she hadn’t died. She still lived, despite it all.

“You what?” He asked, closing in the distance between them. His steps were heavy and slow, the sound of his boots thumping against the cold stone floor echoed in the air. “You hate me? You despise me? You can’t stand the sight of me?” He spoke out what he thought of, even if it didn’t make sense. The flow of the conversation didn’t make sense. But what else could it be?

She looked at him, his eyes that reminded her more of a scared animal than anything else. It was as if he was frightened. He was angry, because he was scared and he was hurt. She knew those eyes. She knew them, and she saw herself in them. She too was angry. Angry at herself.

She shook her head, defeated and full of sorrow. “It-, it hurts…” she uttered. His pain hurt her. Her own pain, hurt her. The pain of them both, it hurt her. And it all felt too much, too much to hold in her body, but there was nothing she could do to be rid of it.

Her admission shot a spike through him. The pricking and the numbing in his chest, was lost with the piercing pang that overwhelmed him. If it was humanly possible, the skies above or perhaps the hells below, shoved a burden far grander than before, onto his shoulders. And he couldn’t, for the life of him, for the state of being that could barely be called life, not console her. Or even try to console her.

His hands lifted slightly, pausing for a moment, and the continuing to wrap around her. And she felt so cold and frail in his embrace, as if she had been lying in snow for hours on end, as if she had not been eating properly for months. And she shivered as if a lonely leaf, caught in the wind.

He felt sacred, heavenly even as he caught her into his arms, as if a piece of something so holy that the gods, the saints and angels above would seek to keep him away from her. He was as if a glimmer of hope, a shadow of twilight, guiding her away from the darkness in which she had wandered with the death of light. There was warmth in him, and he was sacred, no matter what he’d try to tell her.

“I love you,” she whispered while sinking into his embrace.

Air got lodged into his throat as he held her closer, wrapping his arms around her eve tighter, as if hoping to shield her from whatever depths of darkness that would try to pry her away from him.

“How…?” The question fell from him like rain, full of disbelief and denial. She’s-, she must be joking. She’s… she wants me to suffer more. I told her-, I told her and now she’s twisting the knife in my heart… As she should… As she should.

Her eyes, having closed for a moment while sinking in to the soft sensation of his embrace, fluttered open with his question. How does anyone say how they love someone? She thought for a passing moment, feeling the urge to reply to him. “I just do…” she admitted with faint syllables. “I always have… I always did. Both of you.”

And that revelation, admission, spoken with nothing but sincerity, made a thought dawn on him. She didn’t blame him. She had never blamed him. But instead of it brining him comfort and consolation, it just salted the already opened wounds in him, making burning hot tears rise to his eyes, tears that he wouldn’t let her see.

He didn’t feel that he’d deserve to call her his own, not now, not ever, but still his body moved before he could grasp onto it. His head turned to face her, rolling across her head, until his lips were pressed against her skin. But that’s as fat as he went, for he had no right to kiss her. He had no right to press his wretched lips against her blessed skin.

She wrapped her arms as tight around him as she possibly could, assuring him that he could. Assuring him of the sanctity of his touch, embrace and his kisses; his kisses would be sacred too. He wasn’t evil. He hadn’t meant any of it to happen. He hadn’t meant it, but she still found it hard to forgive. But the one thing that was harder than forgiving him, was hating him.

She couldn’t hate him. She couldn’t inflict him any more pain than he already felt. She could see it. She had always seen it. The way he had loved Morgen too. The way he had admired him. And now, she could see how he had begun to believe what the entire world around him had kept telling him: “you’re evil, the bad twin; it should’ve been you that died”. But that’s not what she felt. That’s not what she thought.

And she wished, oh how she wished that she could have said something soothing to him. She wished that she would have words of comfort to him, but as words failed her, she pressed her head against him and squeezed him in her embrace.

As if pulled by something grander, his hold of her strengthened, clenching onto her. To him, she was the last good thing in the world, and he had no place in wanting her, wanting to hold her. But there he was, holding her, and wanting to call her his.

Rain and thunder raged outside, but the two of them were indoors, warming in each other’s arms. It might have only been a thin sheet of glass between them and the world outside, but it was enough. And with that warmth, she could feel her heart slowly, and hesitantly, beginning to beat again. While Nacht could see a glimpse of something behind that veil of darkness, a rising dawn.

A promise, and an assurance, of something better to come.

[edmund-valks]

Interlude - The Maw

A blacksmith would have taken different steps.  Forge the blade, give it a handle, wrap the handle.  Something like that, at least.  Thankfully she was able to skip most of that by designing a mold and taking extraordinary care in its production.  A perk of being smart, as she figured it.

The metal was nearly ready.  It wasn’t the colour of anything she’d seen back on Azeroth, instead shedding four different glows at once.  They overlapped and intertwined because nothing here was ever simple.  Ilandreline wasn’t one for metaphors, but even she could recognize this one: four ores, wildly distinct, that could only be properly alloyed through the use of a fifth.  Naturally the alloy was stronger than any of them independently.  Also it was a bastard to work with.

She fed the ingots into the crucible, watching as the forge’s heat quickly liquefied the elethium.  A pull of the lever and it drained into the waiting mixture, which one more movement injected into the waiting mold.  That had been the real work, creating the exact negative space needed inside a block of solid stone.  Not just any stone, of course, but the kind that wouldn’t melt in a furnace designed to bind souls to metal.  Getting pieces of the Black Empire was hard enough even before one crossed into the realms of the dead.

Once the mixture had filled the block, Ila grasped it with the tongs she’d liberated from the soulforger whose workspace she now used.  Steadiness was required to keep the metal from sloshing out or the whole thing from upending.  Her movements were slow and deliberate, never jerking.  A device was only as good as its craftsmanship; she intended this one to be her masterpiece.

Typically one would quench using a specific liquid.  Fresh water, salt water, olive oil, certain beverages made by the dwarves… what one used depended on the desired outcome and the materials involved.  For this it was something a bit more unusual.  The Maw had recently become the destination for a great deal of anima drawn from the spirits being repented in Revendreth.  This made for a sharp, hungry quench, which was precisely what she needed.  She lowered the discomfiting block of slick stone into the roiling crimson, listening to the violent hissing as the alloy took shape.

Once the soul-steam had cleared and the little barrel was minutes removed from its moment of boiling, she fished the mold out with her borrowed tongs.  "This better have worked," she muttered, mostly to externalize the worry.  Better out than in, that sort of thing.  "Only one way to find out."

Placing the black brick on the anvil nearby, she inspected every side for cracks or gaps.  The only one she could find was the little hole where she'd added the molten metal, so… maybe it had happened?  Picking up the hammer she'd made for just this purpose, Ilandreline closed her eyes and sought the resonance.  It was so much easier now than that first time.  That was how she'd survived the darkest path into the Shadowlands, and ever since she'd found herself increasingly aware.  Now it was almost as easy as making saltpeter; not necessarily fast, but a simple task for the experienced.  She felt for her core, dove into it, releasing her perceptions through the nightpurple veins bordering reality.

The Black Empire remnant was anything but dark now.  Even the Maw's dolorous half-light caused a reaction, oil-slick scintilla flaring across the infinitesimal pockmark surface.  In a way, it sang.  Not like a voice, but a tuning fork, a frequency of sensation manifesting multitudinous waves into singular tone.  Where her family's faith resided she felt the echo of kinship.  Reaching through herself, she grasped the thread of the stone's structure and pulled.

In a sweater, such an act would have been the destruction of order that caused its unraveling.  The bedrock of those who dwelt between the stars was made differently, however.  What she had done manifested as an ordering matrix, leaching the inherent structural chaos out, snapping the minerals into some kind of grid.  Gripping tightly through the depths of her soul, Ilandreline raised the hammer high and swung.

The hardened shadowghast strikeface tolled as it impacted the ruthlessly ordered block.  The sound was brutal in its discordance, an archetypal resonance of shattered chains.  What was held tightest become most undone; the black stone crumbled to dust, its forced structure inverted until it could no longer hold together.

Ilandreline felt her entire self ringing as she set the hammer aside.  The reverberations rattled through her bones, trying to unmake her as thoroughly as she had the old gods' relic.  But she was a Glimmerbow, born of those dark blessings, the ancient primordial unmakers' essence suffusing the deepest fibers of her being.  The resonance traveled through her, unable to find an outlet to erode, equally unable to escape until she opened her mouth.

She didn't scream; this wasn't pain.  Instead she had become an accidental echo chamber, an acoustic amplifier not unlike the elegant curves of a bell.  From inside her structure rang the peal of uncreation.  Open-mouthed she exhaled it into the stygian plains, unable to cease until the note was spent.  Unable to hear, she could still feel the rigid structure of forge beside her eroding beneath the reciprocal action to what she had done.

As suddenly as it began, the moment ended, buckling her knees.  Reflex alone allowed the elf to catch herself, weak-legged and bent over the anvil, eyelids only now able to pry themselves apart.  Unsteady, Ila exerted her focus once more, willing herself to stay standing.  As she did so, refusing to acknowledge the possibility she might collapse, she examined her work.

Atop a fine pile of utterdark sand lay a blade.  It was a single piece, cast-forged, with a tapering, triangular blade emerging from one edge of a metal-wrought vertebra.  Opposite the blade extended the cylindrical smoothness of bone, flaring into a double-knobbed pommel.  It was far more beautiful than she'd expected, or perhaps that was the wrong word.  Elegant?  Fitting.  This was a blade made with purpose, for someone very specific, and such certainty was apparent in its aesthetics.

"Almost done."  Her voice was hoarse though she didn't realize it.  She hardly knew she'd spoken, what with the ongoing ringing in her ears, and the way structures sounds such as speech fell apart in the fading wake of the hammer blow.

Ilandreline forced her legs to stillness, stood straight atop them once more.  Grasping the weapon's handle -- she would wrap it with aged linen later, to give it the feel of something found in an ancient mausoleum -- she turned its stiletto point toward herself.  Her other hand moved to expose an expanse of pale flesh, against which she set the blade.

"Freely given," she murmured, the spoken fraction of a larger recitation mostly contained within her mind.  "A gift for another, made with intent.  A part of me to carry with you."  It was almost embarrassing to say it.  Hearing herself speak so openly brought heat to her cheeks, but it wasn't so bad to shake her from her plan.  Not after coming so far.  

Shutting her eyes, Ilandreline exhaled slowly.  Her free hand rested along the cold curves of the pommel.  Freely given.  Lungs fully empty, she braced herself and pushed.

The blade slid in more easily than she'd expected, quickly piercing through skin and fat and muscle.  Farther and farther she guided it until the change in resistance signified she'd reached her goal.  Just the barest movement more, pricking the exterior of her still-beating heart.  Now the hard part.

Pulling the blade back out was the most excruciating experience of her life.  It was a tool of purpose, to pierce through barriers and bring an end.  To remove it without having killed was to deny it that fulfillment, and so the blade fought her every fraction of the distance.  Blood -- her blood -- flowed over its pyramidal smoothness, slicking everything, trying to undo her efforts and allow the blade to feast on her life.  Gritting her teeth, she looped a finger through the hole in the center of the guard, using the extra leverage to force the dagger out of her flesh entirely.

Slamming the bloodied weapon back on the anvil, Ila scrambled to the forge.  There she snatched up the last of the prepared tools, a length of featureless iron, brilliantly glowing from the infernal heat.  "Fuck, this was a stupid idea."  Laughing at herself, she pressed the white-hot implement against the triangular piercing in her breast, allowing her rasping scream to drown out the sound of flesh cauterizing.

She didn't know how much time elapsed between keeping herself from bleeding to death and when she was able to stand again.  It didn't matter, not really.  The important thing was Loira's gift was finished.  Complete, even.  Totally worth it… but if she loses it I'm gonna kill her.

Chuckling at that, Ilandreline scraped herself together.  Time to get out of here before the Covenants' assault wavered and the Jailer's forces had time to look for things like wayward elves with bad ideas.  She took another quick look at her handiwork as she vacated the premises.  There was no trace of her blood any longer, though she didn't remember wiping it clean, and every now and then the faint ghost light would reflect off a fleck of gleaming darkness.  Sand in the blade?  No, not sand; the dust of the Black Empire.  Absorbed somehow following the sanguine consecration.  Curious, but probably not a big deal.  She hadn't felt anything strange, and her instincts were usually good about that sort of thing.

"Thanks for the help!" she told the forge's previous user, stepping over its hollow corpse.  The spiked helmet that had been something like a head was mangled beyond recognition, as if repeatedly bashed by some kind of heavy blunt object.  Ilandreline hefted her oversized wrench, rested it on her shoulder, and set off.  Hopefully the blood loss wouldn't slow her down too much.  It would be a shame to die before she could actually give Miss Winford her present.

(( Tagging for mentions of @ms-winford ))

[silverfootstepswrites]

Eden: BLEACH [3]

ZERO / BLEACH (here) / TWIST / REVERSE / DYE / RED

++++

To see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower/ Hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour. -William Blake

++++

Shisui still left on his trip.

“I’ll be right back. 3 days max,” he promised, even as Sakura fretted watching him pack his car. He talked to her in bits and pieces as he moved back and forth.

“You won’t even have time to miss me,” he added, shutting the door.

Normally, he was right. He came and went so often that it was an obvious thing.

“I won’t be able to see Venus like this for a while if I miss this window.”

When he stopped in front of her, she tried to put on a smile for him.

“When I get back, we’ll go to that Cuban place you love so much. On me, okay?” he reached out and squeezed her hand. Sakura squeezed back. Smiling brighter- brighter.

“Okay. Be safe.”

She watched him drive away, her heart plummeting down to her feet. She cast one final charm on him for protection as she watched the car make a turn at the end of the street.

At night, as she walked the halls of the dream world. Brushing her fingers along each ornate door, she always made sure to check Shisui’s. Deep blue with gold detailing. The handle was in the shape of a crescent moon. She rested her hand on it. Feeling the warmth of Shisui’s magic thrumming through it. He was too far for her to enter his dreams. But just knowing he was there brought her some comfort.

Itachi didn’t understand her sudden panic. Neither did Sasuke. But he packed a bag and moved into one of the guest rooms on the third floor.

“Just until you stop feeling… whatever you’re feeling,” Sasuke mumbled as he pushed past her when she opened the front door for him.

But as the three days went by, there was no word from Shisui. His phone went straight to voicemail. Neither of his parents had heard from him either.

At the very least, Sakura had pestered him enough for him to say where he was going.

Itachi borrowed Madara’s car to drive up to Shisui’s supposed destination. Sasuke went with him. Sakura almost volunteered to go too. But she thought of Madara all by himself, and she could almost see the blood painting the floor again. She settled for casting protection charms over both of them as she said goodbye. Her heart thumped in her throat until they returned just before sundown.

They contacted the police. Organized search parties. There was no sign of Shisui. It was as if he had just evaporated into thin air.

Ino and Naruto came over to help them post flyers all over the city.

Have you seen this man? they read.

When they stopped to drink coffee, Naruto put his arm around Sakura.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tried to comfort her. Ino put her arm around Sakura too, and they hugged her close. She was grateful for the warmth, even as her stomach continued to twist in knots.

On the fourth night, Itachi borrowed his dad’s car. He went up to search the mountains by himself.

He didn’t return either.

Sasuke tried to follow after them. Only after Sakura grabbed his legs and begged him not to go did Sasuke promise to stay put. He grew pale and sharp, pacing back and forth in front of Shisui and Itachi’s doors in the dream world each night.

Sakura cast Madara’s scrying bones each day, trying to divine an answer from them.

But they only repeated themselves over and over again.

Beware of the dreams that linger.

Do not give your heart away.

Customers and friends dropped by the dream shop, asking where Itachi and Shisui had gone. Those who knew what had happened expressed their sympathy. It was nothing she wanted to hear. Sakura took on Sasuke’s appointments and kept him busy sorting things in the back. He never thanked her out loud, but he bought her coffee more often. Carried her things when they walked back after closing the shop for the night. At the very least his grief hadn’t stolen that from him.

Then, one awful day in December, Shisui’s door went dark.

Sakura scrambled to find a knob. But there was nothing. She pressed both her hands to the door, and it was cold. She screamed in the long, twisting corridor of the dream world. Screamed until it echoed and rippled, warping the fabric of the dream. And when she woke, tears were streaming down her face.

Sakura stumbled into Madara’s room, half-blind in the darkness. He fumbled to turn the lamp on. And then his hands were grabbing hers.

“Shisui is-”

“I know.”

She held on to Madara as she sobbed. Wishing she had tried harder to stop him. And then Sasuke appeared in the doorway too. His face white. Eyes rimmed with red. Sakura reached her hand out for him. He grasped it tightly, silent tears running down his face as he stared at the ground.

They took turns keeping watch over Itachi’s door. It didn’t open up to welcome them. But it didn’t darken either. And that was one small source of comfort.

The scrying bones glowed a little and whispered:

Beware of the dreams that linger.

++++

Sakura couldn’t help but feel responsible in some way.

If only she had convinced Shisui to stay.

Or if only she had managed to hold on to Itachi. To have lost only one cousin rather than two.

She tried to recall that long dream. She didn’t remember seeing the darkened doors to Shisui and Itachi’s dreams. But, then again, she recalled how her fear had kept her up at night. She hadn’t really had a chance to enter the dream world properly during the fitful naps she snuck in. Perhaps their doors had gone dark. She wouldn’t have known.

The police claimed they were still searching, but both Sakura and Madara agreed that it obviously wasn’t enough.

“I’m sorry, Sakura. That sucks,” Naruto said. Leaning against her, he put his arm around her shoulder. Ino took Sakura’s hand and patted it a few times.

“Thanks,” was all she could say as her friends did their best to comfort her.

Then Naruto disappeared too.

And Sakura was left wondering why everything was crumbling underneath her feet.

++++

As the days in December went by, the new year loomed over the horizon. Sakura recalled how on New Year’s Eve, she had discovered Madara in that dream. She felt a little sick just recalling the stench of death that overflowed from his bedroom. Sometimes she imagined it when she poked her head inside, just to ask Madara to help with her increasingly frequent headaches.

She slept particularly fitfully one night. She didn’t even get a chance to get to the entrance to the dream world. She was immediately plunged into a nightmare, tossed violently from side to side as if she were in a storm on the open sea.

Every dream had a thread that bound it together. Unknotting it was all it took to resolve it- to send it scattering off in sparkling particles. While that thread was easy to see from the outside, it was much harder to spot on her own. She wandered along the shifting landscape. Now she was in a thorny patch of forest. Then a thunderstorm. Probably a reflection of her troubled mind more than anything.

It took a while. But when she finally found the thread that bound the nightmare, she gave it a sharp tug. Everything around her began to dissolve around her until she found herself standing in her room in the dream world.

There was a soft tap at the door. She knew Madara would walk in.

A fragment of the nightmare lingered- jagged and dark against the light purple walls and floor. Madara banished it with a shake of his wrist. He stepped forward and laid his palm against her forehead.

“You been getting these a lot?” he queried.

Sakura didn’t say anything. Didn’t really have to.

“May I?” Madara then asked, gesturing around. Sakura nodded.

He reformed the piece of the nightmare into a set of matching chairs. He took a seat in one and then patted the other. Sakura lowered herself into it. Her legs were still shaking.

They just sat there in her room. The gems sitting on the shelves pulsated softly in time to her heartbeats. Madara leaned back, one hand tucked under his head.

“You okay?” he finally asked after a long while. It might have just been a moment. It was hard to tell in the dream world. Time didn’t move the way it was supposed to.

“I…” Sakura pulled her knees up against her chest.

She had avoided telling Madara about her dream for the longest time. It was just a nightmare, after all. But it was the first time she had seen one so vivid. And it was the first time something had shaken her to the core like this. She was supposed to be grown now. But as she looked over at Madara, she felt her breath hitch a little.

“I have something I want to tell you, Papa,” she admitted.

His expression didn’t change. When she was younger, she had thought that meant he didn’t care. But he was listening. He opened his eyes, looking at her now. He arched an eyebrow, asking. She shook her head.

“Not here. When we wake,” Sakura added.

And as if responding to her wish, the dream world began to dissolve around them. It was so sudden that Madara’s eyes widened. He reached a hand out for her. But when his hand caught her arm, it just melted into air.

Madara jolted awake, sitting up in his bed.

“Sa-”

“Here, Papa,” Sakura said, stepping into his bedroom. She sat on the edge of his bed.

It startled her. The panicked look in his eyes. But it was familiar.

He grasped her hands a little too tightly. He brought her hands to his forehead. It almost felt like he was shaking a little. And that felt familiar too.

“Did you have a nightmare, too? It’s okay, Papa,” Sakura tried to assure him.

“Yeah. You’re right,” he replied, not meeting her eyes.

Madara took a moment to shake himself out of whatever it was. Then he ran a hand through his hair. He even smiled a little for her. And it struck her again how lucky she was to have him in her life.

“Papa, I had a nightmare.”

“Yeah, I know. I just saw.”

“No… I mean… a while ago. I had a really bad one. And… it really scared me.”

Madara was silent as he took in her story. And once she had finished speaking, Madara picked up the comforter. He wrapped it around her. And then with another smile, he patted her back a few times.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of you, kid,” he promised her.

He said it so easily. But it made her feel at ease. Madara always knew what to do. Or he would open up one of his old books and find an answer another way. He got out of bed, fumbling around for his glasses on the nightstand.

“You’re right that divination and dreams have some kind of link. It might not happen exactly the way you dreamt, but it seems like parts of it are already coming true. Let’s cast some shields around the house for now. And then I’ll figure out what we can do next,” Madara said, already coming up with a plan as he shuffled into his slippers and pulled a robe on over his pajamas.

He mussed her hair one last time before he made his way out of his bedroom. Already muttering incantations and plans to himself. Magic gently drifting off him like gold bits of glitter.

Sakura got dressed and woke Sasuke with a cup of coffee. Madara recommended that she didn’t tell him about the details of her dream. After all, if she had foreseen his brother disappearing, he might not react in the most positive way. She agreed. Especially seeing Sasuke’s bloodshot eyes. The constant exhaustion had really taken a toll on him. He brushed off her concerns when she asked him if he was feeling alright.

Madara was gone for most of the day. When he saw them at dinner, he dropped two necklaces on the table. They were made of silver chains wrapped around three identical gems. A minty blueish-green that swirled together with purple.

“Wear these,” he ordered, settling into one of the wooden chairs. He puffed out a deep breath, fanning himself. He was wearing an identical necklace to the ones he had brought them.

Sakura hovered a hand over one of the necklaces. The soft hum of a charm tingled against her skin.

She looked at Madara.

“Is this one of mine?” she wondered.

“Yeah. It’s from that fluorite you enchanted last summer. Your spell had a nice kick to it so I just enhanced it a little,” Madara replied.

That made sense. Madara’s job was to imbue magic into objects and to see how they interacted. It wasn’t the first time she had seen him enchant wearable objects. And even as she picked it up, Sakura could feel the necklace thrumming with magic now.

It was no wonder he seemed so winded now. It had probably taken a lot out of him to make three of these on such short notice.

“Wear them- especially when you’re out,” Madara instructed. He looked at Sakura. Waited until she nodded. And then he held Sasuke’s gaze. Only looking away when Sasuke nodded too.

Sakura recognized this protection charm as she clasped the necklace around her neck. Just to test it out, she slapped at Sasuke’s arm. Her hand bounced harmlessly off the invisible barrier. It was a shield that responded proportionally to the strength of the threat. When she aimed a fist at him, the shield rebuffed her with a snap.

Sasuke sent a tongue of flame toward her. It scattered off the invisible barrier in a shower of sparks. Even he looked impressed at that.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Madara stared at his nephew. And then he patted him on the shoulder.

++++

They decided to close the dream shop for a while.

Madara drove them past in his car. Sakura hung out the window to cast barriers over the entrance and the windows. Just in case someone felt tempted to break in during their absence.

Then they lingered on the side of the street in the car.

It was late enough that no one was really outside. The windows of all the other stores were dark. Just the occasional neon sign flickering to advertise fortune telling or levitation charms.

Sasuke sat in the back of the car, staring at the shop too.

He had grown even quieter in the absence of his brother. Sometimes he smiled if she really tried to get in his face. But even then, Sakura knew. He was just doing it for her. That something had died inside of him when his brother had vanished into thin air.

Since neither of them was working, they spent even more time together now. Sometimes Sakura coaxed him into helping her testing out her thesis. They both knew that the thesis meant nothing to her now. But it was something to do. To break the suffocating silences where Shisui or Itachi should have been saying something beside them.

As snow fell quiet and lovely on the city, Sakura handed him a piece of banana bread fresh out of the oven. They sat at the window, staring at the powder that had begun to coat the streets and the telephone wires.

“Hey, Sasuke?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got your back. Okay?”

He turned to look at her. Squinting.

“What?”

She nibbled at her slice of bread, still watching the snow. “I mean that I’m still here. I’ve got your back. So… don’t feel too alone.”

Sasuke stared down at the bread. It was dotted with chocolate chips and little bits of walnuts.

“I… yeah. Thanks,” he mumbled. And then he added, “I got yours too.”

They finished off the bread in silence.

Christmas suddenly rolled around. They found themselves completely unprepared until, two days before, Sakura saw the date on the calendar and noticed.

Even though no one was in the mood for any of that, they cast spells to drape the banisters with garlands and to hang holly from the doors. All the twinkling lights filled the house with glitter. But it lacked the warmth that usually came with this time of year. No one had to say anything. They all knew why.

They ate dinner on Christmas. Just the three of them. Music playing low in the background. The smell of cinnamon and orange filling the air from the candles that burned suspended in each room.

Maybe it would have been a little enjoyable if Sakura wasn’t busy fretting over the shields and wards set all around the house. With each day that brought them closer to the new year, she panicked over every detail. She set double and triple-layered protection charms over every door and every window. She even cast protection over Madara’s car parked on the street.

Madara caught her sitting on top of the steps past midnight. Sasuke had already gone to bed- not that he was getting very much sleep lately.

Madara watched Sakura testing the shield spells for a while. He disappeared for a bit. And when he returned, it was with a cup of coffee. She held it with one hand, continuing to cast with the other.

“Kid…” Madara sighed. “Sakura. You should at least pretend to sleep like Sasuke does.”

And then, leaning against the bannister, Madara smirked. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t waste my breath,” he added before she could make the retort herself. He took off his glasses, let them dangle from the chain around his neck.

“Don’t stay up too late, okay?” he tried to warn her.

As he turned away, Sakura spoke in a tiny voice. So small she thought maybe he wouldn’t hear her.

“Merry Christmas.”

His back was still to her. But he tilted his head.

“Merry Christmas, kid.”

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter 16; Escape

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-  

Masterlist-

Trigger Warnings: No warnings in this chap

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

                                                      ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

t's not the shade we should be cast in It's the light and it's the obstacle that casts it It's the heat that drives the light It's the fire it ignites It's not the wakin', it's the risin' - Nina Cried Power, Hozier I don’t know why, but something about this song spoke to me writing this chapter 🖤❣️ Along with “Running Away” by Maverick Sabre. One of my favourite artists of all time - go and check him out, he’s simply awesome.

Waiting was her greatest nuisance. She was on tenterhooks all day.

As if expecting someone to burst in and proclaim the true circumstance of her guilt. She’s peeking around corners and dreading every moment of cursed silence. Every lapse in conversation is a dagger in her side. She keeps expecting to be caught out.

By the time the evening draws in, she’s nearly apoplectic. She’s sat in the parlour watching the sky darken. And with every second of it blackening her excitement grows in her chest. Gestating bigger and bigger with every second she hears tick by on the mantel clock.

She hardly spoke through dinner. Just listened to her sisters usual fussing and Mama disapproving of yet someone else of their acquaintance. Iris won’t miss that.

She nearly leaps out her skin when Meg bursts in the clattering dining room door without warning, with a note to hand her father. A missive from the farmhand.

Her heartbeat slows to its normal thud. She’s unaware that her father watches her from down the table with a casting silent eye and a look of concern. Mama and the girls were none the wiser.

Then they sit in the parlour as night is heavy and steely blue-black at the window like a velvet drape. Fire and candlelight cloaks them all as the girls embroider. Mama reads a novel, and father sits behind the spread wall of his paper.

Iris takes a moment to look around at them.

She catches her fathers eye as he turns the page over in his papers. He gives her a fleeting smile that passes the time of day. She watches the way the ochre of the flames in the half blade off the lense of his reading glasses. He returns to his pages.

She’ll miss his silent sympathy. His calm presence was a balm she doesn’t know how she can be without.

She looks across at her vain, silly simpering sisters. She’s astonished to find that she will miss them too.

She’ll miss their gossiping and - amazingly - the screeching matches that erupt over who gets to wear their new bonnet or who gets the silk slippers. Or Iris’s pretty pieces of jewellery. Apart from two very adored beloved pieces she’s taking, she’s leaving the rest for them to scrap over. She smiles thinking on it.

It’s odd to think she’ll be in Bavaria. Living in a castle as a Lady to Lord Ren. And she’ll think of home, and she’ll grin, wondering if her vapid sisters will be fighting tooth and claw - having a tug of war - over her earrings or her pearl clasp bracelet.

She’ll miss Flora’s fiery head. In both temper and colouring. How bravely she defends her poor choices in various men of the militia. Then loves a completely different one the next day. She’ll miss how she always puts a pouch of dried flowers on Iris’s pillow when she picks too many - she always picks too many.

And Posy. Posy and her dreadful sweet tooth. How she always gave Iris heaps of her favourite pudding even though mama insisted she didn’t want her eldest getting too plump. Posy scraped it all onto Iris’s plate when her head was turned. Even if it was her sisters favourite.

And even though the way she borrows her books and dog ears the pages makes iris grit her teeth - she’s going to miss that dreadfully. She’ll see some plain unspoiled page corner in a book and her heart will pang and ring, sobbing, and longing for home.

Such longing.

Yearning for her squabbling siblings. For the sight and scent of her father’s study. For her tribe, where she has belonged for all these three and twenty years of her life. She’s sad that she can’t seem to belong here anymore. That’s one thing that causes her grief her about this arrangement. She must be apart from the three people she loves most.

She isn’t sorry to be leaving. Running away and absconding like a thief in the night. She can’t deny that this is her golden chance to escape. Flee from the life that drowned her.

This is her chance to share in a soul shaking love. One that’s seared her devotion to Kylo right down into the marrow of her bones. Scored his name on her heart in bleeding letters. She’s forever devoted. In a way none of them can yet - or will ever - understand.

She hopes in time, they will forgive her. That their leniency will outweigh the scandal and betrayal of her actions.

She casts a glance across to her mother where she silently reads her novel. No affection springs to mind.

Perhaps if she’d loved her daughter more, Iris could hate her less. If she’d even been affectionate instead of plotting. As it stands selling her eldest like a broodmare to matrimony, didn’t encourage anything for Iris beyond resentment. She was in a loveless unhappy marriage and she has no qualms about seeing her eldest shoehorned into something exactly the same. That is unforgivable in Iris’s mind. To experience the trials of such a match for years - and to then glean no lessons from it. It’s cruel.

And all for her want of connection-

Iris refocuses on her embroidery hoop. Stabbing thread harshly through the muslin and looping it through. She works diligently until the fire starts to die down. Father retires to bed. Watching his eldest with sparkling green eyes as he quits the room. Iris is preoccupied looking into her lap at her sewing.

She too heads for bed. Feigning tiredness even though she’s never been more wired. Never been so wide awake. And she was trying not to do anything out of the ordinary as per her usual routine.

She walks past her mothers and her sisters with a lump in her throat. Committing the last few scraps of moments of them to memory. “Goodnight Flora, Posy. Goodnight Mama.” She says simply as she crosses the room.

They call affable words her way. Mother opts for a single word in passing. “Night.”

Iris wonders if she’ll realise one day that would be the last words she ever spoke to her.

She opens the parlour door and slips out. The fire in the foyer hearth crackles. She sees father is in his study. Judging by the slithering glow of candlelight under the door.

She so badly wants to rush in and sob her goodbyes into his chest. Cry that she doesn’t understand how he could’ve sat there and watches Mama push and shove and pummel her around. She’ll never understand - but all the same, that doesn’t stop her from loving him dearly.

She thinks better of it. Climbs the stairs for bed. Confines herself in her dark bedroom. And then comes the true test of her bravery. She has to wait.

And wait and wait. And listen. Hearing as the whole house slowly drifts to dark. To sleep. For everyone to take to their beds.

She can’t read a novel. She can barely stand sitting still. She sits by the fire. Watching the door. Her bag was packed hours ago. Her meagre clutch of possessions. Some loved items and a couple of her favourite dresses and chemises.

She had penned a note for her family explaining every detail of her reasons for leaving. She left a separate letter for a Hux. Though he’ll probably cast it in the fire when he hears the news.

She’ll be leaving the heirloom engagement ring sat on top of it. Leaving the two ruinous sheets of paper on the end of her bed. Waiting for tomorrow. When it’s discovered she is gone.

Her bag sits by her feet. Along with her coat. She sits in the dark like a lonely widow and lets the amber glow of the fire die.

She’s already laced into her new wool lined boots. She wore two sets of stockings and her heaviest chemise.

She’s in a thick ruby wool dress that will be adequate for travelling. It’s rather a plain gown but it’s warm - he had said to dress warm.

She puts her hair into a free loose bun at the nape of her neck. Tied back with a snip of gold muslin. Her skirts will wrinkle in the coach but she doesn’t care about such a thing. She probably looks dishevelled and not at all pretty. But she cares not-

Everything is ready. Now there is only noiselessness. And anticipation

She hears her sisters dainty thumping treads. And then mothers stern steps. And then Meg and Julia gabbing about something, a man most likely, as they extinguish the candles on the landing and all over the walls and hallways. Putting the whole house into thick dull silence and darkness. Putting the day to rest.

She listens to their footsteps creak and creep up the attic stairs. The door closing in their wake.

Iris crosses to her door and opens it a crack. Peering out she can see nothing but the dull moonlight striping from the far landing window, across the floorboards. Silver streaks chase up to her door in the fluttering moonlight swaying in drips off the tree being fussed in the wind outside. Snow is starting to flake down onto the windowpane.

She shuts the door again. It was nearly midnight and her hour is approaching. She prays her bravery rises to meet it.

Father hasn’t come up yet. He was still in his study most like - she can get out the house without disturbing him. She’s certain. He’s dozed off in his armchair or got his head in his business letters and ledgers for the farm.

She puts her coat and slips her gloves on, she has second thoughts about her scarf and shoves it in her bag.

It contained her life, this travel bag, yet it seemed laughably light. And it carried everything she cherished. There’s something a little tragic about that, she decides.

She seized her bag in one hand, and her modest bonnet in the other. To disguise her hair. Should anyone catch a glimpse of her, out unchaperoned, at this time of night. If they recognised her. She can’t be too careful.

She steps to her door, bonnet and bag in hand. Coat on her back, and she stands there, glancing around at what’s left. She spied the two innocent squares of paper sat on her neatly made bed.

Such small things. And yet the words inked within those pages will alter lives. It seems an odd sort of cruel madness.

She silently steps out into the hall. Shuts the door on her room for good. Shuts the door on all this kind of life had offered her. She edges slowly along the floorboards. Listening to the clock in the foyer tinkle the chimes of the half hour before approaching midnight.

She wished she could give her siblings proper goodbyes. She thinks this as she tiptoed past their door. Her shoe creaks the whining boards and she freezes. Heart thudding up to choke in her mouth.

She feels horrified and sick, until her ears strain for noise and all she can hear is night drawing on around the stone walls outside.

She relaxed and crept further along the landing. The tips of her new shoes avoiding the truly noisy spots. She makes it to the top of the stairs and edges down inch by hushed inch. Glove skimming along the banister in a scraping soft hiss as she goes. When she gets to the foyer she creeps toward the door to the kitchens.

A figure awaits her in the armchair. By a dwindling fire.

Iris gasps and almost drops her bag. Her fear bubbled up and made her lip tremble terribly. She’d been caught out. Oh god no. She opens her mouth to speak but no defence comes.

Her father turns his head from where he’s sat fireside in his dressing gown, in his slippers breeches and shirt. Persian house slippers on his feet. His glasses were folded in his hands and there is a pensive weight on his greying brow.

“Papa...” She squeaks in a horrified whisper.

He eyes the bag and her coat. He is not a senseless man. He’s already well assessed what this means.

He swallows and rises to his feet. Lumbering up to his full, tall height. Pushing himself up off the chair by the arms. Like an aged old oak standing proud.

When he turns into the path of the moonlight flooded window behind him, it’s then that she sees the tears in his eyes. And ones that already stained down his cheeks. Her mouth gapes.

“Forgive me. I didn’t intend you to see me in this state...” He glances at her with red rimmed eyes. Raw and stark against the hazel bottle green of his pupils.

Iris is saddened for him. Turns out she wasn’t the only being in this house to cry alone.

“You are... leaving. So I see.” He comments offhand.

“I can’t marry him. Papa.” She blurts out in a hush.

“I’m sorry. I know you’ll want to stop me. That I’m ruining the family with reckless abandon. To convince me to stay. But you can’t. I cannot do it. I can’t walk into a life I will be leading falsely...” She tries summoning and explanation.

Her father cuts through her speech. Coming closer and clasping her hand in his. “Iris. Iris my dear-“ He soothes. He draws both her hands into his.

“I know.” He answers.

“I have no intention of stopping you. I only wished to detain you for a moment, to give you my blessing.” He offers.

She could be taken down with a tiny waft of a feather.

“Don’t mistake me. Please do not think me blind to your happiness, like your mother is.” He begins.

She’s aghast.

“I have watched you for these past few weeks. Grinding your teeth and holding that tongue of yours back when that entitled boy makes a remark you don’t agree with. I have watched him belittle and ignore you. And pass you over. To treat you as no more than a fertile vessel or commodity to be won. I want more life for you, than his meagre offering.” He holds firm.

“He dulls you. My dear. And you are too sharp and curious and intelligent to marry such a mulish man, who would never appreciate what a strong, kind and capable wife he has.”

Iris cries.

“He already sets your jaw on edge, even now. I can see it. And I cannot, will not, suffer the pain of seeing you trapped unto a marriage where your partner can never love nor respect you.” He tells her. “I know the pain well. It is not palatable.” He sighs.

He drops his eyes in shame. “I have not been a decent father to you. I have let my influence and opinion be set aside in favour of your being governed and bullied by your mother.” He bites out. His eyes fill with more tears. Voice strained.

“I am a coward. Iris-“ He begins.

She shakes her head. But he’s resolute to continue.

“No. I am. I am. And I’ve been weak. And what’s worse still is that I was a silent coward. I didn’t even speak up for the joy of my own daughter. I will never live that... dishonour...down. So long as I breathe. And for that, I am so very sorry. And you have all of my penitence for such a crime.” He says to her. Wringing her hands in his desperately.

“Oh, papa.” She cries. Voice no more than a croak. She throws herself in his arms and he sobs as he clutches her. Sways her into a hug and buried his mouth in her hair. Holding her close. He sniffs and sobs. She feels his chest bob with his cries.

“There is nothing you need apologise for.” She assures him.

Mr Ashton smiles. She was the sweetest soul under this roof. And he’ll miss her with every passing minute.

He pulls back and cups her hands. He doesn’t hide his tears. He doesn’t hide any of it and Iris aches with love for him.

“There is a great deal I must be sorry for, My sweet. I will live out the guilt of it eventually. So long as I’m contented that you are safe and happy.” He says gently. “That can be my saving grace.”

“Lord Ren is a very decent man by all accounts. I’m sorry I can’t claim to know him better than I do.” He counsels.

“I love him.” Iris says freely.

The first time she’s admitted it aloud and it makes more tears come. Father gives her his kerchief and tells her to keep it for the journey awaiting ahead of her.

“Then he is the most worthy and decent man living. Because you are every good thing embodied. And he couldn’t be lacking of those virtues either, or he simply wouldn’t be deserving of you.” He comments truthfully.

He sighs a deep breath. “Get out of this cursed god-forsaken village Iris.” He squeezes her hands tighter. Shaking his head.

Be free.

“Get out of this rotten bloody place and go to him. Marry the man your heart wants. I never did wed for true love, and it’s haunted me, my entire life long.” He promises.

She was the only decent thing his marriage has ever brought to him.

She hugs him again. “I’ll miss you most sorely.” She pledges.

“And I, you.” He strokes her back. Shuts his eyes and savours his daughter before she’s lost to him for who knows how long.

She pulls away he strokes hair off her cheek. Blinking in the sight of her face in the moonlight. For the last few seconds of her in actuality. Committing her to memory. For that’s all he’ll have of her soon.

“With you gone, I sincerely doubt I shall hear anything sensible cross your relatives tongues for quite some time.” He japes.

“Remark upon me in my poor state, once in a while, won’t you. And pray for my dear fraying sanity.” He sweeps more tears away. She blots them onto the back of her gloves.

“I’ll pray daily.” She smiles weakly. Bag in hand. Aswell as her bonnet. If that didn’t educate on the silliness of her sisters - nothing would.

He pauses to retrieve something from the mantel. She sees he clasps a little curved silver item. No bigger than a matchbox. Swirled with ornate silver gilding. He takes it and pressed it into her palm. It strikes a sudden zing of cold at her palm. She knows this ornament. It is the music box. The small Fabergé one that sat on the shelf in his office. His grandfather had imported it from Paris on his travels for her grandmother.

“I would like you to have this. So you have a piece of Ashton heirloom in your pocket as you go away to a brave new world.” He insists.

Iris opens the lid and the little while nightingale pops up, springing free to sing it’s call. She clasps it gently.

“I couldn’t-” She sobs. She remembers her sisters admiring it too. It seemed unfair he should gift it to her.

“No tears. My dear. No tears, I beg you. It’s yours and I’m bestowing it to you. I want you to see it and remark on those here at home, who still and have always loved you. Even if we didn’t show it as we ought.” He insists. Taking his hands from her.

She looks across at him. She’d been mistaken to think herself unloved by her parents. He did love her. He could just never bring himself to say so. Iris is awfully glad he’s taken this moment before all is lost.

“Go now. Make haste. Don’t linger too long bidding me farewell.” He offers. Walking with her across to the hallway leading to the kitchen. She tucks the music box safely in her bag. It chimes and chirps as she nestled it into her clothes. She reaches for him once more.

Iris squeezes his hand. “You have all my love. I’ll write when I can. Not for her.” She shakes her head, biting the word crossly. “But for you-“ She pledges.

“Send it to Mr. Grayson at the farm. He’ll see it reaches me safe.” He urges. She smiles. Nodding. Tears sparkling down her face.

“I’m sorry to say I will have shrouded this house in shame and gossip come the morning.” She frets.

He shakes his head with a fond smile. “We are tougher than we look. Never more so than when we are tested.” He assures. Such confidence in his Apple green and red raw eyes. She instantly believes him.

She throws herself into a hug. Fists a hand in his dressing gown shoulder and takes a deep breath of him one last time. Old leather musk of books and the sting of peppermint. “I love you.” She gasps with sad finality.

He nods. Swallowing a lump of stony sadness down in his throat.

“I wish you all the luck in the world, my dear dear girl.” He smiles. Eyes wet again. He cups her face and admires her for a second.

She clasps his hand tight at her cheek. And then she lets go-

He doesn’t have the strength to watch her leave. It’s too sad. Too hard.

He looks away and doesn’t return his eyes until the latch on the kitchen door softly clicks back into place in its frame.

The air hums with the absence of her. He prays to any god listening to convey her safely into Lord Ren’s arms.

He’d accompany her himself if it wouldn’t be so ruinous to explain come the morning. Why he was out of bed and out of doors at such an hour should anyone wish to seek after him. And she’ll move quicker without his old legs slowing her down.

He turns his eyes up to the snowy swirled heavens. And wills for her to have a better life than the one he could offer her here. He hopes he can see her again one day. When all this has passed. The hope for her is his salvation.

She scarpers across the moonlit lawn. Grass cold and crunching with frost under her feet. Snow is beading gently out the sky.

The clear moon of earlier has been replaced by chowder thick clouds. The cold wraps around her in a harsh biting embrace. Stinging at her exposed skin and making her hurry along all the more.

She takes the back lane to the woods. She didn’t wish to risk walking out in full view of the front of the house, down the drive. The road is pale with ice and dusted with snow. Icing sugar powder of it spills over her shoes.

The woods are already thick with it. Black trunks loom thin and warped; born out the white blanket of the ground. The tips of the trees blaze with flakes caught between them. Flecking the leaves.

She crunches her way along the lane. Her stride was something between a skip and scurry. Breath ghosting up in the air and her heart rattling in her ears. Her lungs sting and burn dry with cold as her breath drags into her body.

She cuts through the woods. Afraid her interlude with her father has made her late, and now Kylo would be worried she’d snubbed him.

She runs quick through the trees. Snapping slushing and scuffing twigs, frost and snow underfoot. Cold sneaks up her skirts where she holds them up to run but she doesn’t care- doesn’t even notice.

The trees are so gathered, that the branches rip at her skin as she sprints through them. Tears at her hair and her clothes. Snags are her and her cheeks sting. She bats away the grabbing things. They were like hands trying to tug her back. Trying to keep her tamed. To root her to this place. She’s having none of it.

Her hair got tangled in the snatching trees too. Pulls and only when she feels loose strands lap at her neck does she realise that the muslin had been torn and ripped right out. She presses onwards.

Her face stings and her eyes stream with cold. She comes up the lane that leads her to the church. Gnarled and slanted stubby shapes of the mossy gravestones are fog grey against the snow and the dark. Broken teeth of them rearing like lumpy beasts up out the snow. She throws the church gate open. Doesn’t care that it creaks. She runs up the worn grass path shoes scuffing at the pristine falling snow.

She comes out into the code of woods the other side of the church. The thing emerged out the snow with shimmering silver stone and the slate of its roof is edged with white where flakes settle. Oozing between the cold stony cracks.

The stained glass windows look dead and dull. The colours murkier in the dark. Smoky black and bleeding crimson staining the glass. The whites of the painted saints eyes seem to be arcing and watching over her in derisory disappointment.

She doesn’t glance back. She makes for the woods where she knows he’ll be waiting. She holds her skirts and she laughs as she runs. Her lungs puffed dry and freezing. But she’s so giddy she feels like her sides will split. Her cheeks ache from smiling. Not far to tread now. The cyclops of the moon hiding behind murky clouds watches her too. Silently keeping her secret.

She clears the worst of the trees and her heart soars when she sees a stark black shape of a coach up ahead. With an equally as tall dark haired man. His back to her as he stands in the snow. Head bowed down in his hands. Hair ruffled and dotted with flecks of it.

She presses a hand to her tummy where she suspects she now has a stitch. Because it simply feels so stupid - the amount of love and bliss thats coursing through her blood.

Kylo is outside the coach, of course he is. He’s much the same as her. He can’t sit still.

The gigantic elegant thing that will convey them to the Highlands set by the edge of the snowy muddy road. He’s pacing on it. Horses stamping in the cold. A shivering driver bundled up in pelts and thick coats.

He’s on the painful knifes edge of fretting. She’s not here yet. And it’s well past midnight. He’s worn circles in the snowy road. His coat heavily lapping and catching at his calves. The cold doesn’t bother him. Doesn’t touch him. He’s wearing a white shirt with the collar left undressed and pulled open.

It spills down his marble carved chest. Revealing him to the dark bitter woods and the snow.

He keeps bringing his silver pocket watch to hand - she’s ten minutes delayed. He watches the eleventh minute tick over.

His mind runs with the possibilities. She could’ve fallen and broken something in her haste.

She might’ve been discovered sneaking out and her mother tied her down, locked her in her bedchamber and threw away the key for good measure. His brain bubbles with mania and panic at the possibilities that could keep her from him.

He turns another circle and scans the horizon again. Sharp eyes not missing a thing. A cold breeze shudders across him from up the road. He stops dead in his tracks. That scent.

That was her. She was here.

He whips around, hands falling by his sides. Just in time to see her emerge quickly from the misty white of the woods.

Clad in her blue coat and a red dress. Her bag in hand. Her hair loose, curling and spilling over her shoulders. Cheeks are red and icy cold. Stung by the wind.

She’s never looked more lovely. So wild and free. And all his.

Her smile grows so great. As does his. She slows to a stop. Panting for breath that she’ll never catch. Not now. Not with him stood there looking all dashing.

Iris hikes her skirts and coat up, and runs straight to him and she’s no shame about it either.

She drops her bag on her way to him, uncaring for its contents. He meets her halfway. Their bodies clash in such a tempest of love.

She throws herself into his chest and he hauls her up so her feet don’t touch the ground. His strength was always so vastly great and he shows it in the way he lifts her so easily. Cradles the precious small weight of her in his big arms.

They collapse into glad sighs and she strokes her hand over his hair. Smiling out in bliss as she holds the back of his head. He clutched her back and her hair and buried his face in the crook of her cold neck. It delights and thrills her and she can’t conceive she can deserve so much happiness-

He sighs into her neck. Smiling into her skin. He draws back and looks right at her beautiful cold-kissed complexion. “Ready for this adventure? Lady Ren...” He asks. Cupping her cheek and most of her jaw.

“Wholeheartedly.” She answers.

He plucks a soft lingering kiss at her cheek and sets her down. Scoops up her bag and her hand and leads her through the crunching snow into the coach.

He opens the door for her and she clambers in. Erland snorts and shifts and stamps at her even from up the front of the carriage. Determined to have his share - he was such a diva he could never be left out.

“She’s coming with us, you great big fool.” Kylo comments to his horse. Iris laughs at their exchange as she settles herself in the plush velvet lined carriage.

Scarlet draping over every inch of it. A watery patch of moonlight slanted and cast down from the windows in the doors. She scoots across the bench for Kylo to sit next to her. He then commands his driver to set off.

Pelts and blankets and garnet silk brocade bolster-cushions line the seat opposite. He’s stuffed it with comforts for her. There’s a basket hamper of food and bottles of drink and a stack of leather bound books. She requires rest and sustenance. He seldom does. Not more than a handful of hours per night. But he’ll enjoy slumbering next to her.

Kylo shuts the door after himself. A gust of snow blooms with the force of it. Puffing into the velvet space. They are quite alone. And the carriage lurches off into that snowy dark midnight. Their new life together begins.

He greets her properly. Makes sure she’s snug in pelts and blankets and tips her face up to his by the chin to kiss her again. Her face pulls into an expression of agonised bliss. Tugs her closer closer closer.

Wraps his fingers around the back of one hip. Slithered his fingers between her coat and her dress.

He nudges her jaw out his way with a cheeky smile and shoved his nose into her hair to push it aside, nips and nibbles sucking teasing kisses down her neck that makes her shiver. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long. You’ve no idea how long I’ve been dying to kiss your soft neck.” He grumbles.

He sucks an open mouthed kiss over her pulse and she moans and pants his name. Fingers trapping into the blankets as she says his name like she’s chiding him. They can both feel the desire marching over every vertebrae of her spine.

She shivers. God that felt good. Made her weak. Made her eyes roll back.

“Oh kylo.” She moans. Her toes curl with the sheer raw power of his seductive kisses.

He finds her left hand on her lap and strokes the empty space on her fourth finger.

“Now. I think I had better make this elopement of ours authentic. Had I not?” He smirks. Reaching for his coat pocket.

Then he’s drawing something small out the shadow coloured wool. Her lips part in a smile when he snaps open a small blue velvet box. She’s blinded by diamonds and sapphires.

A cluster of them all crowning a gold band which is set with more gems. Two sapphires surround a large round diamond. Rounded and sparkling gems.

He’s watching her carefully - with a smug expression taking over him as he plucks the ring out its silken nest and slips off her glove slowly, then slots it up onto her finger. It glides on and sits perfectly. He lets her admire for a second. Before lifting the back of her hand to his lips.

“It’s too beautiful.” She comments. Amazed at it. He reaches for the curtain at the window and draws it back. Let’s the moonlight shimmer off the cluster of stones. Fractured light drips everywhere.

“Now that looks a worthy decoration to sit on that pretty kind hand.” He smiles. Before he frowns and turns her head towards him. A curl of copper and iron drifts into his nose.

“Dove. You’re bleeding...” He remarks. When he turns her face there’s paper thin red scratches swiped across her cheeks. She raises her hand to her skin and brings away a dribble of blood.

“I ran through the trees. I must have hurt my cheeks and not realised.”

“How could you not realise?” He asks her as he brings her finger to his mouth and naughtily, suavely puts that fingertip on his tongue and sucks off the blood. Curls his tongue around her taste to savour the way most men would appreciate a fine burgundy wine.

It makes something throb between her legs when he gets his lips on her. His eyes look like they could cut her with a look.

Her blood coating his tongue is too sweet for words. Sweet sweet bouquet. An agonising temptation that he only wants more of.

“I was smiling too much to notice.” She admits in a blush. Chewing on the inside of her lower lip.

He kisses at that blushing sore cheek. Pressing his lips to the barely bleeding cut. It should help soothe and close it. “That makes me insatiably glad to hear.” He smiles.

She searches for his hand and holds it. “I’m sorry I was late to meet you. I ran into my father as I was leaving.” She explains as he leans in to kiss her jaw again.

He pulls back and his face turns rather serious and stern. “He didn’t try and stop you?” He seeks.

“He could not stand to see me wed to such a loveless man as Hux. He gave me his blessing to wed you. I didn’t think I’d be walking away with that.” She tells.

He suspected there was a reason to Mr. Ashton’s silence. And now he knew; it was guilt. He’s glad to see she is loved from her fathers quarter. It soothes him.

“I’m glad you were able to make your peace with him.” He confesses. Holding her dear sweet little hand in his own massive grasp.

She looks up at him. At that handsome earnest face that is watching her so intently. So full of love and desire.

“As am I. But for now. Can I be terribly audacious and ask you to kiss me again?” She seeks with a grin.

She squealed nearly as Kylo tugs her tight into his lap. Folds her thighs over his. One hand covering her ribs under her dress. Fingers teasing under the swell of her breast. His smirking lips kiss and nibble under her jaw and she gasps in bliss.

“Thought you’d never ask...” He smirks and growls into the scorching heat of her neck. It tumbled right through her and she knows more desire is to come.

”And if you hadn’t? I’d have had to taste those pretty lips without your permission.” He sighs cheekily.

He swoops up and takes her mouth and she truly things she might burst into flames.

His silky tongue falls like cream running along her lower lip. She shivers at the sheer erotic desire of it. And this is only the start-

He’ll need to be careful. Or he’ll have kissed her lips raw by the time they reach Scotland.

~

[btchcrft]

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑

weeks have turned to months and your journey to olympus, your acceptance of your life as a demigod, has lead up to this moment. it’s been brutal, wrought with pain and close calls, thick with loss, but you’ve endured. as you begin to get ready to sleep, winding down for the night, something inside of you feels different. there’s a strength that grows that you only dimly knew was there before. you feel stronger, faster, more attuned to your senses and your own inner power. if you ever doubted that you might have divine blood in your veins before, now, more than ever, you feel it.

as soon as your head hits the pillow you fall fast asleep, exhausted from the events that have lead up to this point. who knows however long later, you “awaken”. you’re not where you fell asleep, nothing is as it was when you slept. you have to blink a few times but you realize that you’re in a place that seems familiar to you. describe this place? what does it look like, sound like, smell like?

eyes blink open and i already know where i am. it's the scent of paint, of fresh canvases that line the walls, piled in corners. there's a plush, grey rug beneath my bare feet and, a few feet from it is an area that's sectioned off from the small sitting room of my studio in los angeles. it's the one place that i always came to work, where i felt like i could release everything i've been holding in and no one would judge, no one would tell me i'm overreacting or not being true to myself.

this is home away from home; sanctuary.

there's a large canvas on an easel that's blank, four by four. it's what i was going to work on before having to leave. mixed in with the scent of fresh paint is the salty sea air that breezes in through the large windows that give plenty of natural light. the sun is high in the sky, which is strange since it's winter back in my new home, but this is comfortable, familiar. the furniture is still where i left it. two large, comfortable chairs, the end table with art magazines, the espresso machine on the small kitchenette behind it. a smile dances across my lips and the tension in my shoulders eases.

dust motes dance in the los angeles sunlight like flecks of gold and the air smells of a mix between brine and paint that has yet to cure. it’s a sharp yet oddly comforting scent to you, familiar, soothing. you recognize this place as a rough-and-ready altar that is – for once – not devoted to your mother or any other deity, only you.  

you look around and something upon the once-blank canvas catches your eye. is it blank? it doesn’t look to be, for shapes seem to dance in its ivory depths now, alit with silvery traces that look to be forming a face or an arm or an eye, but it’s all too vague, having no true form until they come out from the canvas as if born from it.

what does this figure look like to you, and how does your heart respond? are they familiar or not?

this place was always magical to me and now i bring magic to it. my eyes focus on the paint that almost drips onto the floor. brush strokes in muted colors begin to leak from the stark canvas. i don’t recognize this as one of my own creation but as i look at it, it shifts.

slowly, as if the paint dries into a solid form, is a large leather bound tome, like the ones in the mageia library. dark brown leather, golden latches and corner pieces, with runes along the spine.

i’m about to reach for it when the canvas begins to drip once more and another figure emerges from it and leaps onto the floating book.

a lilac mittens ragdoll kitten sits atop the book, blue eyes starring at me. the same cat i was about to adopt before the acolytes scooped me up into this new world. my heart hurts, and guilt washes over my expression. i had wanted her so badly back then. a companion, something to come home to.

the leather-bound tome is spitted out of the canvas’ mouth but instead of falling, it only floats slowly towards you. time feels sluggish around everything in the room with the dust motes now suspended in the air, the curtains now undulating slowly. the exception to this phenomenon, though, is the lilac cat that nimbly hops on top of the book and balances itself upon its thick rim. it licks its soft paw, then rests its blue-eyed gaze upon you. for a few moments, the quiet appraisal is the only thing it does.

“i’ve been waiting for this moment, son of witchcraft,” finally, it speaks and the voice stands out, “i've been waiting for you.” is it familiar, or unfamiliar? is it a kitten’s purr, or something else entirely? how does it make you feel?

my hand moves away from the cat instinctively, almost like a flinch. if there's one thing that i've learned it's that touching things that pique my interest might get me killed.

and then it speaks.

at first, i'm baffled and then i remember everything else that's gone on in my life recently. the monsters, the magic, the might. talking animals—after seeing satyrs and nymphs—shouldn't be out of the realm of possibility.

the voice is female with a slight feline inflection. there's an underlying purr in the words, a comfortability that shouldn't be there between strangers. it soothes the aches in my joints and my chest, makes me feel like i'm truly back home once more.

"waiting for me?" i rebuttal, eyebrow arched. "why?"

waiting for me? why?

the moment you ask the question, the words seem to have a rippling effect on your surroundings, like a spoken incantation, making the entire room shudder with a silvery sheen. but, somewhere deep within you, there’s a certainty that this isn’t an illusion born out of sinister magic, but something else entirely—an echo turning to a real sound, a remnant becoming a whole once more.

the cat’s eyes gleam then and it walks along the book’s rim, relaxed. the tome is opening now and you watch as ink spills across its brown surface, drawing shapes again as the canvas did before. not shapes, no, you suddenly realize, but runes. they are sigils that you can read, language gravid with ancient power.

“what type of runes are these?” the kitten mews.

the book opens and my eyes stay transfixed on it. each slide of paint, almost like calligraphy, is mesmerizing to me. i can feel each phantom movement in my fingertip. the kitten's question makes my head lilt to the side and my eyes focus on the runes that are forming, ancient sigils that are made easier for me to understand.

"power." i say, confidently. "a means of amplification." i know this because it reminds me of the runes on the inside of the bracelet around my wrist, the same power that courses through me that needs a channel to unleash like a wild fire through dry brush. i reach out and stroke the edges of the book, feeling the power of the runes beneath the pad of my fingertip.

i want it engraved in my bones, tattooed on my body. i think to myself, i never want to feel powerless again.

power, you chant and the rooms shudders again. but this time, it doesn’t halt.

the incantation is spoken, the spell thoroughly read, for the runes from the tome emerge in one swift movement and begin dancing around you like the spirits you summon. the edges of the room, you can see, also start to dissolve into wisps of smoke, swirling in the air around you with a hypnotic rhythm.

amid this occurrence, the lilac ragdoll cats begins to float and swells in size. it is amplification as you’ve wished it, a spark becoming a fire, becoming an inferno. the cat’s limbs dissolve too, as if it has been made of smoke this entire time, and you see that both you and it are glowing the same hue. you are both two supernovas on the verge of explosion. you sense that it has your magic, it has your power, but a much, much stronger form of it.

what color is your magic, and how does it make you feel?

how does your magic behave?

the light begins to glow, begins to leak into the air like dripping liquid until it falls to pieces like the remnants of dried paint rubbed between fingertips. the lilac ragdoll grows and grows, amplifies, like the rune itself took hold, took shape, took motion.

i look down at my hands and my magic is back—not as weak as it had felt when facing nyx and eris' monster, not weak as it had been when i had been foolish and allowed my curiosity to get the best of me, allowing something to take parts of me to make it stronger; no, this was my strength at full capacity. crackling wisps of energy weave between my fingers, black and gold, almost amber, like ribbons that thread themselves seamlessly around my wrists.

this feels...foreign, almost. there's a power to it that i can almost taste, delicious, dangerous, seductive. it washes over me, fills me to the brim. this is what ecstasy feels like. this is what divinity must feel like. i feel alive, i feel powerful, i feel like a natural disaster being harnessed between flesh and bones.

it feels like it wants to burn the world down, summon storms, create chaos, but underneath it, like a mischievous feline, is a calmness that allows me to think, to pause. it waits for me to beckon for it before it waxes and wans, occasionally acting on its own accord. but it behaves like it might be mine, and not something borrowed, not something uncontrollable.

for the first time since arriving at camp, i feel like my magic wants to belong.

as one thought after another flits through your head, the cat’s fur mirrors every single one, turning to a fiery black pelt that trails golden smoke, becoming embedded with cracks of black-tinged lightning, taking on a writhing surface of gold and black. your magic runs wildly as ribbons and scatters everywhere in reckless abandon. it’s chaos, it’s power, and it’s rampant, untamed, feral, until you will it to be otherwise.

until you make it belong inside you.

now, the ragdoll cat’s fur is a mass of dark, wispy smoke, but its eyes are so unbelievably golden like they are coins enchanted to glow in the dark. its size is that of a bear now, looming over you. you are not in your studio apartment anymore, but you don’t seem to be in anywhere recognizable either, the world around you a curious blank.

“interesting,” the cat purrs, with what seems to be a bemused laugh lurking underneath each word. when it prowls ahead, it has the leisure of a ghost and, of course, the grace of a cat. “so instead of letting your power run wild, you wish to harness it and make it yours.” golden eyes land on you. “show me more, son of witchcraft – paint for me what you desire.”

as the words trail, the world around you spasms and dances. the calligraphy lines from before spiderwebs from beneath you and you are certain that they want you to paint – want you to draw a world that belongs only to you.

paint what i desire.

paint what i desire.

under any normal circumstance, this would be easy. this would be just another piece i hang in a gallery, allow someone else to buy, allow them to take a piece of my future home with them.

i look down at my hands and i clench my fingers into a fist, dig my nails against my palm, inhale and exhale. i close my eyes, allowing my magic to coil within me, allow it to purr like a cat and strike like a viper.

and then i begin to mold the world as i see fit.

paint what i desire.

there is a mountain that looks like divinity atop it, a radiant glow that can be see like the stars in the night sky, like the moon that hangs above. the painting moves, shifts, strokes of paint trail away to unravel and become something more. it is their camp, their home, but it is much different—fit for the gods, not their children. marble thrones, marble statues, carved into their likeness, altars and offering bowls at their feet. each statue looks draped in traditional greek god attire—white robes, golden belts, laurel wreathes atop their heads.

then there is me, in the middle, amongst them all.

paint what i desire.

divinity, godlihood—not half measures—a new era, a new god of witchcraft, a new king of olympus.

paint what i desire.

ambition made truth. deepest, darkest desires laid bare. unspoken words turned to canvas; a secret never uttered aloud.

the calligraphy lines unfurl and writs as you will them too and paint spills in colors of your choosing. after everything cures, the sight you’re greeted with is grandiose, your own marble face staring down at you from the pantheon of gods. it’s a dream, but you also feel that it can be real, that you can make it real.

languidly, the cat paddles through the air and floats above head of the statue that bears your likeness in stone. it has a cheshire grin on its face now. “good,” the words are a purr, an agreement. “so you wish to remake the world in your own image.”

slowly, the cat swells again until it’s as large as a temple, a colossal thing. its golden eyes glint when it stares down at you, but you don’t feel any sort of fear. it’s like looking into a mirror, a reflection of yourself.

“this will not come easy, little weaver,” it speaks and the words are a deep rumble in your chest. “magic always has a cost, and the path ahead you is full of dangers. are you ready to accept your power, and the challenges it will inevitably bring your way, remaker? are you ready to bear the heft of witchcraft?”

i look at the statue that stares down at me and my gaze moves to the cat.

"not in my own image, but better than it is now, better than it could be." i wave my hand through the air and the image stays as is, framed. "change needs to happen and i want to bring it."

i wonder, for a moment, if this is what eris thinks, too.

i nod my head, the black and amber-gold of my magic trails up my arms until it dissipates, returning to normal. "since i said yes to my birthright there's been danger. i've almost died. i've been captured, i've been face to face with the goddess of chaos." he smirks. "but i am chaos. magic is chaos. and she won't control me or anyone else."

i close my eyes. "heavy is the crown and all that bullshit. i am magic. i can bear it."

“and your mother is the goddess of magic, of cross-roads, and all arcane mysteries,” it laughs and the sound echoes in your bones. “when danger comes, we’ll simply have to show them who’s more dangerous, won’t we?” the cat’s smoky body begins to swirl then and you can see its arm outstretch, pointing one gigantic claw at you, wispy near the tip like the specters that you summon. “paint runs out, little weaver, but magic never truly does.”

the single claw is beckoning, asking you to touch it.

i outstretch my finger toward the claw and, right before i press tip to tip, say:

"not even in death."

the instant your finger touches the claw, you feel all of it pour into you, the cat, the world you’d created, and the magic, as wisps of gold slither down the fingertip and into your mouth and your eyes. it’s all-encompassing, it’s dangerous, and but it’s also so incredibly righteous. this is your birthright and every inch of you accepts it.

then, you fall, stumbling through the dream, only to wake up on your bed. the moonlight is cool against your skin, and nothing rustles in your room. was it only a dream? was it only a trick of your mind? as you begin to wonder, you notice amber lines shimmer faintly under your skin and draw what can only be a half-finished rune.

[obscure-sentimentalist]

“Don’t shut me out.” “You had a nightmare, tell me what it was about so I can fix it.” These two seems really interesting but I can't deciiide 😖 Sorry Oh, and I guess it would fit the merlyn boys au really well :) I love this au! And the au's of this au :) Xoxo

[*shows up months later with a mug of hot chocolate* In my defense, I didn’t settle on the direction for this one until just recently, and I’m pretty happy with how it turned out. Hopefully it’s worth the wait! (And thank you, Anon! I did end up using both prompts in here!!)]

Prompts from the drabble challenge list

Old enough ‘verse

January 2013

When Tommy jolts awake, the startled release of air from his lungs doesn’t echo off the walls of a too big, too empty house, like he expects.

Instead, he’s immediately aware of the crick in his neck from resting on the pillow propped against the couch arm, and the carpet fibers underneath his fingers as they drape down. They’re not particularly specific sensations, and the dark conceals any features of his surroundings, but it’s enough to ground Tommy and assuage his immediate fears.

Just the lingering vestiges of a dream, a memory. Wherever he is, it isn’t there, and he hasn’t been quite so little in a very long time—no matter how some people still try to make him feel that way.

The couch cushions groan (echoing the one in Tommy’s mind) as he sits up and shuffles back to prop up against the arm. He lifts the hand that was resting limply on his chest and scrubs at his face—rubbing out the pair of damp trails marking his cheeks—before dropping it onto the thick wool blanket in his lap. The one grazing the floor, though, fumbles along in search of the foot switch for the floor lamp his brain sluggishly remembers is right behind him. It doesn’t take too long for his fingertips to catch on ribbed plastic, and with a click, the space floods with a momentarily-blinding light.

Tommy hisses as he ducks his head, only to bring it back up a moment later so his eyes can adjust and take in the details of the room, to latch onto anything familiar to fully drag himself out of his head and into the present.

His anchor makes that choice for him, letting out a sleep-slurred grumble from the well-loved recliner perpendicular to the couch.

“Whuzzgoinon?” The leather creaks, and a dark head of mad scientist-level mussed hair leans forward with a swollen-eyed glare.

Well that slams Tommy back to awareness and alertness faster than anything else would have.

“Sorry,” he blurts none-too-quietly, but when Connor winces at the noise, Tommy drops his tone and tries again. “Sorry. Got a little disoriented, forgot where I was. And, frankly, didn’t expect you to be here, seeing as I can now tell that this is your apartment, and you have an actual bed.”

“Mm,” his brother, epitome of eloquence, mumbles, flapping a hand in acceptance of that explanation as he drops into the widest yawn Tommy’s ever seen. “Must’ve passed out here.”

“Well, we did have a real fiesta of a night,” Tommy teases in reply, his brain catching up to his more recent memories. “Chucking balls across the floor in borrowed, questionably-smelling shoes makes for quite a workout.”

Connor’s hand lands over his eyes with an audible smack. “What even made you think of going bowling, anyway?”

Tommy shrugs. “Just seemed like a bit of light fun. I’ve needed something like that for a while, and thought it’d work well for my Birthday Coin Toss win.” The explanation out, he switches gears and tries to nudge his twin’s attention away. “Go back to sleep, Connie—for real this time, yeah?”

Luck, it seems, is not on Tommy’s side tonight, as Connor only sits up straighter at the suggestion, hand slipping from his face to reveal a much clearer gaze as it locks on Tommy.

“You needed a bit of light fun,” he repeats slowly, a pensive crease forming in his brow. He pauses a moment to turn the words over, then tries again. “I thought you said things were getting better. With Laurel, and being cut off, and…”

“They were,” Tommy cuts in frantically, almost physically leaping off the couch as he does so. “Are. Everything’s fine. It’s just… still a lot of change, you know? Gets a little draining.”

Connor meets that with a slow nod, but the fact that his frown doesn’t ease makes it clear that he’s not done picking this apart. “Makes sense for wanting to go with lower-key hijinks…”

“Oh, come on, the perfect word was right in front of you. Tomfoolery. Practically named for me.”

“…But if the effects are disrupting your sleep, too?” Connor finishes, giving Tommy a heavy stare. “You’re not going to get by me with a hand-wave-y explanation like that.”

Any amusement that Tommy coerced into his expression with his previous (and clearly ignored) quip bleeds out at those words. “What?”

“A minute ago, you told me you got disoriented,” Connor reminds him. “But what woke you up in the first place? And why was it enough that you needed to throw the light on?”

Oh, Tommy’s not liking how close his brother is tripping to the truth.

“You had a nightmare,” Connor concludes with the confidence of the medical professional he’s becoming. He motions with his hand as he settles back in the recliner. “Tell me what it was about so I can fix it.”

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline in dubiety. “You switch your residency from Trauma Surgery to Psychology on me, or something?” He pats both hands around his forehead and face in vague measurement. “I’m happy with the size of my head, no shrinking necessary, thanks.”

Connor’s lips thin at the comments, but still he persists. “You said it yourself—it’s a lot of change. And while it sounds like, from what you’ve told me, it’s mostly good change… ‘mostly’ isn’t ‘completely’.” He leans forward, elbows dropping to his thighs for balance. “Is there something bothering you?”

“You mean besides you, right now?” It comes out as more of a snap than Tommy wants it to be, but if his brother would just leave it alone…

That only serves to bring a slightly pained expression to Connor’s face.

“Tommy, please.” There’s a faint thread of exasperation in his tone, but the cracking on that last word gives Tommy pause. “Don’t shut me out. Whatever it is, let me help, okay?”

That twists something in Tommy’s chest, almost like guilt.

It’s been almost five years, and yet he’s still not used to the fact that having a brother means having someone else in his corner—emotional support he’s already much too short on. So much of his relationship with Connor has been centered around lower-stakes, silly fun; just getting to know each other after a lifetime separated. It’s not that truly opening up is something that Tommy is averse to doing; there’s just rarely been a real need to do so.

Being a brother—a twin—settled in both of them so bone-deep that it just… is. Putting things in words and vocalizing them feels superfluous.

Oh, there have been conversations and misunderstandings cleared up, discussions of each other’s current aggravations and concerns—words falling freely and meeting a willing ear. Those topics were more trivial, or at the very least easier to slip off the tongue (even the heavier ones, though those were typically loosened and floated along by alcohol). Arguably, talking about a nightmare should count among that number of insignificant subjects, but there are always exceptions to that rule.

Still, Tommy falters on his rejection in the face of Connor’s plea—doctor’s head and brother’s heart, working in tandem and wanting nothing more than to heal.

“This was a one-off bad dream—it… hasn’t happened in a long time,” Tommy finally confesses, draping an arm across his forehead as he lies back. “But yeah, I guess the fact that it’s come back is related to everything that’s going on, or at least one particular corner of my life.”

His vision obscured, Tommy relies on the hum of acknowledgement and the shuffle of fabric over leather to confirm Connor’s attention, before continuing. “I- I told you that, after Mom died, Dad disappeared for a good two years, right?”

“‘Good’ doesn’t seem like the right choice of word for that situation, in any use,” Connor growls lowly, “but yeah, you did.”

“Cool.” Tommy swallows thickly, and lets his arm slide back down from his face. “So, uh, he did that. Which meant that, from ages eight to ten, I kind of bounced between staying with Ollie and the Queens—huh, that’d make a good band name—and living back home with the part-time staff.”

Connor doesn’t seem to have any words to verbalize in response, but the living room definitely feels a bit more frigid than it did a moment ago, before Tommy dropped that truth.

“And, you know, it was fine during the daytime, when it was light out and there were more people around the house. By evening, though… well, the nanny was there a number of nights, and I slept over at Queen Manor for most of the ones when she wasn’t, but still, that was when I was so aware of how empty the house was.”

For a split second, Tommy finds himself slipping again, into the tiny body that hasn’t been his for nearly twenty years, burrowed protectively under layers upon layers of blankets to muffle the mansion’s hollow echoing—to hide himself away from the nothingness before it consumes him. Or maybe it’ll just see in him what Dad must have and leave too, because Tommy’s never been good at giving reasons to stay…

“Hey.”

The cushion under Tommy’s feet jostles lightly, and he snaps back to the now with a sharp breath. The sound doesn’t clatter noisily against too-still silence, instead landing softly in the glow of the lamp and the shadow of Connor’s concerned expression.

His brother draws his own outstretched foot back from the edge of the couch to settle again on the floor in front of the recliner. “You’re not there anymore.”

An obvious statement, given that Connor’s never set foot in the manor and Tommy can hear the faint city sounds of Gotham beyond the living room window, but he recognizes it for the grounding it is and grabs on with both hands.

“Right,” he sighs, his gaze locking on the ceiling. “Been a long time since my nights were like that, and… not quite as long since my unconscious last decided to screw with me and yank open that particular memory box.”

Connor lets out a low hum of acknowledgement at that, but doesn’t say anything more on the subject. He’s informed enough on the goings-on of Tommy’s life these days that he can puzzle out the culprit behind the resurgence of such dreams.

(Hilarious how Malcolm trying to wedge his way into Tommy’s life invokes recollections of a time when his absence was a weeping wound. It’s not like Tommy needs to be reminded of the consequences, were he to actually let his father get close.)

“What do you need?” Connor finally asks, his voice dipping quiet and thoughtful with the question. It’s not a tone that Tommy is used to hearing his brother speak in, but it rings of such sincerity that he rolls his head to the side to meet Connor’s expectant gaze. “What usually helps you after these kinds of dreams?”

“Gonna write me up a prescription for the good stuff, Dr. Rhodes?” Tommy cracks instinctively, even as his chest fills with a certain warmth.

Luckily, Connor takes it as the knee-jerk reaction it is—reaching for humor to mask vulnerability, even when it’s entirely safe to have it exposed—and just rolls his eyes fondly. “You snore enough already without the help of sleep aids. Pick something else.”

Tommy clicks his tongue in a jokingly disappointed way, but sobers as he casts his eyes carefully down. “I think just… noise helps. Voices, more specifically. Nothing too loud, or punctuated in any particular way.” His runs his fingers up and down over the carpet in a slow drag, trying to focus on his thoughts. “A lot of times, I’d put on headphones and whatever music with quieter vocals I had, or maybe a late-night radio station that had hosts on-air. After I moved out, it was whatever early-morning programming I could find that wasn’t sitcom reruns or Law & Order marathons. Feel like I can recite Shake Weight infomercials in my sleep.”

“Please don’t.” Connor sounds incredibly pained by the thought.

“Hypothetically, of course. You and I both know that I’m not the Comatose Chatterbox here.”

“Asshole.”

“Now that I’ll own up to,” Tommy concedes, lifting his hand from the carpet to jab a finger at his brother for emphasis.

Connor seems to accept that, and shifts back in his seat. “I can turn on the TV, find something that’ll work,” he offers, gesturing to the flatscreen to his right. He pauses a moment, considering, before he cracks a faintly amused smile. “Or I can captivate you with standard treatment procedures for various traumas. Lots of nonsense words, all mashed together with numbers—perfect boring material to pass out to.”

“Oh, great,” Tommy starts cheerily. “So helpful to know how many ccs of whateverthehellthisis I’d need if I got, like, stabbed in the chest or something.”

Connor raises his hands in playful surrender. “Just tossing out ideas. You have something better?”

It’s only as Tommy is giving the challenge some thought that he realizes how muted and distant the lonely ache of his nightmare now feels. The vacant house has bled out of mind and body, retreating back to the dark, locked corner in which it belongs. Tommy would even dare say he’s tired again, ready to drift back off and into better (or at least weirder) dreams.

But then there’s Connor, always so determined to fix and heal whatever he can, cycling through ideas for how best to help. His brother, trying to be there for Tommy now when he wasn’t for the initial hurt, through no fault of his own.

Maybe sleep can wait a while longer.

“Compared to yours?” Tommy scoffs, lips spreading in a taunting grin. “That’s not even a question.”

The sharp arch of Connor’s eyebrow is evidence enough that this is a challenge most eagerly accepted.

[maxineswritingcenter]

Home - Dean x fem!reader part 5

After being kidnapped by demons, (y/n) is no where to be found by her partners Dean and Sam. Will they find her in time before it’s too late?

TW: there may some some added violence as requested but nothing more than what would be shown in the show, we’re keeping it PG - 13.

- 

“This is getting....diculus...useless....” (Y/N) heard Balaam’s voice going in and out. They had put her in a chair, arms tied to her sides, a mock crown placed on her head where screws punctured her skull. The demon next to her tutted. 

“Why don’t .... kill her? She’s not going to give us anything about where...home is.” 

“Home?”(Y/N) picked up her head a little a tried to look at the demons through her swollen, bruised eyes. 

Balaam moved to stand in front of her, an excited grin on her face, “Yes, home. Where is home? Tell us.” 

(Y/N) found the strength to smile weakly, thinking of the words that Dean had said those years before. 

“Home... the place where I can go. Take this off my shoulder...Someone take me home.” As she spoke, her head slowly went back to hanging down. 

“This is useless. Untie her, get the crown off.” Balaam growled. 

“Untie her?” The demon’s eyebrows knitted together. 

“She’s a bag of bones, she’ll die within the day.” As (Y/N) was untied, Balaam pushed her to the floor and she landed with a thud.

“Let’s go and figure out something else, this is big waste of our time.” And with that, they were gone and she was left in the dark.

“Someone take me home.” (Y/N) whispered, curling into a ball with Timothy besides her. 

- 

Dean sat at the table, staring at the small glass vial in his hand. In it was a piece of the wooden floor of the house (Y/N) was taken from. It was stained a rust colored from dried blood, the blood of the kidnapper. His attention was brought to Rowena’s heels as she walked into the room, Sam walked behind her with a black velvet chest in his hands. 

“What’s that?” Dean asked, watching Sam set the box down on the table besides him. Rowena lit a candle with a long match and opened the chest to reveal a necklace. 

“Just a few things I managed to borrowed. Nothing to worry about.” Rowena smiled before plunking the vial out of his hands. 

“It’s a revelation spell. The blood from the demon that took her should connect to the body it came from. And, with any luck, he’s still with (Y/N).” Sam said, giving Dean a soft smile. Almost like an apology. 

“Yeah, well, let’s just hope this works.” Dean leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest, “Because if it doesn’t...”

“Dear, if this doesn’t work, I’m putting up my spells and cauldrons and never practice magic again.” Rowena smiled, rolling out a map. She inhaled deeply and were her eyes opened they were bright purple. She pointed a long finger at the the vial with the blood and it began to shake, just like everything else in the room. 

As she spoke, her voice echoed through the bunker with an other-worldly tone: “Reveal now, reveal!” A wind was rushing through the bunker, originating from Rowena. The candle flame flickered and faded from yellow to purple like the witch’s eyes. 

Suddenly, just as it began, it stopped. Rowena had blinked the purple from her eyes and a smile crept onto her face.

“I’ve found them.” 

- 

Balaam and the other demons sat at the table. Her head was in her hands, fists of her hair threaded through her fingers. 

“So what’s our next move?” The demon to her right asked. She was sure he had a name but she was too pissed off to care about such things. She wasted six months for nothing, six months of feeding and beating an empty lead. 

“Well we’re not kidnapping anyone anytime soon. That bitch was worth less than the nails we screwed into her head.” A demon... his name was Richard, which would explain things. 

“Look will everything just shut up and-” A distant bang from outside stopped her train of thought. Everyone’s heads spun towards the door. 

“What’s that?” They all stood from their seats, preparing to fight. But what they didn’t expect was the door to be blown off in an explosion. A demon was crushed by the door as it slammed into the far wall, the rest were blown to the ground. Balaam looked up from the floor, coughing out the cement dust from the explosion. 

As the smoke cleared, Dean Winchester appeared in the doorway. There was fire in his eyes and if looks would kill. 

“Candy gram.” He said. Sam and Rowena appeared behind him.  

“Who’s the leader?” Dean asked and was met by numerous fingers pointing to the woman by the door. 

He nodded, “Alright.” He leaned down and grabbed her roughly by the arm, dragging her to her feet. Sam and Dean led the woman out of the room as Rowena dropped a lit match into the bowl in her hands. The demon bomb inside blasted outward and all the demons left in the room were disintegrated. 

Dean shoved the woman against the wall while Sam held an angel blade to her throat, “Where is she?” He demanded. 

“She’s dead.” The demon sneered, “We tossed her into a meat grinder and ate her for dinner. She was so sweet. If you would have gotten here three months earlier then you could have had a bit-” Before she could finish, Dean grabbed Sam’s wrist and forcefully shoved the blade into her throat. Sam pulled his wrist from Dean grip and glared at his brother. 

“Dean!” Sam shouted as the demon’s body hit the floor. 

“She’s lying. (Y/N)’s here.” He started making his way down the hallway, calling her name. 

-

(Y/N) woke up again to Timothy’s little paw touching her face softly. She sighed, trying to move her head but she was too sore and weak to really move. She opened her eyes slightly. Timothy’s bright blue eyes only stared down at her from his position on her chest and opened his mouth but the yowls that she was used to coming out were replaced by her name. She narrowed her eyes the best she could in confusion. 

“Wha...” The whisper escaped her lips. 

“(Y/N).” Timothy said, blinking down at her. 

“(Y/N)!” Her attention was brought towards the direction of the door. It sounded close, someone calling for her. But was it real, or just another hallucination? 

“(Y/N)!” The voice called again, a different voice followed it, calling to her. No, that was real. It had to be... was it?

“In here-” (Y/N) croaked. The voice was getting closer, she could hear footsteps getting closer. But then they started to fade again and get farther away. Timothy had hopped off her chest and was going towards the door, scratching at the wood. 

I have to move, she thought, I’ll die here if I don’t. And I’ll be damned if she gets the last laugh.

(Y/N) rolled onto her stomach, using what little strength she had in her arms to drag her body across the cement floor. Every movement caused her leg to scream at her and her arms felt like they would fall off. Each movement felt like it was taking a life time to make it anywhere close to the door. 

“I’m here.” She grunted, as she finally made it to the door. She shifted so she sat against the door. 

They’ll never hear me if I can’t get loud enough, she squinted and tried to find something, anything. It was just her luck that she found a chair leg, of of the many that littered the floor. She gripped the wood tightly in her hands, bracing herself. With a sharp movement, she jammed the jagged edge into her leg.

“I’M HERE!” She screamed, squeezing her eyes shut from the pain, “I’M HERE!” The footsteps were coming back and relief washed through her. Her fingers fell slack and her hand slid off her leg, leaving the wood lodged in her leg. She closed her eyes and smiled to herself. 

“We’re going home, Timothy.” But the little cat was gone, disappearing into thin air. 

The door behind her opened, she fell back into the hallway, into the light and as her head hit the ground she heard him. 

“(Y/N)...” He found her. He came for her. Just like she knew he would. 

- 

The next few days were more of a blur than anything. The ride to the hospital was mostly in darkness. Every one in a while she could hear Sam telling her to stay awake, keep breathing, they were almost there. 

“Come on! Don’t give up!” Was what really stuck with her. And maybe it was a mistake on his part, but she hadn’t given up. Had she wanted to? Absolutely. Those days that had faded into night, the days becoming weeks, the weeks to months she wanted nothing more than to die. The torture she had been through, both physically and emotionally were worse than any short of death she could think of. And when it wasn’t torture it was the visions of her family telling her to give up, no one was coming, to join them in death. It crossed (Y/N)’s mind often that is she just gave up that it would all be over. She did what she had too, she didn’t give up the bunker, she didn’t need to keep suffering. But if she gave up, she wouldn’t be able to prove the demons wrong. SO if anything her hope was based on spite. That they would come and they would save her. 

When she woke up, however many days later, it felt like her whole world was spinning. The brightness of the hospital lights against all the white furniture and equipment made her squint. She lifted on her arms, taking care to do so once she noticed the IV pumping fluids into her hand, and felt at her head. There was gauze wrapped around the crown of her head. The most shocking thing was the full cast on her leg. She could imagine how difficult it had been to fix that considering all the damage. 

“They had to rebreak it.” Dean’s voice made her turn to her left. He was sitting in a chair right besides her bed. To say he looked different would be an understatement. He had grown a beard and his hair was longer. He had dark circles under his eyes and his eyes, while they were their usual green, seemed darker and tired looking. 

“They had to rebreak it because your bones fused together wrong. I watched as your back arched and you screamed-” He paused, like the memory of it was hard for him to handle, “It just made me imagine all of the terrible things they did to you. All because I didn’t try harder to find you. All because I let my ego get in the way and left you alone.” (Y/N) knew Dean had carried the guilt of the deaths that followed him all of his life. 

“We were both being jerks.” She whispered, still not trusting her voice. Dean shook his head. 

“No, none of this is your fault. None of it. I was the one starting fights.” 

“Why were you starting fights?” It was a questioned she had wanted to ask for a long time, but never got around to it since she expected another fight. 

“I...” Dean began but the words just wouldn’t come. As if on cue, a nurse walked in, with Sam following behind her. 

“Hey, you’re awake.” Sam grinned, in his arms he held two bottles of water. 

“You gave us quite the scare, Ms. Nicks. Thought we were going to lose you for a minute. But you’ve got the fighting spirit.” The nurse said cheerfully. She then started the process of changing (Y/N)’s fluid bag. 

“How ya feeling?” Sam asked, clearly avoiding looking at the cast on (Y/N)’s leg. Or maybe it was the bandages on her head. Sam held onto guilt too, but his was a little easier to see than Dean. Sam had his heart on his sleeve with his puppy dog eyes. 

“I’m feeling better all things considered. What day is it?” She asked, almost dreading the answer. 

“It’s October seventeenth.” Sam sighed. October? Six months had gone by. She knew it had been a while but not six months. She hugged her arms herself, and squeezed her eyes shut. The nurse seemed to catch on to what was going on and excused herself. 

“(Y/N)... I can’t even describe how sorry I am.” Sam started explaining things, about all the spells and leads they had trying to find her. It made her feel better, that they really tried their hardest to find her. She was grateful, obviously. It was just so long. She opened her eyes to look at Dean but his chair was empty. 

-----

Oh you know there’s going to be some fluff next....chapter? Installment? Whatever, there’s gonna be fluff.

 Read part 6 here!

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[evergreen-dryad]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 신의 탑 | Tower of God Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Khun Aguero Agnis/Twenty-Fifth Baam | Jyu Viole Grace Characters: Khun Aguero Agnis, Twenty-Fifth Baam | Jyu Viole Grace, Rachel (Tower of God), Headon (Tower of God), David Hockney (Tower of God), Ship Leesoo, Androssi Zahard, Hatsu (Tower of God), Anak Zahard Jr., Hwa Ryun, Mata (Tower of God) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Sirens, Deals with the Fae, Mutual Pining, Fluff and Angst, Body Possession, almost turns into a daemon au, Animal Transformation, Fairy Tale Elements, Witches, Deception, because it's rachel, Happy Ending, Misunderstandings, POV Multiple, Injury, Magic Summary:

The tales have warned before not to make deals with the fae. Especially those that are beautiful, and dangerous, and related to the sea-witch.

Viole finds he doesn't care, as he stares into the deep blue eyes of the Khun siren. He's going to risk it for their happily-ever-afters.

(In which there's a voyage over the sea, and falling in love. Khun Aguero Agnis somehow, inevitably, becomes the lighthouse for Viole Grace, and there are deals involved with legs. And a happily-ever-after.)

//here’s the thing I’ve been working on in August! Hence the silence. Enjoy~

Outwards, it is lonely dark water. The crunch of ice echoes around him as his craft moves through them slowly. In the distance, whalesong shudders.

Viole keeps an eye out. They've all been warned of the dangers.

Tales tell of fantastic creatures rising up from the sea, singing of your heart's desire. They sing in such a way to pluck out your heart, that you no longer know yourself or your right mind.

They always end with the poor soul drowning.

Though, Viole has doubts that entire shiploads can go missing, going from some of these embellished tales.

He had been following the voice over many leagues now. The voice that now winds into his ears, as sure as a shining thread of light.

Viole had stopped counting after the last fortnight had gone by in a blur. Bleak open water all around — it was easy enough to feel life was all a dream. The horizon always far away, destination unknown.

He sighs, burying his nose into his furs.

"Not too long now, Rachel," he murmurs out loud. "I'll see you again soon." Viole had found that talking out loud actually made him feel less like he was losing his mind, like uncorking a bottle the sea had deposited deep within him.

Birds swoop overhead, cawing furiously as they divebomb the water. It is that time of the day where the sun is almost directly overhead. Hunting time for the animals, but for Viole it is time to sleep. He retreats back into his cabin gratefully. Even here, the sunlight can be searing. He had found that out the hard way, back when he'd been starting out.

Back when he'd begun this journey to find a witch, for Rachel's legs.

Rachel, who might never run and laugh again, and walk on her own two legs to find her fortune. It had hit her especially hard because she was the only child.

Only children rarely fare well in the stories, so she had told Viole. Especially if one of their parents die and remarry and give them a stepsibling. They fare even worse if they're the oldest, she said, in that gloomy tone of voice that said she was ready to go off for a long sulk. And Viole didn't like that.

"I'll go," he said quickly before it looked like she'd start crying. "I'll go and be your legs. And - I'll look for your fortune, Rachel."

She'd brightened.

There were hedge witches, but they apparently did not know the magics needed for deep healing. So he'd travelled the other direction of the crossroads instead, to the coast.

(He was afraid to go too far from Rachel. Somewhere too far from all he'd known. )

But here he was anyway, set adrift in an unfriendly sea. Viole had never really had the chance to visit the ocean much before, but he found with a few rough starts he was actually a pretty good hand at sailing. He knew ropes well. The rest were adjusting the various parts of the ship he’d rented on the fly.

If he could just find a sea witch, he returns to his thoughts drowsily, perhaps even the fabled sea witch, of which the info broker said the sirens are abundant—

(“A Khun siren could probably do the trick,” Shibisu said pensively over folded hands. A critical glance went over him. “But are you sure? They’re known to be vicious and exacting.”)

—then they could swap Rachel’s bad legs for good ones.

They had to.

Making deals with any of the fae was bad enough, let alone with a witch, but Viole is nothing but determined to pay the price.

(If like repels like, then surely like can cancel out like?)

Sleep drags him down into its depths. The voice spirals along with him, and Viole dreams of sky-blue expanses.

.

At night, the voice echoes even clearer over the waves. It reverberates, bouncing off the icebergs almost eeriely, till Viole can feel the notes of the siren song hooking into his chest. Four clear notes, always the same. He didn’t understand why, but it was his only clue.

It seemed he was the only person who could hear it too. When he asked Hockney, the guy who rented him the craft, he’d shaken his head and looked at him oddly. And Hockney had eagle eyes who could see storms coming from far-off.

Maybe Viole’s special talents lay in hearing the unseen.

He gazes upwards at the sky, holding out his hands to measure the space between stars. He’s only approximating where he thinks he needs to go, after all. But he does have to make sure he doesn’t just sail right back where he came from, or fall off the edge of the earth.

How far will he need to go?

He had reached ice. He had never known there was even ice beyond the sea that bordered them. What would be beyond all this? His teeth were chattering.

.

Only the desperate can hear them. This was what the singing of the Khuns was renowned for — the lure they maintained, for their desolate icy kingdom.

Aguero Agnis knew this. He had watched the dark shape of the boat come over the waves, steering by night.

Hunger simmered deep within his bones, his tail shifting impatiently. He knows a chance when he sees it. Perhaps it’s not his, but he will take it. He had borrowed power for the occasion, after all.

He will be nothing more than his father's lackey if he stays under here.

There is not a single thing that truly belongs to him. All undersea belonged to his father, where the ice breathed and shone.

There's nothing more he hates than drowning alive. They know all about killing people, things slowly.

They are Khuns. They do not do things otherwise. They hunt with the killer whales, beating in the prey in a shell of bubbles.

This Khun, however, has no intention of following the same rules.

Softly, he unspooled the lure, note after note. The moon above, magnifying his every ulululation.

 Yes, come, little fish.

It was coming to the ice shelf, the boat scraping through, slowing down.

It was easy enough for Aguero to hide under the sheet ice, their colouring naturally lending them camouflage in this world of blues and greys.

He flicked his tail in agitation. He couldn't get a clear visual without giving himself away, but he could hear the whistling breath of the human overhead, as it strained. The rhythm by which it rowed, its oars scraping and carving against the broken-up bits of ice.

Here it comes now, the prey over the waters. Aguero peers upwards through a small disc of air—

—and sees a young man, dark hair tied up in a little tail.

Why, if he isn't a lean one. The shape of his fate had a body like a fisherman. This was the hook he had fashioned for himself, and now all he had to do was throw himself upon it, and up the line and sinker he would go.

I will bend fate to my will. Moonbeams travelled down the runes he’d casted, etched into the grooves of his skin.

Now then, how could he make a grand entrance?

[ohmrbell]

Finding Peace (Micah Bell x reader) Chapter 2

That first night staying in the mountains was awful, the build up of heat that had previously gathered in the cabin had fully dissipated and left only a deathly chill falling over each of us as we attempted rest. The cabin had collapsed areas creating holes in the walls and roof allowing chunks of snow to cascade inside covering the damaged floor. Every so often a strong wind would blow through so cold it would rattle my bones provoking me to bury my face further into my leather coat. The coat had soft furs surrounding the neck that I pulled up to cover my mouth. I huffed hot breathe into the inside to keep some heat there. Mrs Adler had taken to the same idea as she rapped up into one of her shawls opposite me also still awake.

The rest of the girls all decided on cuddling up into the most sheltered corner of the cabin including Jack to provide more warmth but I choose to stay distant. I fit in with most of the camp don’t get me wrong but I was very different than the rest of the women. What we have in common is our strength and our ability to fight for life but I just show it more publicly and consistently than the others. I prefer to make use of my talents by robbing, killing, hunting alone and with the men. All of which I know they can do too but prefer not to. I enjoy having company but cuddling for heat is not an activity I would care to partake in even if it means I’ll suffer. The Noise in the cabin has now finally fallen still and Mrs Adler has taken slumber. Soft breaths and snores echo in the room accompanying the creaking of the old wood boards and the gentle cries of the wind. It would probably be in my best interest to catch at least a bit of sleep so I leaned back into my grey padded bedroll and covered my face with my hat, tossing and turning from side to side until I eventually passed out.

I began to stir due to the voices around me and the fact that I was being lightly shaken. I open my eyes to see Mary Beth leaning over me “Mrs Grimshaw wanted me to wake you she wants us to grab some firewood” I nodded my head at her and sat up, my whole body felt stiff from sleeping on the cold floor. I’m used to sleeping on the floor but the added elements don’t make it very enjoyable. I began to stretch out my frozen limbs once I was standing before gripping my black hat, pulling my coat in tighter and readjusting my steel toe boots. Walking over to the door I looked back at Mary Beth who was borrowing another jacket off Karen before joining me in the wilderness.

I pushed open the fragile door putting most of my body weight into it in order to shove it past the thick snow which had settled while we slept. I slipped on my worn leather gloves and made my way towards the woods. I took a few long strides until I reached the treeline turning to wait on Mary Beth. I felt bad for her being up here she is a very slim and small women whose frame is most definitely not suited to this type of climate but yet she’s a trooper who never complains, she waddled here way towards me exhaling clouds of frost from her hot breath in the cold air. “ It’s freezing out here y/n, we best get moving on fast” “I know we’ll be quick, c’mon this way” I guided her up a steep path layered with cobblestones and dirt which lead into a small clearing, we both rushed to grab any salvageable wood and sticks we could find “ I used to think the snow was beautiful, I would dream to live in a place like this, always seemed so romantic in my books” she let out a soft sigh “well I don’t think you should believe your books to much Mary Beth ain’t all sunshine and rainbows” I jested back at her. She scoffed but her face held a smile. “ All right I think we have enough for today we can head back now” I muttered following her back down the path and towards Colter. We collected a decent amount of kindling which we distributed around the cabins, most of the camp were awake by now and I gave out a string of good mornings to those who passed by. Once we finished our task we headed towards where we slept. Approaching the cabin door I stopped “you head on in Mary Beth I’ll grab ya some food”. She smiled at me graciously before hurrying inside and closing the door behind her. 

I continued on past the cabin and to the half shack where Pearson had set up his stuff. Charles and Arthur have just returned from a hunt so there will actually be some meat in this stew. I have decided however that stew is my least favourite food now, eating the same thing everyday is dull, but I understand it’s hard to offer variety in our position. “Hey Pearson” the man turned around and my face twisted in disgust “Jesus, ever think of cleaning up” I snapped at him then laughed, he was covered in grease, animal blood and god knows what else. “Lovely to see you miss L/N” he snarled at me sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “I’m grabbing me and Mary Beth some food, maybe I’ll keep it down this time” I said muttering the latter, Pearson just let out a groan and rolled his eyes at me and continued to do whatever is it that Pearson does when he’s not cooking. I appreciate the work he does because well I don’t think any of us are any good at cooking never mind making it last 12 odd people. He’s just so fun to annoy. I carried the hot bowls over to the main cabin, the heat radiating from the plate onto my hands was so comforting, I welcomed the burning sensation that occurs when cold meets warm, my stomach started growling loudly, it’s been a while since we were able to sit down and eat a proper meal. 

The rest of the day was slow, there isn't exactly a lot to do up here, even the basic tasks like sewing was hard to do up here, try stitching in this weather and your hands will be icicles before you even loop the thread through the needle. To pass time I had been checking in on everyone and sharing short stories and laughs on my way. The furthest cabin from the one I was situated in held Micah, Bill, Lenny, Javier and Charles. Javier and Bill both were on guard duty and Charles had been out feeding the poor horses the last time I saw him. I saw Lenny outside the small shack cleaning his revolver while crouched in front of the small fire. “Hey Lenny”, “Y/N” he responded with a nod of the head. “How’re you coping in, well, all of this” I asked, leaning myself against the wooden post that was positioned across from the fire. “I..I’m alright, just tryn’ to keep busy s’all, i’m not much for talking right now..” I felt guilty for Lenny he was so very young to deal with all of this, losing someone who he was sweet too and were still unsure of Sean's location who was his best friend. I sighed “M’sorry Lenny, stay strong” I thought I would leave him be and pushed open the door of the cabin. Micah was sat on a single broken wooden chair in the far corner of the room, he was warming his hands up on the old burner as I moved towards him. I plopped down onto the bottom bunk and lay down, smiling at the nice change in comfort, finally able to lay down after a long day. 

“What do you want missy” Micah snapped at me, clearly ruining his peace. “And to think that I was actually gonna check up on you” I fought back turning to sit up and face him the smile gone from my face. We locked eyes for a minute just glaring into the others soul. His eyes are a wonderful icy blue and as much as I hate to admit it I cant help but keep staring. “See something you like girl” He purred, laughing his signature chuckle “Leave it Micah” I growled as a warning, being up here was enough never mind his menacing. He sat forward propping his elbows up onto his knees, dropping his head to hang low. “Me an the boys are raiding some O’Driscoll camp nearby in the mornin’ gonna kill that bastard Colm” My head perked up staring at him “Can I come” I asked hoping that I would be able to escape for even a few hours. “Not happening sweetheart” he laughed “So eager, but this is a job for the men, we need to be quick and smooth” I rolled my eyes at him and stomped out of the cabin slamming the door behind me as I pushed my way back through the snow towards the main cabin. I was so furious and it was already dark outside that I just slid down into my corner and covered my face with my hat until I fell asleep, ignoring those who tried to speak to me. 

[notstolen]

aesthetics for the entities. bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

i.  the buried.   weighed blankets.  drowning. the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil and sand piling on top of you.  hugging so hard it hurts a little.  cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you.  not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little. dragging the last second before you have to inhale.  lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth. a layer of dirt on you.  looking for something below.  cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts.  hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface.  entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out.  dust and sand speaking to you.

ii.  the corruption.  insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life.  an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans.  an untreated wound.  containment. breaching containment.  unbreathable air.  fungi.  one with that you love.  one with what loves you.  a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs.  honeycomb patterns.  an ecosystem within a person. a curse passed on. the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed.  blood on a handkerchief.  parasites. something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever.  food that’s gone off.  pandora’s box.  death behind a glass.

iii.  the dark. shadows.  lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing.  touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes.  months without going outside during sunlight.  pouring dark.  unscrewing lightbulbs.  black matter.  light sensitivity.  a starless night. time before light was created.  a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.  staying unperceivable.  winter months in the north. an empty church.

v.  the flesh. body horror. factories. a hunger for something more filling.  never quite happy with how you look.  the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter.  a very good meal.  the liquid of a perfect steak.  fighting your worst survival instincts.  a twisted bone. long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay.  a bag of bones.  bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.  the butcher’s shop.  plastic surgery. something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you.  unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like.  being admired for your appearance and appearance only.  teeth marks on skin.  scars from wounds that should’ve killed you. cooking in scarcity.  fenced in with one way to go.

iv.  the desolation.  senseless pain.  warmth of faith.  wax where skin should be.  a blazing fire. heat without a source.  the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for, gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline. touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold.  scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air. a child born in fire. death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods. animals with burnt fur.  plastic explosives.  burning hot metal. sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one. disfigurement.  a kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat.  a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair. little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

vi.  the end. the last page of a book. nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.  a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.  existential pain. ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambling with death. as old as the universe.  soul and spirit tied to an object. a dream where you die.  closing your eyes for the last time.  the plead of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation.  someone’s life for yours.  an eternity spent alive.  the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial. causing your own burial. the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone.  meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

viii.  the hunt.   sharp canines. sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters. hide and seek. running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you. blood dripping from bare hands.  barks and growls. focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstrous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark and running after it.

vii.  the eye. googling something you shouldn’t have.  eureka moments. the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colours.  feeling of being watched. a death recorded in tape.  a tragedy you can’t look away from.  endangering yourself for knowledge. truth. analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document.  turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person.  extracting information.  truth or dare, without the dare.  a thirst for knowledge.  books that speak to you.  coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.  voyerism. police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers. books that read you back.

ix.  the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed. completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone. fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd. a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles. a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows. isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.  your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea. depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you. talking to someone only to realise they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.

x.  the slaughter. a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby. improvised weapons.  blinding rage. intent to kill. a horrific day in a quiet community. a medal of bravery. holding on to what validates your anger.  history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers. a knifeblock on the counter. a pool of blood. shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward. unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster. an authority sending its lessers to their deaths. kill or be killed. unedited wartime memoirs.  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  the spiral. sleep deprivation. corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions. losing people.  losing your sanity. corkscew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality. walking through the wrong door.  delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.  blank spaces in documents.  hallucinations.  wrong proportions. a nameless thing. a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind.  blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.  distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time.  a garish colour.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.  an unnatural laugh.  jokes and tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.  limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  the stranger. wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs and pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together. the colours of a circus.  a puppet with no strings. mannequins.  glitter and sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity. the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight. uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.  concealing.  forgetting who you are.  forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices. images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiv.  the web.   undecipherable code.  a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak-willed.  strings of fate. manipulation.  an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap. never voicing discomfort. outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realising it. red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unreliability of chance.  watching others dance for you.  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny legs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing. suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.  connections.  the world wide web.  power of victimhood.  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

xiii.  the vast. open spaces.  carnival rides going up and down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in a universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles and miles of nothing around you. staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control. a fall that doesn’t end in death. glass floor to the view below. terminal velocity. the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing. feeling your feet let go of the ground. a leap of faith.  motion sickness.

+  the extinction. the end of an era. apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.  a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism. the last written history. a changed world.  no survivours.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point.  overindulgence.

tagged by: stole it from one of my other blogs

tagging: @xwhiterabbitx, @lonexwolfe, @desolationtrial ( for ari since i think you might’ve done this for norman already? )

[the-one-eighteen]

4:03

(read on ao3)

Buck had a fucking headache.

He could feel it to the end of every single strand of hair. Could feel it pulse at his temples, and thread all the way down to his fingertips.

And what really sucked?

He couldn’t blame it on any one thing.

Was it the lack of sleep over the last seventy-two hours? Or what about sitting in smog-filled traffic for two hours? Oh, or how about actively inhaling smoke for roughly three hours that day? Or, maybe, just maybe, it was the constant knot of sheer stress between his shoulder blades that had been there for three days and wasn’t looking to relax any time soon.

Or, maybe, it was the death stare he was giving the little black box on the coffee table. He hadn’t blinked in...how long now? He should probably do that.

Blinking didn’t help the headache, but it did stop the watering in his eyes at least. Tearing his gaze away from the table, he blinked suddenly blurry eyes at the microwave clock. 4:03 AM.

Lack of sleep was looking more and more like the culprit here.

Groaning softly, he dragged a hand down his face and flopped back against the back of the couch, glaring at the ceiling.

He didn’t want to be here.

He was sitting here, on Maddie’s couch, where he’d been sleeping around his shifts over the last four days and he just…

He wanted to go home.

At this point, he didn’t have any dignity holding him back. Sure, him and Eddie had fought. Sure, that fight had been the biggest they’d ever had. And, sure, he’d stormed out of the house and showed up at Maddie’s in the middle of the night, feeling and likely looking absolutely pathetic, but also righteous in his anger and...and…

He wanted to go home.

But he knew - he just knew he couldn’t see Eddie right now.

Couldn’t let them...let them just brush over this, like his heart wanted to so, so badly.

Because, really? The fight hadn’t even been a fight.

Fights are when you’re mad at someone. Fights are when you’re right and they’re wrong, or the other way around. Fights are when someone does something stupid that they can change. When they hurt you. When you hurt them.

Fights are about trying to fix a hurt - real or imagined - in the only way available to a bruised heart.

And there is no hurt that can be fixed here.

No, this is a hurt that’s going to keep coming, and coming, and coming, and there is absolutely nothing he nor Eddie can do about it.

God...it didn’t even matter who started the argument, because quickly enough? All of it came out.

Eddie had run into a collapsing building. He’d done it dozens of times, with Buck right at his back, both of them ignoring Cap’s yells, and grinning like idiots to each other when his back was turned because they did alright, in the end.

Eddie had run into a collapsing building. He’d done it more times than Buck could count. And he always came back out - sometimes with some lucky unconscious person across his shoulders, or a crying kid, or, one time, a really, really pissed off yorkie.

Eddie had run into a collapsing building. Buck had barely watched him go, too busy dealing with the people he was leading from another door.

Eddie had run into a collapsing building. And, as the final floor gave out over their heads, he hadn’t come back out. And in those five seconds, five minutes, five hours it had felt like, before Eddie had come running from around the back, a man thrown over his shoulder, Buck hadn’t been able to breathe.

He’d held it together pretty well, he likes to think. Gave Eddie one bone crushing hug when everyone was taken care of, then went back to doing his job. And Eddie had done the same - the only difference being that beautiful, stark, painful smile cutting like a ray of sunshine through the smoke.

Buck hadn’t been able to look directly at him.

He’d held it together all the way through the two of them winding down, clocking out and heading home. Held it together all the way until they made it into the house.

He can’t even remember what he said. Remembers only the taste of ash in his throat and thrumming of a heart still beating too hard in his ears.

He thinks, maybe, maybe he’d asked Eddie to be more careful. Maybe he asked him to pay more attention. Maybe he asked him not to leave him behind so easily. Maybe he didn’t ask any of those things - but he knows they’d been scraping at the back of his throat, trailing right after whatever it was he had asked.

Eddie had reacted...well, like how Buck would pretty much expect him to, looking at it now with time and space between them. He’d said he was doing his job. That he was always going to do his job. Just like Buck did. Because Buck never hesitated, did he?

And Buck could taste the damn bitterness that had threaded through that accusation. Found it tasted a lot like the ash clogging his throat.

Buck never hesitated - and Eddie could even point to an example. Two weeks ago - parking garage collapse. Someone had called the broken gas line. Had called the car fires. Had called for everyone to pull out and get the fuck away.

And Buck had heard someone, just a short ways away.

He’d been damn lucky, getting out with that woman, and everyone damn well knew it, himself included.

He hadn’t thought about it. Knew he’d do the same damn thing in the future too.

And...and the fight just spiralled from there - days, weeks, months of hurt, fear, and frustrated anger bubbling up and spilling over before either of them could even try to stop and breathe. Before either of them could stop the other from drowning under the weight of it all.

It was only when both of them were breathing hard - red faced and red eyed, with tears stubbornly refusing to fall but obvious in their absence - that they stopped. Stopped and just...looked at each other.

And Buck had left.

And now, here he was. Four days later. On his sister’s couch, at four in the damn morning, staring at the little black box on the coffee table. The one he’d bought three months ago, and had spent the time since trying to figure out the perfect way to ask.

Maddie had taken one look at him when she’d gotten home that evening, before disappearing into her room, where he’d asked to borrow her side table to hide it, coming back a moment later and practically winging it at his head. Her orders had been simple, before she’d shut the door on him: “Figure out what you want.”

And so...that’s what Buck was trying to do.

He knew he wanted Eddie. Wanted a home, a life, with him and Chris. Couldn’t imagine a future him without them.

But he’d always been the one with the dangerous job. He’d always been the one running into the fire - literally and figuratively - and not really worrying too much about those watching him run away.

With Eddie? For the first time, he really...understood. Understood that he wasn’t just the one running anymore. He was also the one that had to watch the man he loved as he ran into the very heart of something powerful and dangerous, and know, deep in goddamn bones, that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

That knowledge sat like a pit in his stomach, threatening to swallow him whole in its finality.

That knowledge ached.

But…

There was also the fact that, everytime Eddie came home safe? There was nothing in this world Evan Buckley wouldn’t give for that feeling. That feeling of home.

Buck wanted to go home. Wanted to wake Chris up in the morning so they could do their family workout before attempting to not destroy the kitchen making breakfast. Wanted to drive into work with Eddie, sharing one last kiss in the truck before they put on their game faces. Wanted to go home at the end of a grueling shift and snipe and gripe with an equally grumpy Eddie. Wanted to pick Chris up from school and hear about his day, even if it wasn’t so great sometimes, because then that meant he had an excuse to spoil the kid rotten.

And, honestly? He even wanted to fight with Eddie. He wanted them to get to a point where they just couldn’t pretend anymore. Where it all came out in one angry, rushing blow. Because what he really wanted? Was to be there to help pick the pieces back up, to help put them both back together - a little uneven, and a little mixed up, but together.

He had his phone in his hand before he’d even finished that thought.

It rang once, twice, before the click of it being answered echoed through the quiet room. “Buck?” And Eddie sounds so quiet, so distant, and Buck can’t stand it.

“Hey Eddie…” And he just. Stops there. Because if he keeps going, he’s going to choke on the sheer want.

It’s quiet for a long couple of moments, where all Buck can hear is the traffic outside, and what sounds suspiciously like echoed traffic through the tinny speakers of his phone.

“...Evan?” Eddie asks, soft and scared, and Buck can’t bear to hear it - can’t bear to put that fear into him, even if he knows he’s going to drown.

“I want to come home.” And it’s cracked, and ugly sounding - frustration and hurt and desire from the last four days all bubbling over.

There’s a long stretch of near-silence, before Buck hears what sounds way too much like tires crunching in the driveway, followed by the sound of brakes over the speakers. He frowns, glancing towards the front door, even as he hears a door slamming shut on Eddie’s side.

“Might just be easier for me to come to you.” Eddie says at last, and it sounds sheepish, and Buck can only just keep himself from barrelling into the damn door with how fast he bolts over to open it.

And there’s Eddie. In a rumpled hoodie that looks like it’s been slept in, hair a mess, and bags under his eyes to rival Buck’s own. He looks like a mess.

And Buck’s never wanted anyone so bad.

He’s pretty sure they’re both going for a hug. The fact that they end up crashing into each other, arms tight enough to bruise, and hands clinging to whatever they can find purchase on doesn’t really phase either of them. All Buck knows is that he gets to bury his face in Eddie’s neck and truly breathe for the first time in days.

He can feel Eddie melt against him - feels his own body try to do the same. They stumble, and flail, and end up leaning against the wall by the door, unwilling to put energy into holding themselves up when it could instead be spent on getting closer to each other.

Buck loses a bit of time in there, honestly, just holding Eddie like that.

Only knows it’s been awhile because when they finally, finally pull apart, the sky stretched above them is starting to turn a bruising purple.

He doesn’t say anything in that moment - doesn’t want to break the silence that’s fallen around them, in fear that once he does, he won’t be able to get it back - and instead shifts away enough to take Eddie’s hand, leading him inside.

They pause long enough to shut the door behind them, before they collapse on the couch together, once again curling into each other, not really caring what a tangle they’ve made.

“I’m sorry…” Buck breathes into the bare space between them, soft enough, he hopes, to stay there.

“So am I.” Eddie murmurs back, taking a deep breath that Buck can feel down to his very bones, “I want...this. Us. And it’s going to hurt. We’ll probably have this fight again, down the road. But I want to. Because I want you to be there with me, and I want it to mean just as much then as it does now.” If not more. Eddie doesn’t say it, but Buck hears it.

He pulls Eddie closer, feeling the knot between his shoulder blades finally give. “I want that too.” He chokes out into the quiet. And Eddie lets himself press in and in and in, until there’s no space at all between them, and for the first time in days, Buck feels completely and utterly at home.

Its quiet for a long time after that, both of them only shifting once to get more comfortable, with Buck stretching out across the couch, and Eddie stretched on top of him, neither of them willing to be apart for more than a second to give aching muscles and tensed limbs a chance to relax. It’s quiet enough, with both of them breathing softly into the gentle light starting to peek through the windows, that Buck’s half-way convinced Eddie’s fallen asleep. Knows that, in a few minutes, he’ll be asleep himself.

“So. We ignoring that little black box?” Eddie asks. And his voice is quiet enough that it takes Buck a long moment to process the question. Can’t help how his fingers tense in the back of Eddie’s shirt when they do.

He doesn’t answer for a couple of seconds. Is relieved when Eddie stays a heavy, relaxed weight against him, letting him figure it out.

“...Just for a little bit?” Buck answers, softly, carefully. “Just until I can figure out how to do it right.”

He feels more than hears Eddie’s answering hum.

“Good. I would hate to have to cancel my appointment at the store. Chris has been so excited about helping me pick out a ring.”

And god, Buck’s heart ached.

[desolationtrial]

aesthetics for the entities. bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

i.  the buried.   weighed blankets.  drowning. the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil and sand piling on top of you.  hugging so hard it hurts a little.  cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you.  not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little. dragging the last second before you have to inhale.  lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth. a layer of dirt on you.  looking for something below.  cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts.  hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface.  entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out.  dust and sand speaking to you.

ii.  the corruption.  insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life.  an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans.  an untreated wound.  containment. breaching containment.  unbreathable air.  fungi.  one with that you love.  one with what loves you.  a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs.  honeycomb patterns.  an ecosystem within a person. a curse passed on. the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed.  blood on a handkerchief.  parasites. something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever.  food that’s gone off.  pandora’s box.  death behind a glass.

iii.  the dark. shadows.  lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing.  touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes.  months without going outside during sunlight.  pouring dark.  unscrewing lightbulbs.  black matter.  light sensitivity.  a starless night. time before light was created.  a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.  staying unperceivable.  winter months in the north. an empty church.

v.  the flesh. body horror. factories. a hunger for something more filling.  never quite happy with how you look.  the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter.  a very good meal.  the liquid of a perfect steak.  fighting your worst survival instincts.  a twisted bone. long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay.  a bag of bones.  bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.  the butcher’s shop.  plastic surgery. something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you.  unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like.  being admired for your appearance and appearance only.  teeth marks on skin.  scars from wounds that should’ve killed you. cooking in scarcity.  fenced in with one way to go.

iv.  the desolation.  senseless pain.  warmth of faith.  wax where skin should be.  a blazing fire. heat without a source.  the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for, gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline. touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold.  scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air. a child born in fire. death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods. animals with burnt fur.  plastic explosives.  burning hot metal. sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one. disfigurement.  a kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat.  a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair. little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

vi.  the end. the last page of a book. nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.  a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.  existential pain. ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambling with death. as old as the universe.  soul and spirit tied to an object. a dream where you die.  closing your eyes for the last time.  the plead of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation.  someone’s life for yours.  an eternity spent alive.  the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial. causing your own burial. the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone.  meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

viii.  the hunt.   sharp canines. sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters. hide and seek. running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you. blood dripping from bare hands.  barks and growls. focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstrous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark and running after it.

vii.  the eye. googling something you shouldn’t have.  eureka moments. the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colours.  feeling of being watched. a death recorded in tape.  a tragedy you can’t look away from.  endangering yourself for knowledge. truth. analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document.  turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person.  extracting information.  truth or dare, without the dare.  a thirst for knowledge.  books that speak to you.  coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.  voyerism. police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers. books that read you back.

ix.  the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed. completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone. fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd. a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles. a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows. isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.  your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea. depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you. talking to someone only to realise they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.

x.  the slaughter. a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby. improvised weapons.  blinding rage. intent to kill. a horrific day in a quiet community. a medal of bravery. holding on to what validates your anger.  history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers. a knifeblock on the counter. a pool of blood. shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward. unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster. an authority sending its lessers to their deaths. kill or be killed. unedited wartime memoirs.  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  the spiral. sleep deprivation. corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions. losing people.  losing your sanity. corkscew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality. walking through the wrong door.  delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.  blank spaces in documents.  hallucinations.  wrong proportions. a nameless thing. a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind.  blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.  distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time.  a garish colour.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.  an unnatural laugh.  jokes and tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.  limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  the stranger. wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs and pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together. the colours of a circus.  a puppet with no strings. mannequins.  glitter and sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity. the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight. uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.  concealing.  forgetting who you are.  forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices. images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiv.  the web.   undecipherable code.  a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak-willed.  strings of fate. manipulation.  an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap. never voicing discomfort. outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realising it. red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unreliability of chance.  watching others dance for you.  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny legs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing. suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.  connections.  the world wide web.  power of victimhood.  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

xiii.  the vast. open spaces.  carnival rides going up and down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in a universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles and miles of nothing around you. staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control. a fall that doesn’t end in death. glass floor to the view below. terminal velocity. the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing. feeling your feet let go of the ground. a leap of faith.  motion sickness.

+  the extinction. the end of an era. apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.  a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism. the last written history. a changed world.  no survivours.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point.  overindulgence.

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