#pulsing through my veins and body like I am a vessel for beings more powerful than me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sarahjkl82-blog · 4 years ago

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Ok, so the little line about Marcus being sad that Nush didn’t wear his hoodie gave me thoughts...and thots.

This would definitely be further down the line, maybe they’ve already confessed their feelings to one another but they’re taking their relationship slow, so dates mostly consist of movie nights, dinners at casual places, etc. But one movie night, they fall asleep on Marcus’ couch and he wakes the next morning to Nush coming back from getting them pastries & coffee...in his hoodie. And boy does it do something to him. He’s never felt this way about someone wearing his clothes before; it makes him possessive and all he wants to do is see her in his hoodie and nothing else.

My brain goes two ways on this: heavy make out session where Marcus let’s her know just what seeing her in his clothes does (lots of dirty talk) OR full on dom!Marcus picking her up and putting her on his kitchen counter so he can get his mouth between her legs and telling her what seeing her in his clothes does to him. I can’t decide which I thot I like more!!

These two give me so many thoughts and thots...it might be a slight problem

Please note that this work is not suitable for those under 18. Themes of consensual sex and swearing.

Beta thanks to @yespolkadotkitty ❤️❤️❤️

You think you are possessing me but I’ve got my teeth in you.

Angela Carter

What could be more coincidental than pouring rain greeting the pair of you as you leave the Prince Charles Cinema’s matinee of Singing in the Rain? The deluge that pours onto the street below invites a bloom of colourful umbrellas twisting and turning through the Soho streets- umbrellas that neither of you had thought to bring despite it being April in London. Enjoying the last few moments of relative warmth and dryness, your eyes flicker between a deep-in-thought Marcus, and the puddles outside those black rimmed glass doors that lie in wait for the pair of you.

“You are thinking very loudly, Mr Pike,” you remark shaking your head as a wave of consternation washes across his face, “Don’t you dare think about where the nearest shop is to buy an umbrella. It’s barely a ten minute walk to Charing Cross from here.”

Marcus releases a small chuckle as he shuffles his feet embarrassedly, his eyes shifting sideways, “How did you know I was thinking that?”

“At work, when you are questioning people- you’re entirely closed off which you need to be in for our profession but as soon as you go into hometime Marcus, your thoughts and emotions are painted across your face as clear as words on a page.”

A shy boyish grin creeps across his face, “Ok, I am a bit of an open book but you have the ability to read me better than anyone else,” he reluctantly owns, “I kinda wish I was a better liar and could come up with something else on the spot.”

Grabbing his hand tightly, you give it a small squeeze and a tug to let him know that he never needs to lie to you- a gesture that Marcus returns with a gentle kiss upon your forehead. “Come on you, let’s go run between the raindrops and head back South of the river before anyone notices that we came without our passports.” Your eyes sparkle wickedly at him as you raise your finger to your lips pretending to drag him into the silly North/South London divide.

“Still tickled by your version of the redneck, iced tea, Southern manners versus skyscrapers, yellow cabs and cold winters”,” he shakes his head slightly.

“My love, there is a lot you don’t get in regards to Britishisms- you still giggle like a teenage boy whenever I mention the word knickers,” you kindly reprimand him, “You’ve not even been here two months yet, give yourself time to realise that our version of pancakes are better than yours!”

You hear a sharp gasp emanating from Marcus in mock hurt as you blaspheme over his favourite food group. Cocking your eyebrow at him, you pause for a moment as you step towards the double doors that lead into roads where the coloured lights bleed across their oily surfaces. Marcus reaches around you to open the door, “I got you. Not letting you walk into doors today.”

It seems as if the moment that the two of you step outside, the heavens truly decide to open upon you, drenching through every layer of clothing right to your bones. Running through the winding streets with your hands tightly wound together, you and Marcus dodge in and out of the sprawling crowds of tourists with their leisurely pace and humongous golf umbrellas. When you are faced with a particularly large group, you split apart with Marcus diving towards a shop but you go too close to the curb when a taxi drives through a massive puddle, sending an icy tsunami over your head.

You stand there and gasp as the water constricts every blood vessel in your body, the shock coursing through your veins. Blinking the water from your eyelashes, you become aware of two hands bringing warmth back to your cheeks and two brown orbs gazing at you, “Hey, you ok?” Marcus scans your face, worriedly checking you over as he slides his worn leather jacket over your shoulders to try to bring some warmth back into your body.

Brimming with tears of mirth, your eyes crease into tiny crescents until the smile tugging at your lips forms the biggest grin as your whole body roars with laughter, “I don’t think there’s much point in trying to run between the raindrops anymore,” you gasp out between the giggles.

When you notice that Marcus isn’t laughing, you pause to draw a deeper breath, searching his face for clues. Your heart beats faster and faster as you notice that his eyes are black holes, pulling you towards him until gravity and time cease to exist. Heat rises through the chill of your skin- from your stomach to your throat- as his lips call to yours. When the sensitive skin meets, there isn’t a moment of hesitation to drink each other in as the taste of Marcus silences all of your thoughts.

All of your kisses to this point had been the tentative kisses of a new relationship. The kisses of two broken hearts starting to mend and learning how to allow yourselves to love again.

But this. This. This was different.

Marcus withdraws his mouth slightly from you, resting his forehead against yours as his breath dances across your lips, “Wow.”

And then he’s back. Fingers tangled in your hair, lungs forgetting to breathe as without a moment’s hesitation he deepens the kiss, parting your lips and searching for the soft sweetness brought by your tongue. As the moment swiftly intensifies, your hands seek him out as the only solid thing in the swaying world around you. Your fingers seek out the warmth of his skin beneath his drenched Henley. You feel him. All of him presses against you so that you can inhale the woody scent of his aftershave, the citrus notes of his shampoo and that smell that is just so utterly Marcus.

“So beautiful,” he whispers against your now swollen lips. His words ground you, placing a solid surface beneath your feet before he sweeps you away again.

The kisses eventually slow, becoming infinitely more tender than the raw need that pulses between you both. You are breathless, dazed and needing so much more. Your body aches for more than the Soho streets can offer you, confident in the knowledge that Marcus feels the same as you feel his powerful body tremble like yours. All that exists in this moment is feeling, wanting and needing each other.

A half growl, half moan comes from the back of Marcus’ throat as he finally breaks the kiss, “I have to get you home before I take you right here.”

Heart still racing, you just about manage to form words but your lust-filled brain mangles them making you feel drunk and slurred, “Whose home?”

“Mine. S’closer,” he murmurs into your mouth, “Don’t wanna be arrested for acts of indecency. Right now, everything I wanna do to you, falls into that category.”

It takes all you can muster, hearing that admission spill from his lips. All the willpower in the world, not to just find a darkened doorway and just take him there.

His fingers find yours again, peeling your hands away from the soft skin under his t-shirt- intertwining in undoable knots- but your bodies still press together as if you cannot bear to separate yet. You both take a moment to catch your breath, the rain still falling upon you in some heavenly benediction- mouths twitching into grins as your breathing relaxes and slows to a pace that allows for thoughts to re-enter your mind.

Marcus is the one to break the bodily contact, turning to one side, dropping one of your hands to start walking towards the station. You catch a slightly confused look on his face, “Not sure where the station is, are you? Come on, I’ll let you take the lead when you know where you are a bit better,” you snigger with a saucy wink in his direction.

As you go to walk away from him, he pulls you in closer and rumbles deeply in your ear, “You know I don’t have a problem with you taking the lead.”

The tone of his voice echoes through your skin, setting fireworks off through every synapse in your body and oh how it gladdens you to realise that he needs you as much as you want him.

✪✪✪✪✪

The journey home has been one of not daring to look at or touch each other too much. Sitting next to him on the train, your thighs leaning into each other, you both desperately try to focus on messing around with your phones. Him showing you various forthcoming art exhibitions in town and you showing him silly TikToks sent by your nieces and nephews of dogs being dubbed with computerised voices, giving their thoughts on cats and other dog breeds. Anything to take your minds off what you’d actually like to do with each other.

As the train pulls into the station, you pull him up from his seat and head towards the exit. Tapping out at the ticket barrier, you turn towards Marcus, going up on tiptoes to place a small chaste kiss upon his lips, “I’m popping to Sainsburys to grab some wine as I think we finished that bottle on Wednesday, didn’t we? Do you need anything else while I’m there?”

“Sweetheart, I can’t let you do that,” Marcus tries pleading with you.

“I cannot get any wetter than I am at this moment in time,” you implore before pausing as Marcus raises his eyebrows at you, licking his lower lip, stepping closer to close the minutismal space between yourselves.

“Quit making me stand in the rain, thinking impure thoughts,” he groans.

You push the heel of your hand into his chest, “Then go upstairs, run me a bath and find something dry for me to put on, then you can have your wicked way with me.”

Putting his hands on your hips and dipping his head to playfully nip at your neck, Marcus gives in as his lips mutter into your skin, “Ok, be quick. I’ll order some pizza and ice cream ready for you getting out of the bath.”

Your eyes roll back in your head and you release a satisfied groan at the thought of a warm bath and pizza. Especially that beauty of a bath in Marcus’ apartment where you can actually stretch out and entirely submerge yourself beneath the hot soapy water. You remove Marcus’s hands from your sides and turn towards the small store with its bright fluorescent lights blaring out at you through the plate glass storefront. As you go to step inside, you turn your head and see that Marcus has turned at the same time with that look in his eyes again. With a small wave and a grin, you step inside to find snacks and wine, not entirely sure that they would be necessary this evening.

✪✪✪✪✪

Bottles clink and packets of Haribo rustle from within your bags as you walk up to Marcus’ front door. You give the bottom section of wood a small thud from your boot, to which it opens with a significantly dryer Marcus, who takes the bags from you before ushering you in. As the warmth of his flat encircles you, you release a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.

“Strip,” his firm, familiar baritone commands, holding an arm out for your soaking clothes, “Your bath is run and I’ve left you some clothes on my bed. You’d left a pair of panties from the last time you stayed over- I’ve washed those so they’re in the pile too.”

Peeling back the layers of clothing that had been so utterly useless against the torrential rain and draping them over Marcus’ arms- tiny droplets dripping onto his hardwood flooring, you soon stand there completely naked. Tossing your clothes in the general direction of his washing machine, he gently guides you with his warm hand placed in the small of your back towards the bath, which true to his word, is full, bubbly and welcoming.

As you step in, you look over towards Marcus inviting him in with your eyes.

With a small shake of his head, Marcus turns to leave you to soak. The quietude envelops you, so much that you are barely able to hear Marcus padding softly around outside this sanctuary. You lie back allowing the water to cover your ears- a complete sensory deprivation when your eyes draw shut too. Images that swirl with the heavenly taste and scent of Marcus, his velvet touch and the sound of his voice dance behind your closed lids as you allow the water to wash away London pollution and puddle water.

✪✪✪✪✪

Having reheated your body enough, the bath water turning tepid, you clamber out onto the deliciously soft bath mat that you know Andy picked out prior to Marcus’ arrival. Wrapping one of the towels Marcus has left out for you around your body and the other around your hair, you walk into his impeccably neat bedroom. Bed made, clothes ironed, folded and put away- the polar opposite of yours. Even the pile of clothes with your knickers on top, is neat.

The morning after the night when Marcus had first stayed over at yours and needed an iron for his shirt, you’d barely been able to locate in your memory where you’d last seen it- pointing him in the direction of the cupboard of doom- the place where half-baked ideas and good intentions go to die.. Everything is generally haphazard and a little topsy-turvy about you but Marcus, his sense of order calms your busy brain and you are noticing it rub off on you.

You hang your coat up on the hooks that you’d drilled in when you’d first bought your flat but never used until a month ago. You only now have one hanging chair, rather than utilising every surface available. You also attempt to only buy one bagged salad each week instead of pretending that you will eat more greens but then them definitely losing that green tone, fading into a brown slush before you remember their existence in that pathetic salad drawer.

Pulling up your knickers and sitting, no- sinking into the glorious mattress of Marcus’ bed, you haul the t-shirt over your head and shrug your arms into the sleeves of the hoodie before zipping it up at the front. You smile at a flicker of a memory where Jasper had moaned at you for stretching out his hoodies with your woman boobs. You also find it very sweet that Marcus honestly thinks that his shorts will fit over your thighs and hips so you leave them on the bed, choosing to leave the room in just the hoodie, t-shirt and underwear- albeit just on your bottom half as your bra was utterly soaked too and was probably going through his washing machine. That poor underwire! Nevermind, perhaps it’s time for something a little less utilitarian and a little more sexy.

Softly padding out from his bedroom, you spy Marcus’ broad back twisting in the kitchen as he seeks out plates and glasses in the cupboards. Pizza boxes lie on the side, their contents sweating condensation on the table below.

“I’m finally decent,” you declare with a flourish as you bounce into the kitchen, almost bounding directly into his chest.

Marcus spins at the sound of your voice, making sure to catch and steady you after your clumsy entrance, “No. You are very wrong there,” his breath hitching as he rumbles deeply into the shell of your ear, “No way. You could never be classified as decent, not looking like this.”

Another step and a slight twist of your body, and Marcus has your hips pinned against the cupboard. He places his hands either side of you, trapping you between the carpentry and the solid wall of him, his dark eyes flashing with lust as you feel him memorising every detail of you.

“Talk to me, Marcus,” you ask of him, running your fingers through his dark curls, “Tell me what’s going on.”

“You sure you wanna know?” he questions, stroking his fingers down the side of you, the sensation causing you to twitch under its tenderness.

“I want you to tell me everything,” you demand unblinkingly. Desperate for Marcus to finally tell you what he wants rather than constantly looking to please and pleasure you.

“Ok,” You see Marcus nod, his bottom lip slightly trembling, “It takes a superhuman feat of strength not to call you into my office everyday and fucking rail you right there into my desk, in front of everyone.”

Holy fuck, Marcus. Let it go.

“Monday, when we were working late and you grabbed my jacket to throw over your shoulders? Seeing how the shoulders swamped yours, there was... There was just this moment when I wanted to run my hands up that skirt, rip your panties off, slide into you and bite your neck, leaving marks for everyone to know you’re mine. I just wanted to possess every part of you and all because of you wearing something that’s mine.

“When we’re walking around galleries or sitting in cinemas together, it is all I can do to not find a cupboard to push you into or take advantage of the lowlights.I just want you to be mine all the time. I want to be surrounded by your scent- your hair, your perfume and your cunt - they’re this drug that I can’t get enough of. When you wear my clothes, they smell of you - makes me want to possess every part of you. I need all of you to belong to me.”

Your heart thuds in your chest as you allow Marcus’ primal growl to fill you with a searing heat that burns through the very depths of you.

“And now. Right now? Seeing you now in my hoodie and just your panties is so fucking tempting- so don’t you dare give me that comment that you are decent now.”

His hands finally move from their position on the counter to your hips as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist unconsciously. The pizza unceremoniously gets dumped onto the floor as he settles you onto the cool work surface, pulling your hips slightly towards him. Unlocking your calves from around his waist, he pushes your thighs a little further apart, thumbs brushing upon the sensitive skin as he lowers his face so that you can feel his hot breath through the material of your knickers.

He withdraws slightly, pressing his lips in sweet kisses along the inside of your thighs whilst his teeth graze and nip at you, setting off a string of fireworks in your skin.

“Right now, I want to inhale you. I need to have your scent filling my lungs.”

His nose nuzzles into your lightly clothed slit searching out your sweet heady scent, brushing the damp material back and forth over your sensitive clit making it throb in anticipation. The sensations brought from his nose causes your core to pool around him, the small nudges sending your pulse racing through the roof.

Very few thoughts are able to exist in your mind other than the way you desperately want to wrap your legs back around him- this time around his head to lock him in place and keep his face glued to your pussy, stopping him from continuing this tantalising teasing.

“Now? Now, I want to taste you. I want drink that sweet fucking nectar from right here.”

Dipping his head lower, he licks teasingly at the aperture of your cunt, stiffening his tongue slightly to press the material between your folds. Your breath catches in your throat wanting to scream at his slow pace. You hook your thumbs into the elastic of your knickers at your hips, trying to awkwardly shuffle them off.

Abruptly, he stops. Pulling away from you, moving your hands away from trying to remove your underwear, “No,” he growls, “Leave them on.”

“Do you wanna know why I didn’t sneak those panties back to you at work or any of the other nights I’ve seen you this week?” He raises an eyebrow at you from his crouched position between your legs as you nod helplessly, your heart pounding in your throat, “I’ve been smelling them, thinking of your hot cunt as I rub my cock in the few moments we’re apart.”

Leaning forward, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your bottom and kissing you hard through your knickers, he exclaims joyously, “Ah, honey, I fucking love your smell and taste! Sometimes, I can still smell your juices on my fingers at work and it makes my cock fucking throb, knowing that you are only two steps away from me. Professionalism with you so close is impossible.”

Your pussy throbs and yearns for a consistent touch as he returns his face to between your legs. Resting his forehead against your pubic bone, he returns to burying his nose into the dampest point of the thin fabric. This time, as he drags it upwards, he pulls his tongue stiffly upwards until he reaches that sensitive nub of nerves, catching it between his teeth gently tugging it.

You swear that every nerve in your body is on fire and nothing exists except you and Marcus. No one has made your body sing like this in its neediness. The rush of wild sensations sweeping across your body are equally thrilling and maddening you.

Teasing the material to one side of your pussy lips, you watch a smile unfold across Marcus’ face as he gazes upon you.

Never have you felt so wanted before.

Then with the same joyous abandon he has shown in kissing your pussy, he throws your thighs over his shoulders before sinking his mouth onto the sweet, bare flesh. The way that his tongue flickers so gracefully across your clit leaves you gasping. That familiar knot of pleasure building deep inside your tummy as he edges ever lower, preparing to tongue fuck you. Licking deeper and deeper into your cunt, you can hear the pleasure spilling from within you onto his tongue and oh how he drinks like a man dying of thirst.

You cry out in surprise as Marcus encircles his lips around your clit, sucking rhythmically and gently. The scruff of his beard tickling pleasingly the sensitive flesh as he works you towards your release. A guttural groan against your delicate skin is the point that sends you truly spinning over the precipice into pleasure, howling his name into the night air as your thighs tightly clasp him around his ears, his tongue still working you through that blissful high until your body drops every ounce of tension, relaxing into the afterglow.

When he moves back into softly kissing your thighs, you tug his glistening face towards you with barely a moment of hesitation passing between the two of you. Your lips meet again with the tenderness of an artist’s brushstrokes, Marcus painting the taste of you into your mouth with exquisitely delicious kisses.

He brings his forehead back to rest against yours again, with a total calmness drifting across his features. You shut your eyes and rest with him, safe. From his lust drenched words to the experienced motions of his tongue, you utterly resign yourself to the truth.

You have always belonged with Marcus.

You always will.

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flameofchaos · 4 years ago

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How does Xellos even work? You know what I mean. It's Sinday.

Well I think he can explain it better than me, so I would past here a part of my fanfiction about it.

"Lina blushed again at his fond tone and wondered about the first question. She didn’t want to push her luck too much in the beginning, so she has chosen a safe one. “Do you breathe only for a masquerade?”

“Hmm…” Xellos brushed his chin “It’s more a complex topic than you think. The basic answer would be: yes, I do it mostly to hide among mortals, but since we are here for a longer conversation, we can go deeper into the problem.”

“Has it a connection with the beating of heart you can turn on and off?” Lina reminded herself the previous evening.

“It is all connected. Creating the physical vessel is more demanding than you think. That’s why only the most powerful of us can reconstruct the human body in a way it seems to be a real one. I think a small presentation is needed.” The Mazoku reached his arm to Lina. His dark coat and sleeve melted into a shadow absorbed with the rest of the body, shaping a bare forearm. Xellos clothes looked strange now like someone cut off half of them. Muscles seemed to be real, though.

Lina furrowed her eyebrows, cocking her head to see better. A subtle map of veins and tendons were visible when Xellos stretched the arm. Till this moment she didn’t realize how complicated the construction of human organisms was. No wonder the lower rank Mazoku looked creepy, not being able to make their physical forms as good as Xellos. Random placed eyes or limbs mixed often with animal parts. Chimeras from horrors fully deserving to be called monsters or demons.

“Cut my arm.”

Lina glanced at the Mazoku unsure, but Xellos grasped her hand and slid the blade through the flesh, before the girl could react. Inside the wound was blackness and emptiness which started to pour outside in the form of smoke for a short moment before the cut healed.

“So it’s only the perfect surface,” she concluded.

“It is.” The Mazoku confirmed. “Only on this level. Check now.” He pressed her fingertips to the inner side of his wrist. Lina shifted uneasy, when she suddenly felt the pulse. “This stage demands much more energy from me to create the vessel. Cut my arm again. Deep!”

The sorceress clenched her jaw, but did that, almost immediately gasping in surprise, when sliced flesh parted under the knife and blood (black one like a night sky) burst outside. She could easily see muscles, veins… even a bone deep inside. Xellos hissed in pain, but the wound started to heal before panicked Lina could find anything to wrap up his arm.

“Easy, Miss Lina. Everything is alright. It is only a good copy. Even having the body in such a faithful form l am still a Mazoku. I will regenerate wounds immediately.” He chuckled at her terrified face.

“Warn me next time, before you drown all my bed in blood, you asshole.” She punched him into the chest.

“Sorry about that.” Black stains on the sheets vanished, returning to the monster as smoke.“This state lets me feel in a similar way like humans: taste, pain, pleasure. I reconstruct everything inside: my all organs can work exactly like yours… if I need that. Additionally I still have my Mazoku powers. I can smoothly jump between my physical forms in a blink of an eye, but it costs me lots of energy.”

“So you are able to eat, drink or enjoy the sense of touch like every human.” Lina was impressed.

“Copulation also isn’t a problem, and there is no risk of impregnation. I can’t copy the body to THAT level.” Before he ended, another pillow hit his face. “Oh, Miss Lina, you shouldn't be so shy. We are talking from the scientific point of view, right?” His bright teasing smile told her quite the opposite."

Part of the chapter 4 of the fic "Whispers in the Dark."

#sinday asks

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rashenditrash · 4 years ago

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I realized I don't think I ever shared this here (or if I did I lost it), and I just discovered the excellent "Leratium" ship name on @preservationandruin 's blog so I thought I'd post this because MAN I LOVE THIS SHIP.

Anyways: Ati and Leras, Mistborn Spoilers.

"I will take Ruin." The setting sun glinted in Ati's red hair. "Perhaps I can contain it's power, at least for a time, and prevent its destructive potential from being realized."

The others remained silent as Ati stepped forward, hands outstretched to take in the power. Leras felt unable to speak, paralyzed, though his heart was racing in his chest. This is happening too quickly. Some of the others were already gone, racing off into the Cosmere with their newfound divinity, no doubt setting out to find a position of advantage from which to fortify themselves from attack by the others.

No, no, no. This can't be happening. Ati was the best of them. His kindness and laughter had saved Leras in his darkest moments. This was not supposed to be that way.

He could see the logic in Ati's sacrifice, of course. Though Uli Da, Rayse, and Bavadin had already departed with their shards moments before, and those remaining would count themselves lucky that none of them had taken Ruin as their own, Leras was not sure who he would trust with that kind of power. Edgli, cautious as ever, continued to watch, no doubt calculating which of the sixteen was most likely to renege on their pact the quickest.

The logic did not make it any easier to accept that Ati the person was gone, and what remained of him would live the rest of his eons of existence in a constant struggle to contain the power he had claimed.

I have to do something. Leras's eyes darted between the impassive faces of his remaining companions. Why weren't any of them doing something to stop this? They don't care. All they see is their own chance to ascend; their own piece of godhood.

I have to protect him. Please, Ati, don't leave me.

"Chin up, Leras," Ati smiled, meeting Leras's eyes as the black mist continued to wind its way around his body. "Surely there are worse things to fear than becoming a dark god of destruction." As he finished speaking, Ati's form seemed to evaporate as it was consumed by the black mist. His human self was burned away by the god-like power he now held, leaving only divinity behind.

"ATI!!!!" Leras stumbled forward into the space Ati had occupied only moments before. A light sprung up, seemingly in response to his shout. It was a white mist, contrasting the black one that had consumed Ati. In horror, Leras watched as the mists began to envelop him. His entire body began to burn as if his veins were being set alight beneath his skin. A thousand pleasures and pains assaulted him at once, and his back arched in simultaneous torment and ecstasy as the power consumed him.

I will save Ati. I will Preserve him. As his body dissolved, Leras shot off, knowing Ati would have tried to get as far as possible to avoid causing any unintended harm. Already, he could feel his mind expanding much as his body had. Time and space seemed to lose meaning. He reached out into the beyond, grasping at millions of possible futures, understanding them in an instant.

Why am I chasing him? Leras pushed forward, locating the futures in which he and Ati were together, and willed himself to that place, passing over whole solar systems in an instant.

"Leras? What are you doing here? My power it. . . it burns. You . . ." Leras received the impression of Ati, as he remembered him, reaching out with a hand. Leras reached out his own power eagerly, seeking to envelop Ati in his embrace.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH" They screamed in unison, and the echoes of their cries seemed to reverberate through the very fabric of the Cosmere. Leras recoiled from Ati, slowly regaining his senses as the intense pain faded.

"What, what was that?"

"I don't know." Leras examined his own power more closely. Mingling his power with Ati's had felt explosive, like a volcano erupting under a frozen lake. Despite the pain of the experience, part of Leras seemed to call out to record it perfectly in his memory, to preserve it for all time.

Preservation. It sensed my desire to preserve Ati, and accepted me as its Vessel. "Our powers, it appears, are in conflict. Ruin and Preservation: we are opposites. Our powers will not mingle easily. "

"Yes." Leras could sense, rather than hear, the hesitation in Ati's voice as he considered the new knowledge. Leras mentally cursed Adonalsium. How was it that he had ended up with the one Shard that would prevent him from remaining close to Ati? Already he could feel himself drifting away from Ati, pulled by his own power away from its opposite.

No! Desperate, Leras again reached into the beyond, searching for a future in which he and Ati could remain together. His power seemed to navigate through the unmeasurable expanse of possibility easily, appearing eager to find futures where current circumstances were preserved.

"Leras?"

"Got it! Our powers may not mingle easily, but we can use them together. I've seen it. Ati, together, we can create anything. We could form entire worlds out of the abyss if we wanted." As he spoke, Leras felt his power seeming shrink into itself, as if resiling from the thought of so much change. "Neither of us can alone, of course, but together. . ."

"No, Leras. I have made up my mind. We must abide by our pact, remember? I will find some dark corner of the Cosmere, and find a way to keep myself there, so that my power cannot harm anyone."

"But you don't have to only destroy Ati, together we can create."

"Leras, this is my burden to bear. Leave, and find a planet to protect. If we do as you say, your plan will only lead to the destruction of all we have made, and likely you as well." Unbidden, a vision of the future Ati spoke of came into view, a world consumed by fire and ash. And yet, that was not all Leras saw. I can preserve them.

"Ati, friend, if you must destroy one day, would it not be better to ruin something we ourselves have created? That way, the rest of the Cosmere may be preserved. Our powers will counteract each other for a time, and perhaps delay the events you fear." Or prevent them completely. Though the thought of misleading Ati twisted his heart, the power Leras held seemed to pulse eagerly at the thought of having an entire world to preserve against destruction.

"Leras. . . I can't. I cannot bear the thought of killing you. I will only ask once more. Leave this place. If I destroy you I may never forgive myself."

If you destroy at all, you will never forgive yourself. And I would rather see the Cosmere consumed by your power then spend eons apart from you.

"I am resolute, Ati, you will not convince me. Give this a chance, and we can create something beautiful together. Our powers will balance each other. You can force things to evolve and change, and my power will protect what we create from complete annihilation."

It took further negotiation, but eventually, a deal was struck. Together, Ati and Leras stretched out until they found an empty system, and there they pulled a planet from the void and set about creating life there.

Ati, already succumbing to influence of his power, secured the promise that one day Leras would allow him to destroy that which they created. Leras agreed, and with a heavy heart began to plan the betrayal of the person he loved most. Dimly, he saw one future where mists, black and white, intertwined, becoming something greater.

#leras #ati #lerti #atras #ruin #preservation #cosmere #mistborn #mistborn era 1 #mistborn secret history #leratium

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phinieseavor · 5 years ago

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title: if my life is going to mean anything, i have to live it myself

about: Phoenix comes toe to toe with the truth and his fate.

when: April 25, 2020

tagging: n/a

warnings: n/a

ORACLE !!

Headmaster Cristian leads you away from the dinner party towards a long, dark hallway. Unlike the typical modern decor the school has, the corridor is lit by only flaming torches. You can barely even see Cristian next to you. You’re left to your thoughts of what you could potentially encounter. Eventually, you reach what looks like an open door with runic inscriptions engraved at the top. αυτή που ξέρει όλα. You’re able to read ancient Greek as a god. The words written are as follow: “She Who Knows All.”

You can’t turn back now, so you enter the room. Before you leave, the headmaster gives you a pat on your shoulder. "I shall wait out here and escort you back when you are finished," he remarked, before motioning for you to continue. He doesn’t go in with you, as this is your task to fulfill. Inside, more torches and candles mysteriously light up the space with each step you take. In the middle, sitting on a wooden chair is the veiled corpse of a woman. There are various trinkets and offerings laid out by her feet. It looks as though she’s been dead for centuries. That is, until her eyes glow a bright white and she starts to speak to you.

“…I am the Oracle. A link between the mortals and the divine. Speaker of Prophecies. Tell me your name, seeker…”

PHOENIX !!

Anybody normal would probably run at this point. But after being greeted by minotaurs and witnessing several different creatures roaming around freely, Phoenix a long deep dark corridor was the least of the shock. Walking down the hallway, any normal person might turn tail and run, or maybe be more curious, asking about what is to be expected or flipping out over the dark mysterious corridor. Not Phoenix though. Phoenix was focused forward. His mind running through the list of questions that he had for this so called Oracle. His blue eyes bore into blackness as if he could see past it all. He kept his normal strut, chest held high and a permanent scold molded into his face.

Phoenix stopped before the door, almost expecting it to open without his touch. When he realized it would be him to open, he shifted to opened it. But before he did, he felt the pat on his shoulder. He merely looked over at the man and nodded, as if that were enough to tell him that he understood. Phoenix pulled the door open smoothly and stepped inside. He advanced down the natural path and came upon the body. He stopped in his tracks. Did he just come upon a trap? Was this a test for him? Where was he? Would this be his last couple of breathes? This was the first time since he got to the school that he was thinking about something other than his initial questions. He advanced carefully to the dead body.

When she reanimated, Phoenix jumped back nearly a foot. His body froze for a second. He regained his composure as she explained herself. He spoke with clear tone in a deep voice.

"Phoenix Seavor."

ORACLE !!

Staring back at you with impassive expression, it is impossible for you to tell how she feels. The face that stares back at you with glowing eyes is devoid of emotion or expression. As she opens her mouth to speak, the audible clacking of bones and teeth clicking together is heard. Thus, divinity is breathed into the old, withered body. “…So he chose you to be his vessel… The last was undeserving in his eyes…” Extending a long, bony finger, the Oracle beckons you to come closer, demanding respect from you in the presence of a highly revered being. “…You hold his temperament. A mood like no other, there is a storm brewing within your heart…”

PHOENIX !!

How she spoke and held herself was unlike anything Phoenix had ever seen before. But he didn't flinch nor back down. Instead, he straighten himself from before and listened carefully. The way she spoke sent shivers up his spine but he didn't crumble.

...Vessel?

He took in a sharp inhale as she extended her boney creepy finger. Phoenix could feel himself shaking now. Was it fear or was it adrenaline? He steadied his breathe once again, however he felt it was difficult. He stepped forward, feeling her pulling him in. He soaked in the words then asked his first question.

"Who...?"

ORACLE !!

If the Oracle had any expression, it was hard to tell from her words and her appearance “…That is not how things flow, child…” she stated plainly, bright white eyes unmoving. "...Be still. Questions upon questions, and still you will remain troubled..." Around the Oracle, a hazy white bubble began to form, the air in the room vibrating and pulsing with an ancient power.

“…Prove to me that you are deserving of my assistance. If you are truly worthy, then he shall speak freely through you, vessel. Search within yourself, and you will know the truth...” The Oracle’s words crackled through the air. “…I provide answers to the world’s greatest questions… But tell me, can you answer me? Are you worthy in your pursuit of godhood?” There is a lingering pause in the musty air with her question, the creaking voice almost reverberating with a divine power. “…Tell me, young God:

It thrashes with darkness hiding beneath.  Untamed, it bears power that are ice cold.   On its crest rises its salty, white teeth.   Beneath its layers rests treasures of gold.  

What is its name?”

PHOENIX !!

Phoenix was a bit taken back when she had snapped at him. But rather than backing down, rage filled his body. Who was she to come here and tell him that he was a vessel then snap at him when he asked whose. The storm filled his body and the energy around his radiated around him like one of his usual tempers.

When he was young, Phoenix had heard tales of the seas and it's owner. As he got older, he was convince they were just fairytales. Just stories that would distract children from the harsh reality. He remembers sitting down in his bedroom, news of what happened to his father loomed like a cloud in the next room over. He was brought back to the moment when he was five and just coming into the kitchen to see his mother. She sat there with her water in front of her at the table. She started off the story with his name; explaining to Phoenix like he won't understand what happened.

He didn't need her riddle to know. He'd felt it before. It was like it all made sense to him though. He was brought to the clouds to stand among the gods- because he was meant to be one. Vessel... whatever. He was here and he knew it. The word left his lips after she posed the question.

"Poseidon."

ORACLE !!

There is a flicker in her bright, white eyes, and the Oracle shifts her head ever more slightly at Adam's words. “…Poseidon… Where was his domain? When the sailors prayed to him for safe passage, what did their ships travel over?” The question lingers, as her eyes flicker to a more intense hue. By her wayside, the trinkets begin to rumble and shake from the divine pressure building in the room. There is a building sense of dread; if the god does not speak properly through the vessel, then perhaps the Oracle would not deem it worthy.

PHOENIX !!

Even though his first answer was incorrect, her reply had hinted in a more obvious direction. "The sea." He breathed, unintentionally letting the answer out in a furious growl. His anger only became more apparent through his stiff face. Why had he made such an obviously wrong answer. His fist clinched, as he awaited her to accept it. He almost had a mind to shout 'well...'

ORACLE !!

The Oracle remains impassive, although it is clear she was not satisfied with the delayed answer. Nevertheless, she accepts the offered words from you. The eyes fixated on you glow brighter, almost piercing into your soul. At once, the room begins to spin, almost swirling and transforming into a void of darkness. You blink once, and then twice. Before your very eyes, as the blurriness begins to clear, you find yourself sitting atop of a large rock, surrounded by water. The waves crash and billow into the stone, letting its salty, cold droplets spray over you. For a moment, you realize that you are wearing nothing, but that fact does not phase you. In fact, it feels right, as though it were natural. You do not even notice the coldness or the wetness against your skin, only liking the way the sea spray coats your body.

In your hand weighs a golden trident, while a fitting crown lays nestled in your hair. Your eyes case out over the stormy waters, raging and billowing about. It feels tumultuous, and in your chest, you know that it has already capsized multiple boats. As if it were second nature to yourself, you raise the trident and let the base of it fall onto the stone you are sitting upon. A clear, metallic ring radiates from the contact, casting out waves of the sound all over the waters. And instantly, you know that the sea bends to you and follows your bidding. You are its source of turmoil, and your eyes glow a brilliant color at the realization of this power. Excitement and adrenaline fills your veins, as you realize that you are the king of the sea. In the waters, you find comfort. In here, you find peace. But with it stems your anger and your boiling emotions.

You hear the Oracle’s voice in your head again. “…They will rely on you for passage across your seas. They will pray for you to guide them safely and to bring them home to their loved ones. But wary are they of your wrath and your anger, for your emotional temperament is the source of catastrophes. Steady your emotions, king of the sea. Let your power rise to your head or your emotions cloud your judgment, and you will be the only one drowning, left alone on the cold, bottom floor.”

PHOENIX !!

Phoenix nearly lost his footing. His body waivered as he begun to loose control of the situation. He shut his eyes tight and did his best to hold his body upright through the motion. His teeth clinched together to fight against screaming. His body twisted and turned until it all stopped. Only a second passed before he could taste that familiar salt of the ocean. With haste, he opened his eyes, expecting to find his home before him. He hung there for a moment to take in his surroundings.

At first, he thought it was unreal. Minutes ago, he was just talking to what seemed like a corpses. But the reality of it was undeniable. The way the ocean felt on his pale body and the salty sandy smell that filled his nose was clear that everything was real. Just like before, his eyes could focus on the tossing and turning of the dark sea and he could feel it's energy pulsing through him. It wasn't strange to him as he held up the trident and slammed it into the rock beneath him. He was claiming what he already knew was his. His knuckled turned white as he balled his fist around his weapon. The anger from before boiled inside of him and in a fit, he let out a loud angry yell. In that moment, he felt the waved from the sea burst upward as the gallons of water were thrown into the air.

During his cry, they world returned to what it was previously. He could barely hear the woman above the anguish. The vision ripped away from him. "Why me?!" His voice burst from his lips and echoed all around the cabin. He felt shaking in his body ad he looked upon the lump of creepy bones. His eyes lit up with the fire that he always had when he lost his temper.

ORACLE !!

As the vision faded away and the colors faded into darkness, it is then that you return from your previous life into reality, laying on the dusty, wooden floor. The ancient advice rings in your eyes, the vision etched into your mind. With it, the Oracle remains on the wooden chair, eyes lifeless and body motionless, just as you had first seen when you entered. Your words and your anger fall upon empty, dead ears. Taking it as your cue to leave, you exit from her chambers.

Congratulations! Phoenix has met the Oracle!

#about

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demonsofhunting · 5 years ago

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"That's My Boyfriend!"

( A Destiel One Shot )

Summary: Dean wakes up in a foreign environment. He's hurt and can't remember anything. And he isn't alone.

Warnings: a good amount of angst, fluffy ending ( aka one of my fav things to do XD )

Words: 1500

A/N: What even is the layout of this title?! I'm so sorry guys, tumblr is being a bitch lately. XD Anyway, have some sweet angst to get you through the day, some cuteness included. I'm a sucker for Cas protecting/saving his fav human... *dreamy sigh*

[ This is very lose connected to season 9, so the conflict between Crowley and Abbadon is mentioned, but you don't need to know the season to read this fic♡ ]

I hope you'll like it! Enjoy! <3

Dean struggles to open his eyes. Pain pulses in the back of his head, his body feels like he's paralysed. He coughs, quietly. After a couple of heavy breaths, he finally manages to clear his sight. He's lying on the ground, his head resting on his right shoulder. It's a floor made of wood, probably of an old, empty house. It's full of spiderwebs and dirt, so he's pretty sure about the 'empty' part. Spiderwebs, dirt and...blood.

There's much blood on the floor too.

Dean blinks, his thoughts are crawling through his head in slow motion.

Where the hell am I?

He tries to remember, but he can't. There's just a big, blank space.

Fuck.

He moans, trying to move. He manages to raise his right hand, but cries out as the pain flashes through his whole body.

Why does it hurt so much? What's wrong with me?!

Dean starts to panic, he can already feel his heart beating faster. He sweats, everything is about to black out again.

Don't you dare to pass out! Calm down, Dean! You need to focus.

He tries to slow his breathing, carefully. Then he counts to three, silently, and pulls himself in a sitting position. It hurts like hell and doesn't work at all, but at least he manages to lift his head a little to look around. He blinks until his stupid sight stops to be blurry, and scans the room within a few seconds.

Oh shit.

There are bodies on the floor.

Many bodies.

Demons. Their eyes are burned out, seems like some of them were additionally stabbed with an angel blade too.

They're all more than just a little dead.

It's about five or six of them, the blood of their dead vessels is still running over the floor, thick and disgusting.

Did I kill them? How?

Apart from the painful noise in Dean's head, it's absolutely quiet in the room. Too quiet.

There are a couple of windows, but they're all boarded up. Only a few sunrays are crawling through the small cracks. Dean looks down in himself, checking how bad he's hurt.

Well...I kinda fucked up, did I?

He did. His clothes are full of blood too, his flannel and his jacket are in shreds.

"Son of a bitch," he rasps, coughing. There are cuts all over his body. It seems like somebody wanted to carve words in his skin and messed up, horribly.

No wonder I feel like somebody tried to peel my skin off.

He inspects his hands, and can't hold back a little gasp. There are big, aching bruises on his wrist, just like he had been tied up, roughly.

What the -

He shakes his head, suddenly mad at himself for not remember anything that happened to him. The last thing he knows is that he was on a hunt with Cas, nothing serious just a little demonic accident in a small town. Sam stayed at the bunker, trying to find out something about angels and stuff. Since they fell, they have been nothing but a pain in the ass.

And now I'm here with one of the heaviest hangovers I've ever had. Awesome.

Dean decides to think about the weird circumstances later. He has anything but time for that now. The elder Winchester listens again, carefully.

Silence.

"Well," he mutters, already preparing himself for a great amount of pain, " Let's get out of here."

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

It's way more difficult than it seems, to walk on your own feet while feeling like you have been run over by at least four trucks. Dean makes a face, trying to pull the old door open, that hopefully leads to the floor of the old house. He sticks his head out first, one hand already longing into the the inner bag of his jacket. The floor is dirty and empty, fortunately. His weapons are gone, of course, and he finds nothing.

Well, it was worth a try.

Dean sneaks down the floor, always close to the wall in case he needs something to hold on. His heart beats, loudly.

Adrenaline pumps through his veins, actually it's the only thing that keeps him up right now.

At the end of the hall, there's another heavy, wooden door. The elder Winchester leans against it, carefully, his hand already on the door handle. It opens with a loud creak. Dean narrows his eyes, expecting thousands of demons to run him over.

But nothing happens.

The hunter sighs in relief, and pushes the door open, eventually.

His heart skips a beat as he takes a look inside the room behind.

There are feathers, oh so many feathers. They're covering the floor, mixed with liters of light blood. Dean feels like he needs to throw up. Right now.

His knees are giving in, and he falls to the ground. His whole body is shaking.

Suddenly, he remembers something.

He remembers that he wasn't the only one who was brought here.

Cas.

There's a rumbling noise coming from the open door to the room next to the one with the massacre on the ground. Dean winces, his head flows up.

A shadow crawls over the ground near the doorstep, becoming smaller and smaller. And then someone clutches the frame with bloody hands, pulling himself into Dean's sight, slowly.

"Hello, Dean," a hoarse voice says, and suddenly, all the hunter wants is to cry in relief.

"Cas!" he cries out, trying to get on his feet, ignoring the pain, "What the hell is going on? What happened here? A demonic orgy that turned out to be a gigantic massacre or what?"

Cas sticks his head into the room, his blue eyes being a heavy contrast to all the blood that covers his trenchcoat. He looks pretty tired, squinting his eyes.

"I don't understand what you mean, Dean," he mutters then, walking over to the hurt hunter, pulling him in a big hug. After that, he kisses his forehead, softly. Dean collapses in his arms. He looks up to the other, diving into the blue seas that are his eyes.

"What are you doing here? Where is Sammy? What happened?" he repeats, his voice is almost breaking.

Cas swallows, tugging Dean closer.

"It's okay," he begins, "It's over."

Dean nods: "I can see that. But - "

"They were after us and I didn't see them coming. It was a bunch of demons, powerful ones. Abbadon sent them, I think."

Dean winces. "Oh hell no. I hate this stupid bitch. The next time I see her she will be dead before she hits the ground!" he growls in frustration.

Cas sighs: "That was exactly what you said last time. And the time before that time. And - "

"Okay, okay, I get it. Just ignore my stupid comments and go on," he interrupts the angel, trying to hide the pain that still pulses through his body like there are flaming swords carving through his insides.

"They brought us here. They separated us, tortured us without any reason. Believe me, you don't want to see what my wings look right now. I broke free, and managed to kill them all. Obviously, they didn't thought that I would be powerful enough to beat them," he continues, seriously, "And well, it seems like Crowley isn't any longer the king of hell. Seems like Abbadon claimed his job. That could be why she was in charge of so many demons. And she has a thing for you, Dean. It makes me more than just a little uncomfortable, and I have no idea what you said to her to make her that mad at you, but..."

He looks down at Dean, making a face.

The hunter shrugs, wincing a little: "Maybe I said that she's an ugly whore. I mean, she obviously is one."

Cas cocks his head, a small smile on his lips, on of his hands touching Dean's forehead, gently.

After a heartbeat, all the pain is gone and the hunter relaxes.

"Thanks, honey," he mutters, giving the angel a small kiss. Cas chuckles, quietly.

"Where is she now?" Dean asks, eventually. The angel hesitates.

"I couldn't find her. Seems like she was too busy carving things in your...your skin to hear me killing her people. As soon as she noticed, she knocked you unconscious and fled. God, I'm so glad that you're alive, Dean," he mumbles.

"Yeah, I'm glad to," the hunter adds, thoughtfully. He licks his lips.

Cas swallows: "Uh, this isn't my blood by the way. Just in case you were worried." He looks down on his filthy clothes. Dean laughs, softly.

"What did you do in that room?" he asks, pointing in the direction where Cas came from. The angel tilts his head.

"There is a telephone in it. I informed Sam. Maybe they will be after him, next time. We need to be prepared," he tells the other, nodding, slowly.

"That's my boyfriend!" Dean chuckles, kissing his angel again.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Aaaand that's it! Thank you so much for reading and if you would like to leave a comment or reblog this shit, I will love you forever! <3

Feel free to tell me if you found mistakes, too. I know that this is far from perfect. ♡

Destiel/Forever Tags: @adoptdontshoppets @rebeloftheseas @ablavalba @smodernlife @ignis-glaciesque @trenchcoatsandfreckles @certaindeanwinchesterforcastiel @xsghn @helpmeluci @legendary-destiel @leahslovelylibrary thank u!💕

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alloveroliver · 6 years ago

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Evil!Harr Part 1

harr anon: part 1 of some very evil!harr! its quite a doozy, so i had to split it, but harr/alice will come in the 2nd part (and guess who thoroughly enjoys the cradle gothic vibes…:D)

tw: Gore

The yawning nights never made the Magic Tower any more inviting. Loki climbs the steps with the same apprehension as always; after all, it was very hard to shake away the memories of the atrocities that had very nearly been inflicted upon him. If he listens carefully enough, he can almost hear the moans and cries of those who had been confined here, bodies prepared to undergo the gauntlets Amon Jabberwock would orchestrate.

And yet, he fears the cries he hears now may just be history repeating itself.

The marble staircase coils upward towards the private chambers of the new master, perched over an ornate writing desk like a haggard crow. Only this time, the robes have been changed from violet to black, fine silk for ragged six-string…gold eyes for red ones.

“Harr? When did you come back?”

Since the death of Amon, Harr had been swift to overthrow the Magic Tower and its brainwashed occupants. They had cowered under his superior magical abilities, the crystals holding now sway over the deflective spells and ancient incantations that forced them to their knees, burnt their hands and filled their veins with pestilence. Casting the robes of the Tower aside, Harr stood proud and furious above all, as if punch-drunk on the power he had suddenly acquired. The few that had been deemed worthy to live treated him like a god in the flesh, immediately obeyed his every whim, and allowed him to carry on with his games. For his magic was innate, beautifully so, and he was worth dying for.

Even if Loki had hated how the color of his eyes had changed.

“Loki? Ah, I’ve only been back a short time,” At the sound of his name, the elder sorcerer looks up from what appears to be numerous torn papers, detailing correspondence between members of the Red Army. Loki tries his hardest to overlook the splatters of blood and viscera on each page. He focuses on the smile he was so used to seeing, soft and reassuring, and hopes back for the days before all of this madness. “But I’m glad you’re here. I have something to show you.”

Papers flying, Loki crouches down on the other side of desk as Harr seems to reach down behind it, fiddling on with the straps on a battered leather sack. His hums a soft melody as he works, and the younger kindles faint memories in the back of his mind, when the same tune was hummed over a kitchen sink, a solo tune that soon drifted into a duet when he would come to help with dinner.

I’ve been reminiscing a lot, he thinks…and it’s with a twinge of sadness as he realizes the sorry state of affairs that have forced him to do so, if only for his own mental well-being.

But soon enough, Harr’s voice cuts into his reverie. “I’ve been thinking long and hard how to finally get through to the King of Hearts,” he hums, though there’s a distinct edge to his tone as the buckles come loose on the sack. “And I think I may have finally done it. My greatest achievement.”

The King of Hearts? “But Lancelot has always…refused your offers before.”

“Then perhaps my latest attempt has caused a…change of heart, if you will.”

No…

Harr reveals a glass tankard from the confines of his bag, sloshing around with a glossy red liquid that instantly forces the hairs on Loki’s neck to prickle. He can smell it before he sees it - spilled blood - and the sight is unfortunately not unique. He wants to vomit every time, but his throat is dry and tight, and he wants to run…but Harr is there, grinning, and Loki can only remain dumbfounded.

An adult human heart, beating wildly within a glass cage.

Loki’s slit pupils flare for a second. He looks ready to protest, jaw clenching and unclenching…but nothing leaves his lips. Perhaps he realizes what an objection means by now, and instead occupies himself by watching the disembodied organ throb in the jar. It mesmerizes him in a sickening way, how it squeezes and oozes in the red liquid, pulsing with gentle magical light.

The heart ripped from the Queen of Spades’ chest didn’t glow like this. Or the others. None of their hearts glowed at all.

Would my heart glow this way?, he thinks, only to quickly push that line of thought to the depths of his subconscious. His fingers tremble over the breastbone under his skin, where even now, he wonders if there is anything left at all.

Invisible hands pulling at the frantic muscle, ready to tear it clean from its shell…despite the heat of the room around them, Loki shivers in poorly-masked terror.

“Beautiful, no?” Harr resumes his gentle harmony, fingers curling over the remaining vessels upon the tables. “I knew Lance wouldn’t disappoint.”

Ten jars for ten men, each housing a beating heart. And Loki remembers them all too clearly. How each one faltered at the most crucial moment, letting Harr’s wicked fingers slide over their chests and drag the bleeding muscle from under the flesh, only to shove a jagged crystal into the cavity instead. They were living puppets, meat caskets for the Joker to toy with as he saw fit.

The Queen of Spades had been first, so eager to help his former friend that he hadn’t even seen it coming. But the horror on his face as Harr had stood over him, heart dripping his own blood onto the carpet, had been unforgettable. And with a single snap, the first puppet was made, jumping to his feet with vacant eyes and a luring call to draw the King into a secluded spot. Unversed in the intricacies of magic, the Black Army was swift to fall asunder.

Lancelot proved to be more difficult. He had visited Kyle that morning. Kyle had never thrown up blood before…Kyle’s eyes…had never looked so milky.

Knowing Amon’s ways, he had been privy to the darker side of magic, so when Zero had attempted to beckon him toward the training room alone, eyes vacant like those of a doll, he had already suspected foul play. But by then, he was exhausted from the years of futile conflict with the Black Army, as well as the weight of potentially retreading the footsteps of the very man who had held his father’s soul overhead. Falling to his knees with a soft smile upon his face, he had willingly surrendered his flesh to the Joker and his sickening cause.

And so, life would go on….or at least, it would seem to. Now at the helms of each side of Cradle, Harr had only to simply will his word into law. Who would go against him? Who was even left?

Loki cast a forlorn glance up the staircase towards the private quarters of his master…and the strange girl he kept caged up there.

“What do you plan to do with it, Harr?”

When the wizard turns back to his apprentice, his voice softens. “It doesn’t quite fit��does it?” he sighs. He runs his fingertips over Lancelot’s vessel, nails tapping an ancient rhythm over the glass. “Only further proof how we are not the same as the normal populace.”

Loki flinches at the use of ’we’. The dichotomy he had once fought against, being championed by his mentor, makes his gut twist uncomfortably. “Then what are you going to do?”

“There is always room for further study into the archaic world of magic,” comes the response, though there was a dangerous glint in Harr’s scarlet gaze. His mouth twists ever so slightly, the edge of a smile gracing his lips, though never enough to reach his eyes. “And I would find it most useful to expand my knowledge. The Tower may have gone far in their research…but there is always more.”

The younger wriggles a bit where he stands, pulling the hem of his jacket. “I don’t know if you should go any further, Harr. You know what…what the Tower did, do you really want to know that much?”

“You make a fair point, but this heart has such boundless energy…and I could always…consume the excess myself.”

The fear sinks deeper into Loki’s bones, his entire form only kept from shaking by every muscle locking stiff. He looks for any sign that the elder is joking, but his face is remarkably serious. “Harr…y-you can’t be serious-”

“But I very much am, Loki,” comes the cold reply, and the younger flinches at how his master’s lip curls into a sneer. Were his teeth always so sharp? “There is no need for Lancelot to entertain the masses with his magic, not when I have my rule implemented in Cradle. It would be a waste to let it simply sit here as a trophy.” And with unfamiliar malice, he suddenly grimaces. Loki’s blood freezes in his veins, and he can barely breathe “Besides, Loki Genetta, you have no right to pass judgment on me for eating the hearts of men.”

The glare was piercing. Cutting right through his soul, Loki’s legs give out beneath him. Blood-soaked memories flicker behind closed eyelids, servants in violet cloaks and a frightened madman cowering underneath his claws. It was frightening to imagine, that loss of control, the sheer desire to maim and consume…like some kind of beast. But the thrill of the hunt had pounded wild through his veins, deliciously stringing him along toward the lifeblood that he could scent in the air…feral, hot, hungry…

“You remember it, don’t you?” Harr senses the confusion in the younger’s body, how his eyes flit to the floor and his lips quivers. Moving ever closer, he wreathes himself around Loki, stroking his hair and crooning ever so sweetly into his ear. “Tell me how powerful you felt, Loki. Did it feel good to rip that man to shreds?” The contrast between face and voice was jarring, but Harr’s soothing tone still pulls tenderly upon the boy’s heartstrings. Somewhere, he hopes that his old friend is still there. “Tell me how good it felt when you cleaved that devil open. How good it felt to consume his essence.”

It was sickening to say…but Loki couldn’t deny it. The hedonistic rush of magical power as he had ripped through Amon Jabberwock with fang and claw, wild as a hellcat and with an appetite to match. Yanked by puppet strings and with Harr holding the sticks, he had lunged and clawed and bit and killed. It was sweet vengeance; surely, Harr had even told him so. Harr had promised he hadn’t been wrong, he had promised…

You were the one who told me to do it.

“It felt…amazing.”

“Then you know it’s only fair that I should also enjoy such pleasure. I gave you the opportunity, after all, and absolved your sins upon the deed’s completion.”

“So I was wrong to do it?”

“Oh, Loki…taking life is wrong, but it had to be done. Come to me.

The embrace is warm, familiar, and Loki cannot contain himself any longer. He sobs into Harr’s warm arms, clinging to the cloak that now reeks of earth and freshly-spilled blood. He lets himself be soothed, coddled, lied to under the pretense of sweet whispers of comfort. He knows there is something horribly wrong with the man he had once come to know as his carer, a friend in the darkest of times, but he is powerless to stop it. Because Harr was all he had left in this world, even though the corruption that had filled his soul was nothing like the kind, gentle human being who had swept him off the ground as a child and into a loving home.

Fingers come to rub gentle circles into the individual bumps along the younger’s spine, where the same corruption begins to take hold. Loki notices it every day, his body contorting into something more animal, more beastly by the day. First had been the teeth…then the claws…then the twisting of his spine, some days leaving him yowling like a creature on all fours. A punishment by the gods, perhaps? Or a sickness of the soul, brought by Harr as he takes the worst of the sins wrought by their terror?

All he knows is that he will follow Harr until the end, even when his body contorts and his voice leaves him, until he is nothing but a monster with a feline grin.

"Your place is here with me. Cradle is still cruel to the likes of you and me, for they don’t understand the gifts we come to bear,” A pregnant pause fills the air, only punctuated by the irregular thumps of distended hearts. Unbeknownst to the young man, Harr’s grin twists into something more sinister. “Your parents were not the only ones. And I only do my work so that no more children come to suffer as you did. I keep you and rid you of your sins, and you help me to achieve the paradise we deserve.”

When Loki looks up at him once more, tears track messy lines down his cheeks. His eyes are so lost, so full of fear and hope, clinging to whatever scrap of stability he can. Harr has Loki pinned under his claws, eager to please and fearing every detachment, lest he disappear…just like his parents had.

Twisted pleasure runs hot through Harr’s veins.

“You know how much I love you,” Harr only reaches forward to stroke his apprentice’s wild hair. He watches those mismatched eyes harden to flint, only to melt once more as his fingernails scratch into the young man’s scalp. The lies taste sweet on his tongue, almost as sweet as the look of adoration upon his charge’s face. “I don’t want the pain you felt to ever come back. I want to protect you. You know that, right?”

A soft sigh breaches those plump lips, and a barbed tongue rasps his palm in a gesture of submission.

“Do not disappoint me, Loki.”

“Not you. Never you, Harr.”

#THANK YOU HARR ANON FOR THE SUBMITTION!!!!#ikemen revolution #harr silver #evli!harr silver #loki genetta #this was so good!!!!#my eyes were wide the whole ride XD XD XD #i can't wait for part two!!!!#harr sounds so hot omggggg #im so ready for this ahhhhhhh #yes yes yes #thank you for the gore XD #submission

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pastelpomwrites · 6 years ago

Text

What Lives in the Woods

He opened his mouth, and he wailed.

It sounded like wind screaming through the earth, it sounded like wood being torn apart with bare hands. Bright, simmering streams of lava dripped from between his massive teeth, running down his charred obsidian arms and pooling against the ground.

The prince of the forest had become the prince of ruin.

All around, smoke billowed up and up and up into the ashen grey sky above. All around, fire blazed and burned and tore entire trees up by the roots, chewing them up into a tangle of charcoal. Woodland animals streaked through the chaotic blaze, desperately trying to escape the suffocating heat. An errant deer crashed into the clearing where we stood, skittering to the side and dashing back into the undergrowth as the prince’s ruinous form stretched upwards. He lifted one gnarled, twisted arm, long talons gleaming with reflections of the dancing fire, and swiped at the small, shaking figure of the prince of shadows. His molten claws made quick work of the shadow’s form, tearing three deep gashes through his chest, from them springing blood as dark and shimmering as the sky at night.

The burned-down hunk of wood that had served as the shadow’s torch fell to the earth, clattering against the upheaved roots of a nearby tree - but the blaze didn’t stop. All around us the fire pressed in closer, devouring the trees and the foliage, burning away the corpses of unlucky creatures until there was nothing left but ash. There was nothing left to do but let the fire run its course.

“Reece,” I croaked. It was too quiet to be heard over the roaring of the fire, but he could hear the blood as it rushed through my veins, he could hear my heart as it quickened when he shrunk back down to look at me.

His back hunched as he brought his face down close to mine, his palms pressed flat against the crumbling earth to bring himself eye-level with me. I reached out a hand, running my thumb along the ridge where the skin of his jaw turned to rough bark, and felt my chest tighten as he pressed his head against my hand.

“I cannot survive here,” I choked, my breaths coming in stuttered wheezes as the smoke filled my stuttering lungs.

I stared into the space above his fang-filled mouth, where his face turned to an endless black so deep and featureless I could lose myself in it. Gently, slowly, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against mine.

Around us, the trees bent and swayed, the wind moving to form sounds and syllables. The sighing of the air between the tree leaves was Reece’s voice, and it whispered to me even over the din of the fire as it stripped away his life force.

“Let the forest take you,” he spoke in the creaks and groans of the splintering trees, “close your eyes and feel the life of the woods around you, let it know you as well as you know it.”

I closed my eyes, feeling his gentle breath on my neck as I felt beyond myself. All around me an energy pulsed and swayed, a sharp and panicked dance it performed. It surrounded me, and it knew me, and just as much, I knew it. My lungs started to close and I began to choke, hot tears burning my eyes and running trails down my soot-covered cheeks. Reece lifted one long arm and cupped my jaw, using the sharp talon of his thumb to gently turn my head up. He kissed me with human lips, his teeth as flat and straight as my own, and my heart crashed against a ribcage that felt far too tight.

“Hold onto me, and we will both be born again,” he whispered through the trees.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, bringing my lips up to meet his once more though I could not breathe. He kneeled down, wrapping both arms tight around my waist as the heat of the fire pressed in around us. It wouldn’t be long, now. I wondered absently of my family, before pushing the thought aside. Where I was going, they’d be better off thinking me dead.

Reece’s breath came sharp and shallow, the leaves of the branches that sprouted from his shoulders withering and falling away. Narrow cracks spiderwebbed across the bark of his skin, and inside them, lava glowed gently. I ran one finger over them, but my skin did not burn like it should have.

All around me, there were sounds awakening that I had never heard before, though none like the pleasant murmurs of Reece’s voice rustling through the leaves. These were the blistering screams of the dying and the dead, the voices of the plants and the animals as their vessels were torn apart by heat and destroyed. More tears flooded my eyes at the sound, and I could feel myself being lowered gently downwards. I couldn’t recall when my knees had given out, but Reece had held me in his arms for as long as he could bear before he, too, became weak from the smoke and the flames.

He lowered himself behind me, once again taking my trembling form into his once-powerful arms. We both lie there, shivering in spite of the overwhelming heat. I pressed my forehead against his, twining my fingers with his own. Gently, so softly I could barely hear it, he breathed to me,

“We will be born again, my love. Out of the fire will come new life, as the spirit of the forest wills it. Do not be afraid.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but only the strangled sound of tears came out. I was suffocating. It hurt, every inch of my body screaming out in pain, but I simply pressed myself closer to Reece, and thought one single thing, in hopes that he might hear and understand.

“I am not afraid, as long as you are here with me, I will never be afraid.”

Together, in each other’s arms, we were devoured by the flames.

(Just a stream of consciousness writing exercise! I was suuuper inspired by the creepy pasta ‘because you are my baby’. I love the ethereal forest spirit vibe so this happened)

#writeblr #writing spring #stream of consciousness writing #writing #story #fantasy #fiction #fairies

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potterswinchesters · 7 years ago

Text

Moon and Sky Inverted

DeanCas Coda: 9x06

“Where to, Cas?” Dean asks, staring expectantly at the fallen angel as he leans against the Impala.

The despondency in Castiel’s eyes gives it all away. Normally, the blue of his eyes is piercing, as though it can see into Dean’s soul. They could, Dean supposes, back when he was still an angel. Now, without the grace behind them, they’re human eyes—but it’s more than that. When Metatron took Cas’s grace, he took more than his ability to see the souls behind their bodies; he took away the feeling of purpose, of importance, that Castiel felt. Dean is familiar with this particular feeling. It’s how he’d feel without hunting.

A pang of guilt overtakes Dean when Cas averts his gaze and enters the car, leaving the unanswered question hanging thickly in the air between the two men. Dean knows that Castiel has been struggling with being human, and he wishes that he hadn’t had to kick him out of the bunker. But Ezekiel had demanded it, and Sam still needs Ezekiel in order to stay breathing. Besides, he had made a promise to his little brother that he would never put anything else before him…

Even as Dean continuously justifies his actions, he simply cannot feel good about them. It’s wrong that he and Sam have to keep their distance from Cas. It’s wrong that Dean has to keep lying. It’s wrong to leave Cas thinking he’s unwanted.

But Dean can’t see another option, so he remains in limbo with his emotions and truths.

Begrudgingly, he frowns and gets into the Impala as well, sighing lightly. He closes the door, but makes no move to start the car. Instead, he grits his teeth and turns to his best friend. He’s not too good at talking about feelings, but he figures that that’s what Cas needs at the moment. He reminds himself that things are different between the two of them. Cas always seems more receptive when it comes to discussing these things with Dean than he typically does with anyone else.

It’s worth a shot.

“Cas, talk to me,” Dean vocalizes, gruff and insistent. He manages to catch Castiel’s attention for a moment before he resumes staring straight ahead, at the dark, open road. “C’mon man, tell me how you’re doing,” Dean prompts, reaching over to grip Cas’s shoulder.

“I’m not certain,” the other imparts. His gaze suggests that there are a thousand and one words on the tip of his tongue. “Even after all these years, I am still finding it difficult to give names to the emotions I experience. I suppose embarrassment. Shame. Sadness as well, I suppose.”

“What happened back there? Your chick wasn’t even there when I came burstin’ in, guns blazin’, to save your ass. What happened to the date?”

Castiel’s teeth sink into his bottom lip. “I’m sensing it’s something you’d find humorous, but I’d appreciate if you didn’t laugh.”

Despite everything, Dean can’t help the small smile that graces his lips. “Okay. I promise I won’t laugh.”

He casts his friend a dubious look, but confides in him anyway. “I misunderstood everything. Nora… wasn’t asking me on a date. She only wanted me to babysit her child while she went on a date with another man.”

Dean cringes and looks away, suddenly flooded with sympathy and something else. “You’re disappointed. You liked her that much, huh?” he says, wetting his lips with his tongue. Inexplicably, he feels a lump threatening to form in his throat.

“What?” Cas asks, incredulous. “No, it—it isn’t about the female.”

“Really?” Dean replies with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Then what’s it about?”

The fallen angel sighs heavily, his eyes darting back and forth between Dean’s face and the road. “My newfound suffering.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Castiel drags a hand over his face and Dean watches the movement of his throat as he swallows. His lips part as though he’s waiting for the right words to find their way out. “I… miss my wings,” he divulges hesitantly. Once he gets that part out, the rest appears to flow like a river to the sea—steady and sure. “I miss my grace. I miss… everything. I’ve been on Earth for a few years and there’s so much I have never understood about it. Yet at least when I was an angel, I didn’t need to understand all of it. I had accepted the fact that mankind is merely different and that there would always be certain sentiments and sensations I would never quite grasp. But now… I don’t know. Everything feels wrong now. I’m not meant to be human and I’ve proven that. If I can’t even differentiating between someone asking me out and asking me to babysit, how am I supposed to live life as a human?”

Dean’s eyebrows knit together and he turns to stare out the window. He doesn’t know what to say, so when he finally does speak, he stumbles over his words. “You—you can’t think like that, Cas. It’s not gonna be like this forever. It’ll get better. You’ll learn what’s what eventually.”

“Dean,” he utters—and in that instant, Dean feels an odd yearning to capture the sound of Cas saying his name and wear it around his neck forever. “You don’t have to lie to me. It hasn’t been getting any better. It’s getting worse, and I just—I don’t belong anywhere. I’m not a human. I’m not an angel. I’m nothing.”

“No,” Dean protests as soon as the words escape Castiel’s mouth. He shakes his head vigorously as his hand lands on Cas’s shoulder again. He grasps it tightly, forcing Castiel to meet his eyes. “No, that’s not true. You’re not a human or an angel, but you’re not nothing. You can’t be nothing. You’re Cas. Weird, dorky and socially awkward, but still a force to be reckoned with. That’s what makes you who you are—not some stupid mojo and a pair of wings. And you’re important, Cas. You are,” he affirms at Castiel’s disbelieving scoff. “You helped us stop the fucking apocalypse. You’re important to this world. You’re important to me.”

“Dean,” Cas repeats, a broken and desperate whisper.

There is something different about his eyes. Castiel’s vessel, Jimmy Novak, shares all of his physical traits with Cas, but there had always been something different between the two. Dean had met Jimmy briefly back when he was alive, and he knows that Castiel carries himself differently. He has a distinct walk and manipulates Jimmy’s vocal cords differently, but the biggest giveaway has always been the eyes. When it was him, Dean could almost see the grace behind them.

Now, he knows that Castiel can’t possibly be seeing through his physical form, right down to his soul, but it feels that way for a moment. His eyes are deep and impossibly blue, and Dean swears he can still see the grace behind the fallen angel’s human eyes.

Before he even knows what’s happening, Cas is leaning closer and closer. Dean tenses up and remains frozen in place when Cas’s lips find his.

The kiss is chaste and unexpected. Dean is so shocked that he doesn’t even close his eyes; he remains still and sees Castiel’s face dizzyingly close. He knows that he should feel horror or revulsion—anything but this want pooling in his stomach. This is Cas. His best friend. A man.

He’s not supposed to feel this way.

Castiel must sense the conflicting feelings passing through Dean’s mind, because he pulls away.

Dean forces himself to feel outraged and paints an expression on his face to show it. “Woah, man, I—um. That’s… I don’t—it’s not—we can’t—”

At Cas’s pained look, he cuts himself off.

Then there’s just silence.

“Oh,” Cas replies after a while, looking away. “Apologies. I suppose this is yet another situation I interpreted wrong.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat; even though it’s dark, Dean can tell he’s blushing everywhere. “I doubt you’d still like to drive me anywhere. I’ll just… I can walk. I’m sorry.”

He makes a move to open the car door, but before he can, Dean reaches out and grabs his arm again. “Cas, wait,” he says, gritting his teeth. When Castiel turns his gaze on him, he hesitates. He doesn’t want him to leave. Every fibre in him is screaming don’t leave me. “Look, I—you know this ain’t easy for me. Y’know, feelings and this whole—I don’t know.”

“You’re referring to your troubling emotional constipation,” Cas states easily, earning a nervous laugh from Dean.

“Uh, sure,” Dean says. “But—this can’t happen. I’m not—I’m not like that. You’re a guy, and I…”

“I’ve never understood humans’ problems with sexual orientation,” Castiel responds bitterly, with a thoughtful undercurrent.

“I don’t have a problem with it, I just… I—personally—I’m not… I mean, I can’t be, I…”

Cas is silent for a long while, as though he’s waiting for Dean to say something more. When he doesn’t, Cas sighs, as though he was expecting it. “Okay. I’m sorry. I should go.”

“No,” Dean insists. “Don’t, Cas, please.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Dean says, screwing his eyes shut, “because I—goddammit.” Now, he’s sure that his heart has never pounded this hard in his entire life. He can hear the rush of blood in his ears and feel the pulse of the veins in his temples. He wants to kiss Cas again—he wants to do so much more than that. He wants everything. “I feel…”

“You enjoyed it,” Castiel mutters, his brows furrowing. He whispers the revelation like it’s the type of secret that has the power to bring the universe to its knees. “And you hate that.”

“I want,” Dean reveals, not sure he can manage the last word: you. He hopes that Cas understands. “I want.” In a desperate attempt to show this, his hands find Cas’s face and his fingers flutter against his jaw. He imagines feeling Cas’s lips and tongue on his neck and the roughness of his stubble chasing goosebumps down his chest. When he finds his voice again, it’s low and husky and practically resonates with longing. “I wanna try somethin’.”

Then Cas is nodding, over and over, and his eyes are already fluttering shut, and his lips are already parted in anticipation, when Dean sums up the courage to close the distance between them a second time.

He doesn’t mean to make it so desperate, but he simply can’t help himself. With a roll of his jaw, he works Cas’s mouth open and runs his tongue over Cas’s bottom lip.

Suddenly, Cas is no longer sitting and has pulled himself up to a kneeling position on his seat. When he leans towards Dean, Dean reflexively winds his arms around his waist and pulls their bodies closer. His pulse rages.

“Now’s your time to practice putting names to the things you feel. Tell me,” Dean says, his lips a hairsbreadth away from Castiel’s, “what you’re feeling right now.”

“Nervousness,” Castiel admits, mouth brushing against Dean’s as his lips form the three syllables. He lets out a shaky exhale into Dean’s space. “And a bit of fear as well, I think. But none of it is unpleasant. It isn’t the same fear as facing something that could potentially kill me. It’s… exhilarating.”

“Mhm,” Dean hums against Cas’s mouth. He nips at his bottom lip and slides his hands down until they fall on Castiel’s hips. “So I make you nervous, but in the good way. What else?”

There is a pause. “Desire,” he mutters quietly, as though it’s something to be shy about.

“Yeah?” Dean answers with a smug smirk. His hands roughly dig into Cas’s sides as he grabs his hips and pulls them against his own. They’re both hard now, and the action sends a shudder of pleasure up Dean’s spine and tugs a delicious moan from Cas’s lips. “Horny, in other words,” he observes, tangling his fingers in Castiel’s hair. “Me too.”

Cas looks about ready to pass out when Dean ruts against him once more.

“Anything else?” Dean pants, trembling with yearning.

A pair of blue eyes meets a pair of green ones. Castiel’s pupils are blown and his irises are bright and vivacious. In the dark, they look like the moon and the sky, inverted.

“Love,” responds Castiel, eyelids heavy and gaze softer than it’s ever been. “Like my heart will explode with it. With the intensity of it.”

That one leaves Dean speechless and breathless.

All he can think to do is tug Castiel closer by the collar of his shirt and kiss him harder. I love you too, he thinks, the litany playing on repeat in his mind. He wishes that Cas could still hear his prayers. God, I love you too.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean whispers, pulling back slightly, even though it hurts. “What d’ya think about movin’ this to the backseat?”

Cas leans forward, chasing Dean’s lips, but Dean places a hand on his chest to stop him. He tilts his head, appearing both confused and adorably put out. “Why would we do that, Dean? How will you be able to drive if you’re in the backseat?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Let’s try this again, in words you’ll understand… How about we move this to a motel room and break in the mattress together?” He moves forward to kiss Castiel’s neck. When he finds a tender spot, he sucks and nips at it until Cas lets out a deep groan. “You were the babysitter tonight, right? So I can be the pizza man. Do you understand now?”

“Oh, I—mmm—yes, I understand,” Cas says as Dean slips a hand under his shirt. “Yes.”

Without warning, Dean tears away from him, starts the car and takes off down the road.

The entire time, he’s careful not to look at Castiel, because he knows that if he so much as glances at him, he’ll lose it. Cas is still breathing hard, and from the corner of his eyes Dean can see the effects his kisses have had on him. He knows what he’ll see if he turns his head: Cas’s lips, pink and swollen. His dark hair messy. His shirt unbuttoned, gaping open.

The nearest motel is supposed to be a fifteen-minute drive away, but Dean drives so fast he manages to cut the time in half. When they finally reach it and sink into the mattress together, Dean gives Cas at least one reason to savour being human.

Read it on AO3

Buy me a coffee

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mimics-dom · 3 years ago

Text

The Merchant and the Soldier

Keeper wanted to raze everything to the ground. She had thought her rage dampened by time. But the idea that any of the murderers were in the Shadow plane, were on the world she called home... her blood boiled once more. Her lord would not permit her to stray too far from her tasks, she did not have the time to hunt down the android and pull his circuits from his body. But she would still hurt him, she would hurt them all. They would suffer for taking her sister from her. But first, she had a job to do. Ozimenth was close to his goal. Soon his endless army would be ready to breach the realms of the gods. Soon they would know fear, as their life’s blood seeped into the ground. Everything she had worked towards for the past millennia would come to be. All he needed was to insure that the other demon lords fell in line, or died. After that she could focus on her revenge.

The city state of Eld was new. Only a month prior it had been two separate city states, until a band of unknown warriors calling themselves “the claws of the elder gods” had come through and decapitated the demon lords who had ruled over them. The group then named a pair of governors, took a navel vessel, a hand full of soldiers, and headed South. Keeper had “spoken” to one of the governors, a dark fey with no love for the Overlord in an attempt to gain information about the group, only for him to to invoke brokerage with the Merchant of the crown.

Keeper hated Cya, the fallen angel exuded kind of self righteous arrogance that the ancient Drow Princess found nauseating. But Ozimenth and Cya had a dozen iron clad contracts between them that gave the Merchant more power and sway than Keeper felt she deserved, and any who called for brokerage with her, even those staring down eternal imprisonment for refusing the command of the overlord, were granted an audience with her.

As had always been her way, the Merchant of the Crown kept Keeper waiting. The summons had been sent hours before the winged bitch finally appeared in the room. Keeper couldn’t keep the sneer from her lips.

The merchant wore a tight dress made of fine ruby silk that wrapped snugly around her neck and fell to her ankles, a single slit up the right side from hem to hip was the only give the fabric allowed. The dress showed nothing, and yet everything. Overly large angelic wings curled against her back, the feathers a mosaic of black, red, gold, and white that stood as a stark contrast from the obsidian of her hair which cascaded elegantly over her silk covered shoulder. Almond eyes with flecks of gold glanced about the room as her lips dipped into a small scowl. “Didn’t we JUST do this Keeper dear?” She asked dryly, her tone somewhere between condescending and bored.

“If I had my way I would only see your face on the day Ozimenth ended you.” Keeper snarled. “But your presence was requested from my prisoner.” She motioned toward the handsome shadow fey that sat against the wall on the far side of room, the left side of his face swollen and bloody from her previous conversation with him.

“Nyx!” The merchant gasped, in a way that almost mimicked concern. “What in the abyss happened to you?”

“Forgive me for not greeting your properly my lady.” Nyx offered in a smooth baritone before running his tongue across the split in his lip. “I seem to be under arrest for some reason.”

Keeper’s temper flared at the nonchalance in his voice. “Tell me who the Lords of this land are!” She demanded, her fingers curling as her Solarian blade formed in her hand.

“I am.” The merchant stated flatly.

Keeper faultered a moment as her head turned to regard the fallen angel. “Lies!” She snarled. “The lords of this land are a group of 5 unknown warriors who ki-”

“Who were hired by me to dispatch the two demon lords that refused to do business with me.” Cya cut her off. “Nyx and Shayda are my proxies here. These city states are places of business and insure that I have control of the market on every continent on this planet.”

Keeper felt the bile rise in her throat. “I have heard rumors of a slave wearing your collar in this area. HE was here, and where HE is, the rest of them are!”

“What I do with my property is my business. We’ve had this chat already. Sometimes I lend his skills to my underlings.” She motioned at to Nyx who had slowly found his feet and had been adjusting his cut and blood stained dress shirt. “I will neither confirm no deny the presence of any other members of his company without being paid for that information.”

“Why are they really here?!” Keeper demanded, her voice raising in both octave and pitch. Her rage pulsed so strongly through her veins that she saw red at the edge of her vision and could taste copper.

“IF they are here, will cost you 100 expressions of resolve. Why they would be here will cost you 10 expressions of your strength.” The Merchant stated, her tone bored.

“I have no intention of paying you that.”

“Then I have no intention of telling you anything that I know.”

“Because you know NOTHING! You are a liar and a con artist. Even your leash on that Android is a lie. No slave is worth the price you have placed on his head and the only reason you would place such an obscene price tag on one is if you were lying about owning it and hoping no one was willing to call your bluff.”

“It would wound me that you thought me a liar, if your thoughts were worth anything. However we both know that I could buy more knowledge with rotten fruit than you have. It was your sister who was blessed with brains, you’re just the brawn.” The merchant offered with a callus, cold smile.

Keeper Screamed in rage and sorrow, the power that welled inside her exploding outward with enough force to send the fey flying back into the wall he had been leaning against.

The energy washed against the protective barrier that surrounded the merchant and she released a soft sigh of boredom mixed with annoyance. “If you are finished throwing your tantrum, I have things I have to do.”

For all her strength, all her power, all her drive... Keeper always felt small in Cya’s presence. Nothing seemed to shake the fallen angel, nothing scared her, and the only time anyone ever saw her angry was when they cost her a deal. She wasn’t even angry when she found out that Keeper had managed to kidnap Grey-9 and had attempted to torture information out of him. She could still clearly see the bored disappointment in the fallen’s gold flecked eyes as she disabled the ring ships and then charged Ozimenth for the parts they needed to fix them.

“I will see that android suffer.” Keeper stated through clenched teeth.

“I doubt it will be anything you want.” Cya shrugged.

Keeper let out a choked laugh of disbelief. “And why do you say that?”

“I have seen Grey suffer, felt him suffer. I do not think seeing it will bring you the pleasure you are hoping it will.”

“More lies to protect your precious little mortals.”

Cya tilted her head slightly and seemed to gaze at her with pity. “Would you say that brokering a deal with me is pleasant Keeper? I did not figure you for the kind of person who found pleasure in the process.”

“Brokering deals with you makes my skin crawl.”

“Imagine what it must be like for him, to grant me as much of his strength and resolve as I desire without benefit. As my property it is his place after all.”

The thought conjured images in the back of Keeper’s mind. She hated the android more than any of his fellows, because it was the android Ozimenth wanted to use to replace her dear sister. “And if I wanted to watch his agony at your hands?”

“Two expressions of strength and I will bring him to my home and allow you to watch as I drain him completely of his resolve.”

The price was steep, but Keeper had to admit she was intrigued. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that. Are we done here?”

Everything was business for the merchant, it made Keeper sick. “Yeah. We’re done.”

“Good. Get out of my city state. I’ll send the bill for the damages you caused to the Overlord.”

Keeper sneered, dispersed her blade, and cast the instance of teleportation that had been crystalized and held within her Eldricarnum and disappeared. She did not see the way the merchant’s wings and shoulders fell in exhaustion the moment she teleported away, not that she would have cared if she had.

#ttrpg #starfinder #writing #npc

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bella-black-lestrange-riddle · 7 years ago

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My Horcrux Creation Headcanon - from my Bellamort Fanfic Robbers’ Retreat

Bellatrix drummed her fingers along the brick wall behind her. She was standing with her back flush to a small tailor’s shop in London. Vivian Chenoweth lived in the flat above, she knew. She should be here any moment now; she’d be returning home from the Ministry of Magic. Her flat wasn’t on the Floo Network. Bellatrix had had Rookwood check for her.

Sure enough, Vivian Chenoweth came ambling casually down the sidewalk, looking perfectly comfortable among the Muggles who surrounded her. Bellatrix aimed her wand at Vivian and cast a nonverbal Confundus Charm, watching Vivian tremble a little where she stood. Vivian frowned, and Bellatrix concentrated hard on convincing Vivian to approach the side of tailor’s shop. Vivian came walking over with oddly smooth steps, and then she blinked in alarm when she saw Bellatrix.

“What are you doing here?” she asked uneasily. Bellatrix answered by hissing,

“Expelliarmus.” Almost instantly, Vivian’s wand soared from its place hidden inside of the Mudblood’s jacket. Bellatrix snatched the wand from the air and tucked it into her own tunic, and then she grabbed Vivian’s elbow. She Disapparated, thinking with all the determination she could muster of Sollan Cottage on the Isle of Man.

The Dark Lord had gone there already. He had everything prepared - the Syrup of Hellbore and Lobalug Venom that Bellatrix would need to mix with her blood and VIvian’s. He also had her mother’s heirloom pewter medallion of Merlin, which had been in the Rosier family for three hundred years. That would be the vessel in which Bellatrix would encapsulate a part of her soul.

As she and Vivian Chenoweth landed hard on the rocky soil outside Sollan Cottage, Bellatrix tried to shove away the fear that had begun to course through her as she considered what she was doing. She mustn't question her master, her husband, on this matter. It was what he wanted her to do, what he needed her to do, and so she would do it without question or hesitation.

“Imperio.” Bellatrix jabbed her wand toward Vivian Chenoweth as the witches scrambled to their feet. Green smoke puffed from Bellatrix’s wand and swirled round Vivian, a haze of coercion taking her over quickly. Bellatrix smirked and instructed her prisoner, “Follow me.”

Vivian obeyed, walking with Bellatrix through the near-darkness toward the thatched-roof cottage. Bellatrix watched the door open, watched her lord smile at her as she approached, and he nodded once.

“Well done, then, Bella.”

She felt his fingers graze from one shoulder to the other as she walked by him. Vivian Chenoweth was oddly calm as she followed Bellatrix into the sitting room. Bellatrix glanced to the leather sofa and commanded,

“Sit, Vivian.”

Vivian sat.

“You and I have never exactly been friends, have we?” Bellatrix asked, pacing slowly before the sofa. Vivian shook her head, sending her honey brown waves swaying.

“No, we haven’t.”

“Well, no matter,” Bellatrix said lightly, twirling her wand as though someone had materialised with wondrous news. She smiled a little at Vivian and suggested, “All feuds must end eventually, mustn’t they? Ours ends today. Isn’t that grand, Vivian?”

“Yes, it is,” Vivian nodded, and Voldemort laughed a little from where he stood leaning against the wall. He tipped his head and instructed Bellatrix,

“Don’t drag this out, Bella. You need your strength; holding her under an Imperius isn’t going to help. Here’s the bottle for her blood. You need to quickly sever a fingertip right after the Killing Curse; it’s the easiest way to fill the bottle after the heart stops beating.”

“Thank you, Master,” Bellatrix purred, approaching him and taking the clear glass bottle he held out to her. He hesitated before removing his hand from hers, and he assured her,

“The other ingredients are boiling and waiting for the blood. Things will go quickly now. Are you certain you want… certain you’ll obey me in this matter? This is serious.”

“I know it is,” Bellatrix nodded, plucking the bottle from his fingers. “I will always obey you, My Lord. Always. Avada Kedavra.”

She turned with those last two words and jabbed her wand toward Vivian Chenoweth. The jade green of Bellatrix’s Killing Curse burst like a firework, breaking on Vivian’s body and singeing the leather on the sofa a little. Vivian crumpled to the side, unmoving in fresh death. Bellatrix hurried over and picked up Vivian’s right hand, still warm and soft. She crouched down, holding Vivian’s hand at the mouth of the glass bottle, and she dragged the tip of her wand along Vivian’s index finger.

“Diffindo.”

The tip of Vivian’s finger, manicured fingernail and all, was severed and tumbled to the rug. Blood, no longer actively pumped by the witch’s heart, dribbled lazily into the glass bottle. Bellatrix frowned and murmured,

“Accio Blood of Vivian Chenoweth.”

She had trouble then, for the blood began to gush and flow too freely as it drained from Vivian’s veins, and Bellatrix was getting covered in it. It didn’t matter to her; she filled the glass bottle easily and rose, muttering,

“Finite Incantatem.”

Voldemort glanced to Vivian and flicked his pale wand. “Corpus Evanesco.”

Bellatrix watched as Vivian’s body Vanished, and then the Dark Lord Siphoned up the mess of blood. Bellatrix followed him into the bedroom, where a hammered copper cauldron sat on a table he’d set up. It was steaming a little, and as she approached it, Bellatrix began to feel very nervous again. Voldemort gave her a solemn look and asked,

“You remember the spells? Pour it slowly as you incant.”

“Yes, Master,” Bellatrix whispered. She cleared her throat and her eyes burned with terror as her stomach clenched. She drizzled some of Vivian’s blood into the cauldron and said in the steadiest voice she could, “Neco et mori. Vivo ego in aeternum.”

The cauldron hissed angrily, and Bellatrix glanced up to Voldemort. He gave her a reassuring nod and prompted her,

“The last bit now. Good girl, Bella.”

Bellatrix poured out the rest of Vivian’s blood and said more firmly,

“Ego divisit. Ego completum. Vivo ego in aeternum.”

There was a wild flash of light, an almost blinding flare of white with a growling red outline. Bellatrix stepped quickly away from the potion, dropping the empty bottle that had held Vivian Chenoweth’s blood. She stumbled a little, but Voldemort caught her. He held her in his arms from behind and guided her back up to the cauldron.

“Would you like me to cut you, or can you do it yourself?” he asked. By way of answer, Bellatrix held her left wrist above the cauldron and took a trembling breath. She dragged the tip of her own wand straight across the inside of her wrist and whispered,

“Diffindo.”

Blood began to spill at once, gurgling forth as her pulse raced. Bellatrix hurried to incant in a voice hoarse from fear,

“Neco et mori. Vivo ego in aeternum. Ego divisit. Ego completum. Vivo ego in aeternum.”

She watched as more of her blood covered her arm, dripping in obscene rivers into the potion. It hissed and sparked and seemed to growl like a beast at her, as though the contents of the cauldron were alive. Bellatrix finally felt herself being pulled away, and Voldemort held her arm, using a dropper of Dittany to seal up the wound she’d put on herself. He quickly Siphoned up the blood from her skin and sleeve, and then he nodded down to her and assured her,

“You are doing well. When you drink the potion, you will feel… terrible things. I want you to remember, Bellatrix, to the best of your ability, that I will be here all the while. Try to remember where you are.”

Bellatrix shut her eyes and recited what they’d rehearsed. “I am on the Isle of Man with Lord Voldemort, my husband. I am making a Horcrux.”

“Good. Now, go lie on the bed. Here… take this.” Voldemort picked up the medal of Merlin from the table, and Bellatrix studied it again. She’d snuck it out of her mother’s bedroom on her most recent visit home. The House-Elf would likely get blamed, if Druella ever noticed it was gone. It was heavy, dull silver with an old-fashioned engraving on the legendary wizard. Bellatrix held the medal in her left hand and pointed her wand at it, knowing it was crucial that she keep contact with the vessel into which she’d be pouring part of her soul.

“Epoximise.”

The medal was sealed to Bellatrix’s palm as if she’d used powerful glue. She walked over the bed and moved to the middle, nibbling her lip as she set her wand on the bedside table. She kicked off her low boots and shoved them off the bed with her foot, watching as Voldemort used a silver ladle to spoon the terrible potion into what appeared to be a metal cup. Bellatrix gulped hard and asked,

“My Lord, will I be different afterwards?”

“I’m fine, aren’t I?” He was still facing the potion. Once he finished ladling, he turned round and reminded her, “I’ve got five of these things, and I’m scarcely a monster. I’m a man, aren’t I? I am myself still.”

“You are not the boy who made the first one.” Bellatrix was being disrespectful, she thought distantly. But Voldemort sighed heavily as he approached her, and he shrugged as he admitted,

“I don’t exactly have a large sample size to know what happens to people who create Horcruxes, Bellatrix. I know that I can not lose you to a simple Killing Curse. I refuse to lose you like that. So… now it is time. Drink the potion. Say the final spells.”

Bellatrix shut her eyes as she accepted the disgustingly warm metal cup of blood and other ingredients. It smelled like coins, and as Bellatrix breathed in the essence of it, she murmured once more,

“Neco et mori. Vivo ego in aeternum. Ego divisit. Ego completum. Vivo ego in aeternum.”

Then she gulped down the potion, ignoring the distinct taste of iron from her own blood and Vivian’s. She gagged as she swallowed, but she finally forced it all down and nearly threw the cup onto the bedside table. She lay back, shaking violently all of a sudden. She was having a seizure, she thought. Something was very wrong.

“Bellatrix. I am here,” she could hear Voldemort say very firmly. She tried to open her eyes but couldn’t. She was extraordinarily aware of her breath, all of a sudden. In and out, in and out. She could feel her lungs, every little bit of them. She could feel the air coming in and out. She could feel the valves and chambers of her heart. She could feel her blood in her veins. Then a vision began to materialise, to form behind her eyelids in a way that seemed more real by the second.

‘Give it back, Vivian!’

‘No!’ Vivian clutched her sister’s teddy bear to her chest where she stood on the lawn, and she shook her head firmly. ‘No. It’s mine now. Finders keepers. Losers weepers.’

‘You’re terrible!’ Andromeda stomped her foot and cried out, ‘Mummy! Bella stole my teddy bear and won’t give it back!’

‘Vivian, get over here this instant.’

She turned round quickly to see her father storming towards her.

‘Give Andy the damned toy, Bella; you need to learn to share.’

‘Vivian?’

She turned again, and now she was inside of a vast marble building. There was a plump man in a Muggle suit standing far away, and the little girl walked quickly toward him. But when she approached him, the plump man began to smirk in a terrible way.

‘You won’t touch me anymore, Uncle Randall,’ said Vivian. She blinked, and the face changed, and suddenly it was Lord Voldemort looking awfully confused.

There was a mighty blast then, a huge explosion. Everything caught fire in the cramped little parlour where Vivian and her uncle - no, Bellatrix and Voldemort - had been standing. He was on fire. The man was on fire, burning to death.

‘Vivian, what have you done?’ screamed a voice, and Bellatrix turned to see Voldemort giving her an approving nod through the flames.

‘Andy?’ Bellatrix began running through the burning house, her fingers cinched around the arm of her sister’s teddy bear. She looked in every room, even as timbers began crashing down. Somewhere behind her, people were talking about how very odd Vivian was, how very awful. She’d killed her uncle. It was an accident, Vivian’s mother had said. It was arson, the doctor had replied, and the girl needed to live in a special place for troubled children.

‘Andy? Andromeda!’ Bellatrix dashed straight into her sister’s burning bedroom, and she found a body lying in a blackened crisp, a huddled dead form with Andromeda’s face. Bellatrix dropped the teddy bear beside the burned corpse and whispered,

‘You can have it back now.’

She shut her eyes against the feel of her father’s punishment, the endless invisible whippings across her back meant to scold her for continuing to steal Andromeda’s toys.

‘Your Uncle Randall is dead, Vivian,’ said a voice as Bellatrix’s father whipped and whipped at her. Bellatrix stared down at Andromeda’s charred, blistered body, at the teddy bear that had caught fire. The woman’s voice was crying as she said, ‘We have to send you away, Vivian. Not because we don’t love you, but because we must keep you safe. We must keep others safe. There’s something wrong with you, Vivian…’

‘There’s something wrong with you, Bellatrix.’

She turned to see Andromeda standing in the vast marble space, a grown witch now, clutching the bear.

“I am on the Isle of Man,” Bellatrix’s voice said aloud all of a sudden. “I am on the Isle of Man with Lord Voldemort, my husband. I am… I am making…”

‘There’s something very, very wrong with you, Bellatrix.’

Andromeda dropped the bear and walked away, and Vivian approached and picked it up. The bear started on fire in Vivian’s hands, and suddenly the fire became real.

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

Had he been like this every time, Voldemort wondered?

He could hardly stand it, watching Bellatrix writhe and shriek in complete agony. He’d created an invisible cushion around her so that she wouldn’t fling herself from the bed and break a limb. She was thrashing her head back and forth, her curls having become a tangled rat’s nest an hour earlier. Her voice was almost gone now. She’d been screaming and sobbing for a very long time. When she’d started scratching anxiously at her face, Voldemort had sat on the bed and forced her to let him use his magic to blunt her fingernails. He’d thought about pinning her down, but he was nervous about interfering too much with the process.

She’d muttered things about teddy bears and fires, about her sister Andromeda, about being whipped, about an uncle. Voldemort wasn’t sure what bits were Bellatrix’s trauma and what bits had been Vivian’s. It didn’t matter. Her brain would be scarcely able to process the confusing mix of it all. Voldemort clearly remembered the way Myrtle Warren’s memories of being bullied had swirled and mixed with his own awful recollections of the orphanage. He hadn’t been sure by the end of it what he’d lived and what Myrtle had endured. It hadn’t mattered; he’d wound up with his diary as a Horcrux.

And Bellatrix would conquer this, this excruciating pain and exhausting madness. She would have a medal of Merlin with part of her soul in it. That was what mattered. That was what counted.

He’d promised her he would hide it in a very safe place as soon as she was ready to rest. His intention was to take it to Little Hangleton, to put it in the Gaunt shack with the Horcrux he’d created from his family’s ring. Their heirlooms, side by side, their souls protected and hidden… Voldemort let out a long, shaking breath at the thought.

Suddenly Bellatrix’s back arched so hard that he heard a dreadful crack. Her body seemed to be partially levitating off the bed, though her hands and feet and head stayed glued down. Voldemort watched in wide-eyed wonder as the pewter medal in Bellatrix’s left palm began to glow. It let out a bright white light, tinged with purple and red and then flickers of black. Bellatrix screamed so loudly that Voldemort nearly covered his ears.

It was utterly horrifying, even to him, to watch her eyes spring open and see blood come leaking out. Streams of blood were gushing from between her lips, making puddles on the quilt that spread in angry scarlet. She emitted an anguished shriek of pain and shook violently, and then, just as suddenly, she went still.

For a moment, he thought she was dead. She wasn’t breathing, he could tell. The bleeding had stopped, though there were streaks of blood trailing away from her lips and nose and eyes and ears. He quickly cleaned her up and pried open her left hand, knowing from experience that this was the end of it all. He waited until her chest began to slowly rise and fall, and as he took the medal of Merlin from her hand, he whispered,

“Good girl, Bellatrix. I love you. I’ll be back very soon.”

He bent to press his lips to her sweaty forehead, which was clammy and cold, and he stood beside the bed, just staring at her for a long moment. He turned the medal over in his hand and Disapparated, coming to in the dark, forested area just outside Little Hangleton. He gazed up at the Gaunt shack, at the place where his mother had endured all manner of hell, at the place where his own ring Horcrux lay in waiting beneath the floorboards. He glanced down at the medal into which his wife had put a piece of her soul, and he strode confidently toward the shack.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/12779103/chapters/29495916

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toocutecas · 8 years ago

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Dean is aging every day and Castiel can see it in the fine lines when he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle. Every day there's another line forming and Castiel can see it. Every single one of them. He sees the first small gray hair that starts at the root of Dean's hair. He doesn't think Dean can see it, at first, but after a week Dean begins parting his hair differently. Castiel cannot see the single gray strand anymore, until there is a small bundle of them. With each waking day, Dean's hands begin to ache in the places that strains when he holds his gun. He pretends not to care, but Castiel knows. He can read Dean like a book he's read a million times. Castiel stays the same. Humanity caught up with his vessel in the short while he had no grace, yet now he seems to have stopped aging once again. He stays young while Dean's knees ache. Small touches let Castiel ease the pain, and Dean catches on to what he is doing. He says thank you with his eyes, that still sparkle a beautiful sage color. The love Castiel has for Dean never dulls, but only deepens the more Dean let's him heal. It seems, eventually Dean wants to skip out on hunts. His bones throb too badly, or he's catching yet another cold. Sam notices, too, but says nothing. It's inevitable. Dean is much older than Sam is, and not as nimble anymore. Castiel always stays with Dean. Just in case. Sometimes Dean will let Castiel sit with him while he watches the latest game on television. Usually Dean will fall asleep by halftime, never able to sleep well at night. His head always ends up on Castiel's shoulder, beer slipping through his fingers that once held it tightly. Castiel puts the beer on the coffee table, and maneuvers to lean back enough for Dean's head to rest comfortably on his chest. Castiel has no heartbeat for Dean to listen to, but placing a firm hand on Dean's shoulder lets him pulse power through Dean's veins, easing any ache or pain. Dean always sleeps better this way. It seems to give him a little bit more life that way. Dean does not like it when Castiel heals him of his aches. "They let me know I'm still human, Cas. Just let me ache. That's why they invented Advil." Dean will say, giving Castiel a glare. But Dean always comes to Castiel at night, or comes to get him when the Advil won't help his restless leg syndrome, or ease the throb of his nerves enough to get a few un-solid hours. Castiel is always more than willing to place that firm hand on Dean, watching him sleep peacefully like he deserves after a lifetime of restless nights. "Let me heal you, Dean." Castiel demands, watching the man he loves practically decay on the sofa. Dean had insisted on going to a hunt with Sam, and had sprained a few bones. They were not healing, and it had been over a week. "Please." Castiel begs. "No, Cas." Dean repeats over and over. Castiel doesn't care. Dean isn't quick enough to dodge Castiel's hand as if clamps around his ankle. It's healed within seconds, and Dean is angry at him once more. "Damnit Cas!" Dean jerks his leg away, and glares red hot towards Castiel. "I don't understand, Dean!" Castiel barks back at him, "You can go on hunts all you want if you just let me heal you when you come back." "That's not how life is supposed to work, Cas. I go on a hunt and I get hurt, if I die from it then that's how it needs to be! No more loopholes, Cas. I'm gettin' old, I know it, you know it, Sam knows it. Shit happens, and nature takes its course. It can't do that if you keep interrupting it!" "It sounds as though you want to die," Castiel says dully, and blunt. "Maybe I do." Dean says quietly, hardly shocking Castiel. "I've lived a long life, saved a lot of people and then some. I'm alright with it." Castiel can't cry, but if he could then he would be sobbing. He can feel it inside, how sad he is. "Dean, I'm not alright with it. My whole purpose of being is because of you. Every day before you, I simply waited for the day. And every day after, I was living for you and fighting for you. There was never a moment I was doing something that wasn't for you in some way. If you're gone, what am I supposed to live for?" "Live for Sammy, Cas. He needs someone, too, you know." "Dean, as soon as you're gone Sam is going to go back to a normal life. And you know that." Dean shakes his head, "I don't want you to interfere anymore, Cas." Castiel nods a final nod, and says nothing the nights he still eases Dean's pains when Dean calls for him. The days go by quickly, as do the seasons. He is worse in the winter, and soon he hardly moves from his worn spot on the sofa. Castiel leaves Sam with him a single day, saying they need him briefly in Heaven. Dean smiles at him and says he's happy Cas is off doing angelic things for once. Castiel smiles back and Sam nods. He knows Castiel's plan. Castiel comes back over a day later, and Dean is asleep in his bed. When Castiel enters, Dean stirs and reaches for him. He must be hurting again. Castiel gets down to his briefs and slides in bed with Dean, the single brush of skin easing all of Dean's pains. He relaxes entirely against Castiel. Dean feels very hot, and clammy. "Are you sick again?" Castiel asks worriedly. "Yeah," Dean grunts. "I went out for a drive and got caught in the rain. I think it's the flu," Dean grumbles. Castiel brushes a soft hand over his forehead and dulls the fever. "Thanks," Dean says softly. Castiel is thrown off by the acceptance but says nothing. Dean begins talking. He's somewhere between sleep, stuck in a limbo. "I am gettin' scared, every day." He admits in the quiet air of the bedroom. "Once my light goes out, that's it. No more chances like I'm used to." Castiel interrupts softly. "I could give you another, Dean. We can age together, this next time. If you let me." There's a pleading tone in Castiel's voice that Dean can recognize. "No, Cas. I need to be a man about this." Dean grumbles, head rolling to rest on Castiel's pale chest. "I'm just scared of where I'm going. I always thought death would be easy, that I'd die out on a hunt. It'd be quick, maybe not painless, but I thought it would happen so fast the fear wouldn't set in. But dying of old age? Slow like this? Every day, man. I can feel it. I'm gettin' closer. Every time I'm sick it's like death is just looming, beggin' me to go to sleep so it can take me. It gives me time to think about it, and the fear gets bad. I hate bein' scared. I'm scared I'm goin' to hell, or purgatory again. Or get stuck in the void like Kevin did. I wanna go to Heaven, and be with Bobby and Ellen and Jo." Castiel faintly realizes Dean is crying silently, tears pooling beneath Dean's cheek. "In Heaven," Castiel begins. "I talked to some of my superiors." Dean 'mm-hmms', quietly. "They would not take my grace, so my age would catch up. But I reserved you a spot, right where you want to be. And I will escort you myself. Not a reaper, or a demon. Me, and I will hide nothing from you. I will hold your hand the whole way." The love Castiel has for this man is swelling hugely in his vacant chest, and if Castiel could cry he would cry for love. Dean's fingers skim past Castiel's chest to grab his hand. The hold is limp, and weak. Castiel's worry is at its highest, and he feels the desperate need to go yell for Sam. Somehow, Sam senses Castiel's desperation. He barges into the room, eyes wide with worry. Castiel and Sam's eyes meet and the words don't need to be spoken. "Dean?" Sam asks, walking to his brother. Dean let's out a small moan of acknowledgement, and faintly tells Sam he loves him. The grip on Castiel's hand is slightly stronger when Dean finds the energy to kiss Castiel's chest, the words unspoken but there. Castiel wraps fingers through Dean's damp hair and holds him close. Sam is crying silent tears and holds back a sob by biting his fist. Dean goes quietly, in his sleep. Castiel slips from underneath him and makes sure to tuck him in as he goes to console Sam, who has aged as well, but is still young and healthy. Death won't take him as quickly if he begins to settle down. Castiel makes sure to tell him this. Castiel explains his plan to Sam over once more. He's going to lead Dean to Heaven himself. He's going to be with Bobby and Ellen and Jo. Just like he wanted. Castiel will be there, too, and he will be down whenever Sam prays to him. And if Sam wants, Castiel will walk him through the veil, too. Castiel's conversation is interrupted by Dean. A Dean Sam cannot see, but yet the same Dean he knows. Dean has a worried look in his eye, watching Sam cry silent tears. Castiel tells Sam it's time, and gives him a large hug goodbye. He pleads for Sam to go find a woman, and settle down and have kids. Go back to Stanford. It's possible. Sam promises he will try, and that he will pray often. Castiel takes Dean's hand and vanishes. The veil is shadows and daylight mixing together, like oil and water. Mixing but never becoming one. Dean holds Castiel's hand tightly, fingers laced. Castiel steps through a very certain strand of daylight. Dean covers his eyes when it becomes too bright. They're at Bobby's. It takes Dean a single moment to blink and look around. Ellen comes from the kitchen, stirring something in a pot. "Heya, boys. Just in time for supper." That night, Castiel holds Dean close. Dean let's him. After all, they're stuck in a piece of Heaven where no one dies, aches, or bleeds. Despite Dean's healthy bones, Castiel still caresses Dean's body just like before.

#wow I'm sorry #aging!dean #Dean Winchester #destiel #ficlet #destiel fic #hurting!dean #angst #destiel angst #deancas #this just sort of happened #forgive me

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overhere-series · 8 years ago

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Over Here: Chapter Five

Having a buffer is so lovely. Here you go! Next chapter goes up this coming Saturday if I remember among all of the laptop and self-care shenanigans that day. Love you folks!

Do let me know how you think things are going or share if you enjoyed it enough!

Marcy Faust takes both travelers by the hands and drags them toward the path, Hazel and her brother close behind. She makes her siblings look downright anti-social, twittering about how much they’ll like the kid’s mom and their food and every single detail about her and Mason’s day prior to finding the hole. The only thing keeping Cass from clamping a hand over the girl’s mouth is the thought of Hazel going bear over it.

Besides, Marcy’s story takes on manic speed when they come to the half-withered horse thing and its voice. “And Mason and me weren’t scared yet until we got under and it was so pretty with all the metal and Over There things everywhere but we did get scared when it got asking for our names, because we know what the stories say but it kept asking and asking and got scarier- but I was smart! I told Mason ‘don’t you tell’ and then you came and-”

“Breathe, Marce,” Hazel says.

“You were very wise to hold onto your names,” Winston assures. “And courageous, especially when a fragment requests them.”

The smile he offers only encourages Marcy to take one on, too. “Yeah! I told Mason not to say my name or his name, because I heard from my aunt you can lose your name if someone else gives it away-”

“Not possible, I’m afraid. You can only give away your own name, never another’s.”

Cass blinks but continues on. Already the list grows longer and longer for all the questions she’s got, but it’s all she can do on their walk to hide the tick in her jaw and the stiff steps to help her knee.

When they arrive the Fausts lead them to a private kitchen upstairs, the one in their home above the restaurant. It’s all tapestries and wall to wall cupboards, small and cozy and definitely better than the dining room below. They’re told to wait and then left be at a table in the center.

At the Fausts’ retreating backs, Cass eases into her chair. Her knee thanks her for it. Now seated and idle, though, Winston twitches, raking his hands through his hair, drumming his long fingers on the tabletop. Cass squeezes her eyes shut to ignore it, but eventually the tap-tap-tap of his nails and the bounce of the vase acting centerpiece grates on her ears.

“You wanna cut that out?”

“We need to be going and-”

Cass kicks back in her chair, arms folded. “Oh yeah, you really wanted to get out of here when you signed us up for this,” she mutters, throwing a wave over the room. She tries to keep her voice down but keeping her tone to a raspy half-yell takes more effort than she’s got left.

“That’s different,” Winston says.

“I don’t know, I didn’t get any input when you decided to play hero. Guess we’re even for that now, right?”

“Cass, this isn’t-”

“Except for you trying to sell me to a freaking monster back there. Want to explain that one to me, birdbrain?”

Winston quits drumming on the table. “Yes, that. My apologies, but I had to think quickly, you see. You should have come with me from the start,” he says. “The plan might have worked better, actually, though it’s amazing enough to believe the fragment fell for the scheme as it was. With a bit more preparation it could have been fun indeed.”

He’s got a wistful smile Cass doesn’t like one bit. “Yeah, no. That was the exact opposite of fun.”

“It made a decent plan, even if it relied on our friend being so very broken. And you proved yourself rather capable in there. All the same, I’m sorry I didn’t ask your thoughts. I just wanted to work quickly so we could be out of here.”

“We can’t just bail, they sort of owe us,” Cass shrugs, even if her jaw pangs a little from her low words. Under the table her foot bounces up and down. Just a little time to feel better and then they could get moving without making it worse.

But Winston straightens in his seat. “That is not why we do this.”

“What’s with the ‘we’? I’m not a warden. We’re not doing this again.”

“If the need comes I have no choice. It’s my job. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you much earlier, I just hoped things wouldn’t-” He pauses, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “I hoped it wouldn’t be relevant so soon. Which reminds me,” he adds, “I need to scribe the others so they don’t worry.”

“Other wardens?”

Winston lays out his map and bottle on the table in front of him. The map sketches out four main countries, Ellis just beneath a group of mountains with a coast running its lower border. Haven’s marked with a big black dot on the far east of it. “Yes. Our work isn’t about reward, Cass. It’s about doing what must be done.”

“Poetic,” Cass says with a roll of her eyes. “Well, I’m not honor-bound or whatever. I got hurt helping them. I say we reap the benefits.”

“You could be, with time. Some training with Jermaine and Rissa and you’d- wait, why didn’t you say you were hurt?”

Before she can answer, his bare foot prods hers under the table. Her skin crawls, not just from his touch but like warm water spilling down to wash over her leg. Said comparison doesn’t thrill her. She shivers but the sting of her scrapes smooths away.

“Fascinating,” Winston says.

Cass stiffens. Being called fascinating, the way science experiments and unexplainable deadly accidents are fascinating, doesn’t endear her to the bird any more than his touchiness does. “Keep your magic to yourself,” she rasps.

“You’re no longer injured, yes? At any rate, it was not my magic.” His hands spread over the map, tracing the lines with his fingers.

“What’s that mean? Did you like pull out of the air or something?”

“No, I pulled a fair bit of it from you.”

“Like I had some on me.” Magic from some tree or other living thing, powdered on her like pollen. It’s not a question, just an explanation- even if she can’t see it, he claimed it’s everywhere.

Winston looks up from the map with a deep breath, folds it like he’s closing his mind on it until he’s handled the conversation. “From within you. Honestly I’m surprised the fragment noticed what little you have or it’d never agreed without a name. I wish you would have told me earlier or you wouldn’t have had to walk with your knee as it was.”

“Back the hell up to where you said I had magic in me? You said seeing magic,” she hisses. “You never said anything about making it.”

“I told you, magic is a fact of life here. It’s a system in the body, necessary as the heart or the brain. You don’t will its production any more than you can the blood in your veins. From the moment you fell here the roots have been forming around your nerves-”

“Magic equals life just sounded like some fancy fantasy BS! What is this, a virus? You’re telling me there’s nothing I can do?”

“Well, I can bind the magic in your vessel to slow the effect. You’ve got to keep me informed of how you feel, but… generally, yes. You’ll be able to control the magic in your body once it’s there, but there’s not much even I can do once you’ve developed an inclination. I must say, most otherlanders are much more pleased about it.”

Cass can’t deny to herself how much the idea pleases her, just a little bit. The same part of her that wanted to know what lay behind the gap once and for all, but look how well following that voice turns out. The heat in chest pulses out, humming through her spine and out as far as her fingertips in a ripple. Basically she’ll get magic powers. Something the little kid on the bridge always wanted.

Whether she wanted them here and now or not.

“So, what? I don’t get back in time, I turn into a bird or something?” How’s that for controlling jack?

“It’s quite possible, should that be how the magic decides to express. I doubt you’re therian as I am but taking other forms is just a single way the magic could adapt. Guiding magic in other organisms, controlling materials of life- changing yourself or the world around you. It’s personal as a name.”

Cass forces down the heat in her chest and plants her feet on the floorboards, ready to run. Get out before things get crazier than they already are. “Can we go back to the part where I can stop it? How long do I have?”

“Days, likely.”

“And we just wasted an afternoon here.” She tries to ignore how she factored into it, wasting even more time retracing their steps back.

“I wouldn’t call it a waste, Cass Douglas. We have time. Breathe.”

“I’m fine. I just don’t have time to sit here and you just put us off tracking knowing I had a time limit. What’s wrong with you?”

He chuckles, opening the map again. “I’m well aware of our time. I’ll try to keep you better informed, but it’s my duty as a warden to handle this sort of thing. Hopefully we won’t encounter many more incidents like this but I’m afraid our barriers are only going to get weaker the further we are from Haven.”

“Why’s that?”

Winston blinks, like he’s forgotten what he’s said. “Well, the amalgam we keep the barriers with is in Haven. The further the magic extends from the amalgam, the weaker its effect- with a whole country, quite a lot of room for holes and errors. We’re at the edge of Ellis as it is but even so, it shouldn’t be happening so soon.”

Cass flinches with the return of Marcy, who gives her a tap on the arm. “It’s ready! You want to come to the kitchen down there?”

“What’s ready?”

Marcy pulls on her arm again and they both rise to follow. With all her focus on the conversation, Cass had mostly ignored the combination of smells wafting up the stairs. Cheese, bread, some sort of fishy smell she remembered from camping on the coast with her parents...

They come to a table against a few barrels lining the walls, on them two plates with bread bowls on them. Marcy sits them down with a flourishy little bow. Cass takes a seat as the rest of the Fausts circle the table with chairs of their own. The aunt, the “guard” Perrin, a few more ladies who’d been cooking and might have been a couple.

“It’s lunch soon anyway so we thought we’d treat you,” the aunt says. “Perrin insisted, and you can’t sway them when they get an idea like this.”

Perrin puts an arm around each traveler, tears in their eyes. On first glance they look pretty feminine, but they just seem to go by guardian instead of Mom to the Faust kids. “You save my babies, you’ve earned a free meal.”

Cass eyes the bowls and tries not to blush. Or be tempted by the food, but by the time everyone’s seated Cass already has a spoon in hand. It ends up cramped, but she can’t care less.

Fortunately magicians don’t have a blessing and she can dive into her bowl with as much gusto as Marcy and Mason. Maintaining her level of activity requires calories and lots of them. The soup melts in her mouth, the bread stiff enough not to get soggy before she finish off the goods inside but not stale.

The Fausts listen while they recount the thing from the pool, although Hazel and Winston are careful to tiptoe around the parts that might frighten her. Cass pitches in with her kick to the thing’s face once they get there, which got a nice chorus of ew’s.

“I’m glad no one was hurt,” Perrin pops in. They stare into their bowl, tapping a foot under the table.

Winston ate half the bowl before anything else, but keeps drumming too like he’s waiting for a Faust to untie him from his chair. “It’s the least we could do.”

“We do need to go soon,” Cass adds. Not too eager-sounding, she hopes.

“Warden business?” Dani asks. A knowing grin crosses her face for the two guests. “Always curious when one of you longcoats come to town, but you didn’t look the kind until you said something.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, my dear.” His tone’s playful, amused even. “But yes. For that matter, we need to tend to a bit of closing business now. Thank you very much for your kindnesses today.”

There’s some hugging and promises from the kids not to go running off behind the barriers again, then they got the okay to finally leave. Yet again Cass tries to look miffed about stopping, but the kids’ reactions are too good when she winks at them on her way out the door. The last thing she catches is Marcy’s grin and Mason’s big ol’ saucer eyes.

“So where next? Clemence?” she asks the bird as they go roughly along the same path they’d come. For all the time-wasting they still got a map and a meal out of the afternoon. Time seems to work the same here as it does back home, so that leaves them a few hours before dark and the rest of the evening for travel. Not much in the grand scheme, not if she knows she’s got a timeframe on this trip.

They continue back along the stream, Winston keeping an eye out for the opposite shore. “To finish our business, yes?”

“You mean the hole? Why? That thing’s trapped, we’re good to go.”

“The hole’s still there,” he says. “I still haven’t scribed Finch to close it, and light won’t stop our fragmented friend for long. I wouldn’t like to see their attempts to take anyone else. Would you?”

“Alright, alright,” she says. “Back there and then back on track again, though. Right?”

“Right,” the bird agrees. He keeps his hands at his back as they walk the way they’d come, back through the mud and carefully across the stream where they found the hole again. He stands there a moment, considering the tunnel worn through the bushes.

“Would you like to come with me or would you like to wait?” he asks, peering still further inside.

Cass stares at him. What is this, a test? At least he’s asking her this time rather than just ditching her, but knowing what lies behind that tunnel doesn’t make her all warm and fuzzy about going this time. She gives the bird nod and watches him disappear into the bush.

Then she stands there and gives it a little more thought. The bird doesn’t see her coming this time. She can get the chance to see what he’s up to when he doesn’t think she’ll be watching, and to see the kelpie again at a safe distance.

She looks into the hole and lets out a groan, teeth grit together. Fine. Still growling she gets down on her hands and knees and crawls.

#chapter update #about to keel over so i'm posting now instead of in the morning #because nothing is waking me before seven that i can tell you #writing #over here series #ya fantasy #fantasy #finally getting out of this town

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bairdbc · 5 years ago

Quote

Resurrection power lives in me.

Paralyzed and aching for escape, I drop to the floor. My senses are held

hostage by one pursuit: the need to breathe. My mind is being capsized by

thoughts of pain, fear and utter dread that lead to an insurmountable

knowing that death is imminent. Weakened and alone, with my knees

burning into the carpet, my breathing is in a rapidly losing battle. A deep

satisfying breath is an elusive wish even though just one, good, deep

inhalation will end the conflict. In the onslaught of a panic attack, you are

enslaved by your thoughts. It’s as if you are severed from the ability to

breathe and something beguiling and crude is your master. It mocks you

with breaths that leave you void and powerless. You are not you and your

choice to breathe is stolen.

When panic strikes, hope is as elusive as the air.

This description is ominous, dramatic even but yet all those who suffer are

not unstable wanderers or babbling fools. They are rational, capable

beings ultimately trying to go beyond themselves or find themselves

feeling the consequence of a difficult decision as all of us sometimes do.

Panic attacks you mercilessly to weaken you when you are in most need

of strength. It means to own you, imprison you.

Hope is impossible when panic attacks.

Why is breath so elusive when this panic attacks? Why can’t the thing we

do 26,000 times a day subconsciously not be something we can do in a

moment of weakness? Seems a simple fix; just breathe.

I think the enemy who comes to steal, kill and destroy, an enemy who

roams the earth to see whom he may devour is a strategist, chemist, and

scientist who is constantly devising ways to subdue you. Just when you

overcome one thing, your enemy is forging a new weapon forcing you to

counter attack. One thing that trouble, trial and tribulation have taught me

is that I am remarkable. I must have something so irresistible and

transformational that it is dangerous to my enemy. What makes me most

threatening to my foe is my ability to think. When I get a truth, when I

discover a nugget of revelation, I become a missile to the kingdom of

darkness. I am unstoppable because when I think differently, I am different.

What makes me most threatening to my foe is my ability to

think.

One awe-inspiring truth that I have been given as of late is truly the

greatest revelation I have received. It possess within its syllables

remarkable potential to subdue nations. Every stroke of its syntax and

verbiage is debilitating to my enemy. I have said it every day since I knew

it, since it was placed delicately in the center of me. Sickness and doubt

have tried to rob it from my knowing but I still know it to be true.

“I have resurrection life in me.”

You can say it however you want: “The same power that conquered the

grave lives in me.” “I and the spirit are one.” “Christ in me, the hope of

Glory.”

But, the word “resurrection” startles me and awakens me from a slumber

of mediocrity, shame and complacency. It jolts me upright and I breathe. I

inhale a dose of extravagant love that leaves me spellbound.

Resurrection power lives within me.

What breath can awaken a dead body? What breath created Adam? What

breath is the first tasted by a newborn? God breath. When we have no

breath, we have no life. When Jesus arose, he breathed. Jesus inhaled

God. He literally sucked in life that resurrected his mortal body. The breath

awakened his senses, organs, bones, muscle, nerves, ligaments, joints,

vessels, veins, brain matter, blood. Resurrection life flowed through Him

with ONE breath. One, simple, deep breath changed history. It conquered

death and sent its captive fleeing.

Every day I have been professing this truth, this beautiful, sacred, holy

truth and in exchange I have been given such joy. I cannot explain the utter

peace and certainty I have come to embrace. I relish life and enjoy each

present moment. I have said “I love you” multiple times a day to my

husband. I have embraced exercise and eating right with wild enjoyment. I

have found negativity to be a distant memory and I actively look for good

in every moment. I am not missing anything. A bowl of oatmeal or a lick on

the cheek from my canine friend is a moment of sheer ecstasy. I feel like I

have a new lease on life and have been dramatically healed. I have been

healed of my negativity. It was a disease that was taking small parts of me

daily and leaving me hopeless and alone.

“I have resurrection life in me.”

This life pulsing through me is given in a new measure each time I breathe.

It courses through me the same way it revived Jesus three days later. I

receive a new measure of ultimate life each time I breathe. I breathe out

the old in the exhale and consume the new with each inhale. On a long run

or when panic tries to attack, I know resurrection life lives in me. That

certainty ends the conflict and I breathe.

I receive a new measure of ultimate life each time I breathe.

The enemy created panic attacks because he knows the power of breath.

He knows that each time we breathe we become invincible. If we truly

know that each time we receive breath from heaven, we are acquiring a

limitless power that makes us devastating to darkness. I told negativity it

had no place in me or power over me the moment I chose to say “I have

resurrection life in me.”

A wonderful, wise friend shared with me Rob Bell’s short called “Breathe”

recently. I watched it and wept. Not because it was especially sad or gutwrenching.

I wept because the revelation of “resurrection life in me” is

becoming more real and humbling. You must watch this video. Purchase

the $1.99 version and consider the phrase “Revelation life…..IN ME.”

Consider the gift of God’s breath in you. Consider its power and beauty.

When you truly receive breath that literally conquered death, you become

acutely aware of a stunning “YHVH” that made his name breath. A creator

who in all his majesty chose me.

I am beginning to realize that I am filled with God himself. Dangerous

thinking.

I laid prostrate before my Father today. I stretched out and asked God to

breathe on me. I wanted all of my stupid sickness and fears and doubts

and worries to be absorbed in His breath. Everything I need in this life can

be received with a breath. I want ALL of HIM.

Everything I need in this life can be received with a breath.

YAHWEH: I love you. I know that your name is so sacred and so powerful

that consonants and vowels cannot be formed to even utter such a name.

The spirit of God who I call “Abba” has a name that cannot even be

spoken. Yet, this same spirit who created the heavens and the earth. This

same spirit who conquered death. This same spirit who defies time and

reason has chosen to give me all of Himself and has made it as easy as

breathing.

My only response is complete surrender. My life for your resurrection life. I

love you, Abba Father

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chessaaaaaaa · 8 years ago

Text

everything in one

Waiting for you to be nothing,

yet all that comes of nothing is the nothing that is comparable to your hands, to your eyes.

Oblivion of language will form the exact words for understanding the glances of our closed

eyes.

I try to make you out as a curse to conversation but God you're anything but.

You are intangible for the first time yet you are in every physical item I can grasp.

Your absence springs the trembling in the ticking of the clock, in the pulse of the lamp, you breathe through my mirror.

From these items to my hands I caress your body one last time and I am with you for a minute. My blood, a miracle, running in the vessel of the air from my heart to yours,

then I am back.

The clock slows down, the lamp turns off, the mirror has no reflection. I am alone again,

and tell myself It didn’t have to be you, I just like having someone,

but I couldn’t bring my eyes to search, so I’d blink with red rims over and over again because amongst all of the flaws stood you

and I imagined myself, the next morning, I’d look in the mirror and see a stranger.

I’d temporarily accept such a tragedy but I’d know it left us fearing the worst.

Though this travesty of falsity was worth the pain, in the end, our hurt has always been our gain I am blind, you can be blinded by darkness just as clearly as you can be by light

because when you're gasping for air hoping to God that you won’t ever have to stand next to a stranger and call them your own you start to see this differently.

Compared to you, everyone's a stranger.

I am a stranger. strange to my own eyes, and eventually to yours; with time

and with this darkness you can see stars brighter than anything else,

but once it’s morning they’ll all disappear just like you

and with disbelief I fear this morning so much, its 3 AM and I’m telling myself that it isn’t morning, it is still night, because there is strength in holding on and courage in letting go but my God there is no bravery in giving up, isn’t that what we did?

The problem with this type of bravery is that it comes with so much fear., fear that when spring comes I’ll remember the feeling of your lips on mine. and when summer comes I’ll remember the feeling of your skin for the first time against mine. and when this day comes back around I’ll feel the exact same ill feeling I feel right now.

The truth of this is that letting go of something that was never really yours shouldn’t hurt this much.

The pain is a phantom pain I’ve never had.

I could swear to a wound in my aching mind for the torment it causes.

All out of the way stray thoughts and the middle of the night, no it is not morning.

The anger at what never belonged to me caused me to realize that losing you was always a possibility.

I was not dying, no, but God I could have been, because waiting for summer to come around, waiting without you and waiting for that moment when I can spot another person just as beautiful as you amongst the rest of these people.

I knew then that I could then be brave.

But I am not brave.

Because it isn’t even morning yet, no it is still night, and I already fear what is just a couple hours ahead of me.

Finding someone else who’s just like you that does not take courage, that takes the way of thinking that love sickens your brain with

I read love into every blossoming bruise on my skin

all purple and blue, they remind me of you

and I feel like I’ve been walking for ages, the breeze of cigarettes and winter slowly starting to seep into my clothes

Cigarettes burn holes through my shirt

I never felt it but they said it hurt.

I’ve lost track of myself, forgetting words;

clinging to intricate fabrics as you pull away,

Developing habits of those who fit into the worlds that are worth as much as to be ignored.

Is this what it feels like? Folding in on yourself with fists clenched tight onto dry hands

It is not your fault, it’s fine though beware your words run parallel to mine.

I continue my life through silent strings of codes and the confines of my blank world

and I’ve tried convincing myself that being with you is not slowly ripping apart the paper that is my skin, because I’ve seen that I do not bleed.

Ink flows through my arms and hands, with all of the world I denied and soaked into my veins. Your ink. But I still, cannot bleed.

Counting ribs like days I’ve been without you, and an hour seems like a decade my God why are you always so far.

I did not ask for charred eyes or the infinite cells containing a love for someone like yourself

or to take the grips of control and break them so unevenly that I hold all the chaotic power of my own creation and now it seems yours as well.

We are meaningless and nothing, yet we contradict everything.

Is meaningless really the word? or could we possibly mean so much more

Maybe it’s all just in false hopes and intense feelings of nothing, loving, and death.

I can conceive onto paper. I can write words of your beauty. I can. I can tell stories of the first time I saw you and then contradict myself with them.

You're wrapped up in everything I want.

I had every single idea about what I was getting into.

And so if I was asked why I do this, I’d reply

The questioning of why comes up often, are we sick or have we not yet explored the world

and when I saw my future in your eyes yet you hadn’t even seen the color of mine yet I knew that I’d want to be yours forever and beginning to spend hours and hours beneath the heat from your lips and every time you would get close I felt my earth axis tilt; shift, and you now know I’d break bones to be with you, bleed rivers just to call you mine for a second. and I am starting to remember

to swallow shields again

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