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monsterkisserlove · 3 years ago

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Fuzzy Moonlight: Chapter 3

You met a bear in the forest, but could he be so much more? Could he be your escape from the oppressive village you find yourself trapped in?

TW/CW: Mild gore and blood mention, death mention. They both really really horny for each other but still SFW so far

Pairing: M werebear/F reader

a/n: Still SFW but getting some spicier vibes! Future NSFW chapters will be marked! Again, under 18s DNI! This blog and these fics ain’t for you.

Chapter 2

Barley's POV

The full moon was never fun no matter how much he prepared for it, he could take all the elixirs and potions that the world had to offer him but it still would do absolutely nothing for the pain that would ultimately come. That and they would usually leave him feeling foggy and out of control and that was something nobody wanted, especially him.

When he’d moved to this forest many years ago there had been a few occasions where he’d taken a pain drought but it had left him so confused where he’d forgotten to take off his clothes before the moon reached its peak. Not only did that ruin so many perfectly fine articles of clothing, something that was rather annoying when he couldn’t just swagger into town as a stranger looking like a wild man who might not have a coin to his name, but it also frightened the skittish villages. That, and he hadn’t been to the village for at least three years and he wasn’t going to break that record just yet.

~ Ten years ago ~

It had been an awful shift this moon, Barley thought as he lay naked on his bed of soft pelts, having just bandaged his latest cuts and gouges. Plus, another set of clothing lost, this last elixir he’d tried to brew at home left him so fatigued, Barley was just glad that he’d managed to get out of his hand-built cabin before he shifted rather than worrying if he got out of his tight trousers.

The sun filtered through the thin curtain onto his unshaven face, and he glared at the offending light.

Oh yeah, a massive thunderstorm last night but today all sunbeams and rainbows.

Unfair.

A light knock at the door to his cabin startled him beyond belief. No one knew he lived here.

No one at all.

Barley struggled to pull on his trousers over his thick, muscular thighs covered in bandages, and he groaned as he roughly pulled a shirt over his chest, feeling a sharp twinge as he reopened a wound on his expansive back.

Limping to the door, Barley wrenched it open to see a willowy woman standing before him. Her head cocked up, lips pulled up in a soft smile and sun dancing on her rich copper skin. But the thing that caught his breath in his throat was his shirt from last night dangling from her fingertip, shredded and darkened with blood. Fuck.

“I think this might be yours,” the woman grinned, “my name’s Helena and I think you might need my help.”

Helena had gone on to explain that she lived in the small village on the far side of the thick forest and that when torn, butchered shirts were found within the treelines, people started to panic.

The herbalist was kind.

Something Barley hadn’t experienced in his lifetime.

Helena reassured Barley that she had worked with were-creatures before, that she hated the persecution they’d suffered for simply being. With her immense help, she taught him how to brew medications properly, how to bandage and stitch safely and generally how to stay out of trouble.

When she'd left the village to take an apprentice he felt hollow. To be alone again after all this time, but he understood. Barley couldn’t be a permanent fixture in anyone’s life.

At least, that’s what he thought.

~ Present ~

Barley slowly stripped away his clothes, carefully removed the talisman he wore around his neck as the cord would only snap as he grew larger and he took down his hair, fingers running through the silken shoulder length brown hair. Why he did this, he didn’t know as he would only awaken with it in knots and tangles, routine he supposed.

Stepping cautiously outside his cabin, he shut the door solidly behind him, while no one would be at this end of the forest he still couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t return home to trash his home while in his bear form looking for food.

It was odd, having to bear proof your own belongings from yourself.

While he was shifted he was still largely himself, he’d never intentionally hurt anyone just that the... The instincts heightened. The instincts to find food, to protect his territory.

The sun had now gently sunk below the horizon, beautiful oranges and pinks turning to deep purples in the quickly changing night sky. Barleys joints had been aching for days with no relief, but it was all coming to a head now. Darkness came rapidly, the moon full and beautiful. Well, Barley struggled to appreciate the beauty unlike most people as the painful shift began.

Bones cracking and skin tearing, blood splattering the moss covered forest floor. It all happened so quickly but so slowly all at once, Barley huffing and growling as muscles and joints moved, thick fur growing over his new body.

The werebear collapsed to the floor, panting loudly as the shift completed.

It took him a long time to recover before gingerly standing with all four paws on the ground, stretching out his back in what could be described as a downward facing dog pose if anyone was to see him right now.

Twitching one of his fluffy, circular ears he listened closely.

Leaves fluttering in the night breeze, the stream trickling quietly and a pitter patter... A pattern of hooves running in the forest. A stray deer, he thought, reckless to be here on a night when the moon was so high. They really should have been bunkered down, but ah well.

He was hungry.

Taking off into the deep woods at an incredible speed, he duck and wove between the trunks and thickets, hunting his prey. Barley refused to feel guilty for hunting, at least he did it out of hunger rather than sport and his jaws were far quicker at dispatching game than a slender arrow and the humans that seemed to enjoy how long it took for the animal to bleed out.

But then he smelt something and came to a screeching halt...

Violets.

Violets and beeswax and soft, human skin.

Helena!? No, it couldn’t be... He’d received her message three years ago, telling him her goodbyes and how sorry she was not to see him before she passed. It was a two month journey to the city and he couldn’t travel that far, he couldn’t be caught out shifting in a place he didn’t know was safe.

Helena was dead, so why could he smell her perfume?

Having given up the chase of his dinner, he lowered his face to the earth, snuffling and sniffing for that comforting smell he’d come to love.

Barley was unsure how long he’d travelled, but the intoxicating scene was getting stronger and stronger as he crossed the stream and passed the ancient willow, being sure to scratch his behind on the peeling bark as he passed. Bear perks, what could he say?

A branch crunched under his paw and a figure turned in front of him. It was her, the perfume was coming from her he was sure of it.

Cocking his head to the side he observed her in all of her nervousness and he sat stock still, really looking at her. The woman in front of him was beautiful, utterly stunning, soft and gentle but with a hardness to her face suggesting hard work and struggles. Barley suddenly found himself wanting to make sure she never struggled again, he wanted to hold her, feel her cushioned thighs and curvaceous breasts against his naked skin. So lost in his thoughts that he barely heard her anxious ramblings.

“Hey-, hey there... Easy now, I don’t want to hurt you and I really don’t want you to hurt me so I’m going to walk away and you’re going to stay just there...” She mumbled to him, starting to skirt away.

Did she not know he was werebear? Was she that frightened by the thought of seeing a bear that she couldn’t see that he was not only bigger, but somehow more human shaped? Still, he stayed on all fours rather than standing to his full height to keep her from running, screaming into the night.

As the woman started turn to leave he got another flutter of violet and bees wax and he started slowly forward, he had to check if it was the same, it was far too familiar not to be.

Well here goes nothing.

Barley pushed his snout into her palm, inhaling her perfume.

It was, it was exactly the same. What did this mean!?

Wait, was she the apprentice? Had she come to the village?

Thinking he’d frightened her enough for one night, he pulled his nose away and walked back into the forest. But he didn’t miss the way she brushed her delicate fingertips through his fur.

Barley spent the rest of the night meandering the woods thinking of a plan, he was focused on what to do next, the instinct to hunt or patrol the most quiet it had ever been. A new instinct forming, something he’d never felt before but he knew he had to meet her. To speak to her, hold her...

To protect her.

Readers POV

“My name’s Barley,” he offered his large, calloused hand out to shake yours, “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”  

Cautiously you outstretched your own hand to his, feeling him engulf yours by the size of it, the roughness sending a shiver down your spine.

“Um sure,” you started, “What can I help you with, sir?” You missed the way his eyes darkened at that, seeing as you were too busy trying to keep your eyes from scanning his chest and imagining what it would be like to stroke your fingers through it and to run your fingertips over the silvery scars that crept down from his neck.

“I was hoping you might have some river fluxroot?” Barley asked you in a gentle tone, as though if he raised his voice you’d shatter into pieces. But river fluxroot? There was only one use for that, that you knew of, and that was to provide a salve to stop large wounds bleeding. Nasty stuff when ill prepared but there was nothing like it for sealing the skin, just like cauterising a wound with less risk.

You’d been so taken back by his looks that you’d failed to notice he looked pale, swaying on the spot as he smiled lazily down at you.

“Well, I do, but the only thing that I know that uses that particular botanical is a skin stitcher salve which I have plenty of here if you’d rather purchase that instead? After all, it does take hours to make and you look a little pale...” You really had to learn to stop speaking so quickly, and maybe learn to just stop talking completely.

“I’d love to buy some salve, but its so much more expensive than just the root and I only have a few coins.” He answered, still smiling but when he shrugged that quickly disappeared in a flash of pain.

Gods, if he turns out to be a murderer you’re going to be so damn angry.

“Don’t worry about that,” you stood back, gesturing for Barley to come in, “if you were a friend of Helena’s then you’re a friend of mine. Plus, you look like you might drop any second now and I can’t have any more villagers thinking I’m some kind of bad omen.” You chuckled to yourself as the tall man had to stoop to come through the doorway.

Barley went right on through to the kitchen, obviously having been here before when this was Helena's home.

“Please sit,” you gestured to one of the old chairs around the kitchen table, “would you like any tea? I’ve just brewed a fresh pot.”

Barley nodded gratefully, gingerly sitting himself down in the chair that he managed to make look comically small. You noticed him putting more pressure on his side, brow furrowed.

Sighing, you pulled your hair back from your face making sure that none of your unruly curls obscured your vision. “I’m going to fetch the salve, and some other bits to make sure that wound you must have on your chest doesn’t get infected. You’ll need to take off your shirt, please.” You tried your hardest to not let your voice crack as you asked him to undress in your kitchen before bustling out to go to your workspace and gather what you needed.

Chapter Four

#fuzzy moonlight #monsterkisserlove #monster boyfriend #monster fucker #monster writing #werebear #werebear fic #my writing #monster x reader #monster x human

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djarinsbeskar · 4 years ago

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PREQUEL ARC: PART 2 - THE HOUK

A/N: Part 2 is here! First and foremost, can I just say thank you so much for the reception Part 1 received and to those who (gasps!) actually want me to tag them for updates??? I don’t know how to react??? I’m so touched??????? It’s so motivating and has reminded me why I love sharing my scribbles!

There’s a greater focus on world/character building in this chapter so if it feels a bit rambling or description heavy, I do apologise! Like I said, I’m trying to build some context to the reader-insert before we get to the smut, and I hope that I’ve kept her general enough that she doesn’t cross the line too much into OC territory and becomes unrelatable. As always, constructive criticism is welcome! My style of writing leaves much to be desired so I would love to know if something doesn’t make sense so I can improve and fix it. But enough of that, on with the show!

Pairing: Din Djarin/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5.2k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: Language and slight injury detail.

Plot: You encounter Mando suffering one misfortune after another.

AO3 | Stitches Masterlist | Main Masterlist

8 ABY, Mynock, Dandoran.

The second time you met him, he had dislocated his shoulder after a nasty clash with a Houk.

Your dealing with the Mandalorian on Klatooine had moved to the back of your mind and you rarely, if ever, thought about it. It was merely another encounter with a rough character that needed some medical attention. You wouldn’t have been able to hazard a guess at how many similar characters you saw in a week while you worked at the clinic. Even more so when you’d left Klatooine after becoming disillusioned that the New Republic were actually trying to make a difference.

You had heard stories from the Core and Mid Rim planets. Stories of the investment and progress being made to rebuild after the tyranny of the Empire, of the billions of credits being poured into the development of new ship building centers on Corellia and large, extravagant residencies for government members on Coruscant. Things, you were sure, that were not actually urgent necessities as they were desires. Especially given that the funds you received from that same government to sustain the clinic thinned before drying up completely a few months after your encounter with the Mandalorian.

…Hemorrhaging more credits than is justified for the benefits we’re seeing in return.

The busybody politician with a colorful title and even more colorful robes waxed poetically, hiding the sentiment of disinterest in ways only a politician could. Half-heartedly trying to distract you by his explanations with empty praise and gratitude for your service during the Rebellion and your humanitarian work now, a true embodiment of what the New Republic stands for. He crowed like the colorful bird he looked like, dressed as he was with fine feathers lining the lapels of his robes.

You bristle at the memory of the hologram’s eyes flickering to look at anything besides you, running down the time you had spent weeks trying to get.

That was when the memory of the Mandalorian surfaced, surprisingly. How the day after you treated him you arrived at the medical center and saw a familiar pouch of credits sitting innocently behind the check-in desk. When you enquired with the receptionist, she told you it was sitting there once she opened up earlier that morning. The only note left being on one of the datapads behind the desk, the scrawling font reading; to help with your work. You had let out a chuckle to yourself as you checked your schedule, wondering if the brutish male you had treated last night really was as cold as he portrayed himself to be.

The memory had incited a righteous anger that a bounty hunter was more willing to support a voluntary clinic than the government that set it up in the first place was.

I thought the Empire were the ones who put a credit limit on what a life is worth. You had hissed in return, interrupting what you were sure was a well-rehearsed and well used speech, before hanging up. You pressed the heel of your hands into your eyes, taking a shuddering breath as you tried not to be nihilistic in thinking that you had spent nearly half your life thinking you could make a difference, when, you were just serving the Empire in different clothing.

It wasn’t a fair comparison; you knew the New Republic was neither as cruel nor as tyrannical and oppressive as it’s predecessor, but you had been made so dreadfully aware that in places like the Outer Rim, people would always be overlooked by those in power because they simply didn’t offer enough to be worth looking at.

The realization was a raw wound to your soul. You had lost brothers and friends to the fight for liberation, but it didn’t seem as though the grass was much greener on the other side. Maybe elsewhere in the galaxy it was, but where you were needed most, the grass was dehydrated and dying under the relentless sun.

With the clinic penniless, your meagre pension from the Rebellion was not nearly enough to keep it functioning. Add to that the reluctance of the other medics to run the clinic alongside you out of their own pocket and the intergalactic beacon for medical aid that alerted anyone in the parsec of where to go being disengaged, traffic stopped. The native Klatooinians preferred their own healers and very rarely, if ever, sought out medics from the New Republic.

For the first time in your life, your path wasn’t clear. If you even had a path anymore.

That was how you found yourself on Dandoran, flying off a week after the last of the medics left Derelkann to the first planet that was habitable to humans. But by the Maker, it was even rougher than Klatooine. The temperate climate and lush greenery were more comfortable for you, but the city you found yourself in, Mynock, was to say the least, undesirable. Having once been Hutt Space, there were still several illegal operations active that kept the city going and you learned early on what areas to avoid and to always carry a blaster with you. But at least where there was activity, there was work for you.

***

You met Biran Sonter the very day you arrived, asking directions to the nearest medical facility, hoping they could use another medic. He was an elderly Mirialan male with a wealth of history behind him, his facial tattoos creased with deep wrinkles and a kindly smile that reminded you of your grandfather.

You were flabbergasted to learn that during the time of the Galactic Republic, he acted as the royal physician to the palace on Naboo.

As you choked on the tea he had kindly made for you at that revelation, you couldn’t ask him quickly enough how he ended up here? On an Outer Rim backwater skughole of a planet and his tale had been sobering. When the Republic first fell, anyone who did not immediately surrender to the rising Empire was terminated. Biran had, at the time, only heard word of the death of the beloved former Queen Amidala and blamed the Empire vehemently. Escaping on one of the last shuttles from the Mid Rim planet before legions of clones descended, he arrived on Dandoran where no one, not even the Hutts cared enough to notice him. All they knew, was that he was an excellent doctor who charged little for his services and kept to himself. That was good enough for them. While he treated a vast number of criminals ranging from thieves to bounty hunters, he was not wholly merciful. He somehow managed to avoid or talk his way out of treating anyone in the organized crime syndicates or known traffickers and killers. It may have gone against a physician’s code to do ones best to save every life, but he like many, made their own code in the Outer Rim.

You fell into a fast and easy friendship with the Mirialan after that, your similar histories of working in the medical field despite being decades apart giving you plenty to talk about. The practice Biran ran in Mynock was always busy and he was only too grateful when you offered to take the weight off his old shoulders and gradually, his clients began to expect to see you most of the day and Biran for a few hours in the early morning. You were never short on work between cantina brawls, accidents and the downright attacks that took place in Mynock and the next eighteen standard months seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, Klatooine a distant memory, as was the Mandalorian you met there.

The night you saw him again, was no different to any other you spent enjoying a quiet drink before heading back to turn in for the night.

You had been in the process of leaving the cantina, recognizing that the later it grew, the rowdier and aggressive the clientele became. You could handle yourself as well as anyone who made their home in Hutt Space, but you knew better than to be blatantly reckless when you were on your own. It wasn’t like you had the squadron you stayed with throughout the Rebellion for backup as you once did, and your closest ally would probably break in half if you pushed him too hard. So no, you were not staying late with Mynocks newest resident of a Houk warlord and the company he seemed to attract.

The Houk in question was a cruel and belligerent brute, a former local warlord by the name of Gappo Teff. His reputation for inflicting punishment disproportionate to any slight committed against him or the Empire was one of the many echoes of the former imperial rule that was still being felt in the galaxy nearly three years after its collapse.

The stories of the chokehold he held over Sullust would make even a hardened soldier’s stomach churn. How he managed to escape the liberation of the planet without being dragged to the noxious surface of Sullust to suffer for the pain he had caused so many, was a mystery. But there he was, sitting like a king in the cantina you found yourself in, bellowing laughter ricocheting obnoxiously throughout the space, not a care in the world that he was a wanted felon.

It might have been to do with the fact that he was at least seven and a half foot tall, with a mass that could easily fit three of you side by side across him and still not be seen. It might have been to do with the cold, milky blue of his small eyes, sunk into a skull so large it could probably shatter ribs and rupture organs if one were to be headbutted with it. The last thing anyone wanted was those eyes focusing on them. It could have been the heavy artillery modified blaster he kept laying on his lap; the weapon more of a cannon for those of a more regular stature. Whatever the reason, very few bounty hunters and even fewer New Republic guards came to collect him. He was probably one of the most easily found quarries on all Guild registers and New Republic wanted lists and yet, he languished in Mynock as if the Empire had never fallen and his reign was still assured.

Making your way to the entrance, you came up short as someone walked in, your nose coming abruptly close to a reddish-brown durasteel chest-plate. Taking a step back, your eyes did a double take at the familiar unpainted beskar helmet. Subconsciously, you had stepped to the side, the Mandalorian continuing to walk without a word as if you hadn’t nearly walked into him. Mandalorians were a rare sight these days, so you could be forgiven for staring. Though, you were most likely staring for entirely different reasons compared to everyone else in the cantina.

The armor was the same, if not a bit more worn, as was the dark boiled woolen cape and pulse rifle strapped to his back. But it was the gait; how could someone walk both gracefully and arrogantly, almost cocky in his self-assurance that he was in control wherever he went. It explained why he was so determined not to let his injury be known by his walk the last time you saw him. Because you had seen him before, there was no doubt in your mind that this was the same irritable reek of a Mandalorian you met in Derelkann years ago.

He stood in the middle of the cantina, assessing the place as his helmet scanned the area. If you didn’t know any better, you say he was…

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me.” You muttered to yourself when the helmet stopped on Teff. When you said bounty hunters didn’t bother to come after him, you should have been more specific. Smart bounty hunters didn’t bother hunting Gappo Teff, which explained why the one you knew of was right there looking for him.

A choice lay before you. Leave now and lock your doors until morning… or wait. For what, you couldn’t be sure. But if the Mandalorian wasn’t killed tonight by Teff, he was going to wish he was with the injuries he would probably sustain.

You let your head fall back on your shoulders as you exhaled. Why were you so soft for lost causes and wayward souls?

The Houks bodyguards left much to be desired, crumbling to the ground before they had even drawn their blasters, smoke rising from the blaster wounds inflicted effortlessly by Din.

The bodyguards weren’t what worried Din. Their boss hardly needed protecting, and he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

The groan and screech of the metal table being shoved away by Teff as he stood to his full height made Din grit his teeth, arms open as he boomed, “Ah Mando, I was wondering when you’d try your luck at me. Your reputation is becoming rather infamous throughout the parsec.”

A guttural, wet laugh left the purple skinned quarry as Din remained silent and kept his blaster aimed. Damn, but the piece of bantha crap was big. He quickly scanned his peripheral, but it seemed the residents of Mynock had more self-interest than to trade blaster fire over one warlord, the barkeep casually making his was into the backroom of the bar to keep out of harms way.

“Why don’t you hang up that Guild work and let me make you a better offer.” Teff boomed, taking a swing of his drink, streams of the yellow fluid running down the sides of him mouth as those frosty eyes stayed trained on the bounty hunter.

Din rolled his eyes behind his helmet; negotiations by the quarry were his least favorite reaction to being caught but he knew better than to think he had captured the colossal male yet. Until Teff was either dead or frozen in carbonite, he was a danger. Luckily, the orders were to bring him in dead or alive. Seems the New Republic were fed up with him still breathing. He couldn’t say he blamed them.

“No?” the Houk pushed when Din didn’t respond, “Too bad, you’d have made an excellent addition to my collection.” And with more speed than Din had anticipated from the large male, he charged.

You had the good sense to leave the cantina as soon as the first blaster shot was fired, pulling the hood of your dusty grey jacket over your head while you made your way back to the practice to gather a few things. Things that would be completely obsolete if he died but you wouldn’t think that far. You were a realist, not a pessimist. The Houk might have had the advantage of height and sheer strength, but the Mandalorian was quicker, possibly smarter, and decked with enough firepower to make a starfighter pilot drool.

So, you put the odds about sixty forty in favor of the Mandalorian. Not that you would ever tell him that.

Teff roared in anger as Din rolled out of the way again, shooting his grappling hook to latch onto the Houks shoulder and yanked hard enough to throw the male off balance. Despite his large size however, Teff was able to slide his foot back to catch himself, putting him in direct line with Din.

He was on his feet in no time as the Houk charged at him, lowering his head so that on contact, Din’s left shoulder was thrown back into the wall of the cantina. His breath left him as the impact winded him, a dull but growing pain throbbing from his shoulder before Teff’s vile breath permeated even his helmet and a large hand wrapped around Din’s throat. He could feel his feet leave the floor and the weight of his body pulling downward made the pressure on his windpipe all the heavier.

“Oh well, at least you tried.” Teff gloated, his head leaning closer as if to peer into the visor and that distraction was all Din needed to lift his hand and engage his flamethrower, engulfing the Houk in flames. Din gasped in a breath when he was dropped, the squeals of pain coming from Teff disconcerting as he staggered around the cantina, desperately looking for something to extinguish the inferno his clothing and more vulnerable tissue had become.

Din waited a few more measured breaths before lifting the blaster and shooting the quarry in the vulnerable side of the neck, satisfied with the resounding bang the body made as it fell to the ground, flames still burning bright until he picked up the half-drunk tankard on Teffs table to douse the fire lest he be completely unrecognizable upon delivery.

Din looked around, the cantina was empty; the silence suddenly deafening as he looked back down at the body.

Now, how to get him back to the Razor Crest.

Din sighed.

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

You held up your hands unsurprised when the Mandalorian spun on the ramp of his ship, blaster raised and aimed right at you. He tilted his head slightly, taking you in and you tried not to fidget under the gaze you could feel raking over you despite not being able to see his eyes. What you could see though, was how limp his left arm was hanging to his side.

“The demon medic from Klatooine.” He muttered, finally placing your face and lowering his blaster slowly while you lowered your arms.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” You snorted before nodding to his arm, “And you’ll probably be calling me a lot worse when I tell you that that arm needs tending to.”

He shifted slightly, turning his body so you wouldn’t be able to see. You just crossed your arms across your chest and stared at him pointedly. He held your gaze and was still as a statue. You could play the silence game too if that was how he wanted to do this. It was only a matter of time before one of you broke and you weren’t the one with a dislocated shoulder, so you’d say that the odds were in your favor.

It seemed like time dragged on before, without saying anything, the Mandalorian sighed and turned towards the ship.

You bit down on a smile, but you could still feel it creeping upon your lips as you congratulated yourself on winning. Two nil, you tallied in your head, not bad girl.

The ship… well the ship was a fossil and that was being generous. But it was clean and obviously well taken of, if the tidy hull was anything to go by.

Apart from the charred corpse lying in the middle of course, but those were just details. Easily overlooked. The smell however… that was a different story, but you held back any comments. You still couldn’t fathom how he’d managed to drag a fully grown Houk through the town one-handed, but then you knew that the strength and discipline of the Mandalorians was unrivalled. He could have done it through sheer determination and honestly, you were lucky to have found him at all. But people in Mynock liked to talk, so following the rumors' had let you there relatively easy.

A sigh broke your train of thought, “Let’s get this over with.”

The warrior seemed resigned to his fate as he stepped over the corpse and you followed suit, mind instantly running through the correct procedure and treatment.

“We have to get the bone in the upper arm into the correct position before it slips back into joint, otherwise the force will just break your arm.” You explained as you moved to stand in front of the large warrior when he sat back on one of the many crates pushed against the wall of the ship. You could barely hear the short exhales coming from the modulator and you could only guess that he was holding back speaking, whether in pain or frustration that you had strong-armed him into accepting treatment again.

“But hey, look on the bright side.”

His visor tilted slightly to look at you.

“No droids needed.” You shrugged a shoulder and sent him a grin when he said nothing. When he looked away, you focused your attention back on the problem shoulder; it wasn’t immediately clear that it had been dislocated, the pauldron he wore hiding the jutting ball of the joint that was no doubt pressed uncomfortably against his flesh. What you could see was that his left side was hanging just a bit lower than his right, and the inability to move the arm was a dead giveaway.

“Are you just going to stare at it or actually do what you said you would when you barged onto my ship?” The rasp was closer to you as he turned his head, the rumble of his voice decidedly deeper than you remembered last time. Or perhaps it always had been, and you just hadn’t been paying enough attention, more focused on the very real threat of having a dead body on your hands as the poison spread. You rolled your eyes; or it was all the short and biting commands he only seemed to know how to give as opposed to actually speaking that made you forget the voice. The man could be attractive, if he wasn’t so frustrating.

“I can’t see it properly.” You replied, agitated with him again. He got under your skin too easily, and ruined your cool demeanor.

“You dealt with the problem just fine before.” He snapped back, pain making him cranky.

“You didn’t have a bone out of place last time!” You stopped yourself, sucking in a breath before releasing it to prevent yourself from snapping again.

“At least,” you bartered, “let me remove the pauldron. I can feel around the duraweave to get an idea. I won’t see any more of you than I did last time.”

He didn’t say anything again for a time and honestly, he was the slowest person you’d ever met at receiving emergency medical care. Half the men you treated during the Rebellion would yell until you’d taken care of the worst of their injuries before they even considered if it was what they wanted or not.

“Fine.” Was all he responded, making no move to remove the offending piece so you took that as your cue to feel around the curved metal cautiously, feeling where it attached to his duraweave and releasing it into your hands before placing it down on a separate crate.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” A warning growl echoed in the hull, turning you back to your task with a hum.

It seemed the joint had popped forward, no doubt from caving in as Teff collided with Mando’s shoulder. You leaned forward, your fingers feeling around the area as gently as you could while his breathing came out a little shorter. You sent him an apologetic smile.

“I’m going to have to ask you to stay still, okay? Usually I’d have someone to hold—”

“I can keep myself still, just do it.” He snapped finally, turning to look at you before he looked away again. You said nothing more as you took his gloved hand in yours, turning the forearm over and feeling the hand clench in yours when he hissed.

“Shh, nearly there.” You soothed, moving your hand under his elbow to lift it so it was aligned with Mando’s shoulder. You stood, keeping the arm in place and twisting yourself to stand facing his side.

You were definitely out to get him. There was no other explanation for why he only seemed to be seriously injured in your presence. Din tried to tell himself he was being over-dramatic and irrational, that you hadn’t even been on the same planet when he was injured the first time, but then you opened your mouth and he felt justified in his petulant thoughts.

“On three.” He heard you warn and all he could offer was a single nod; the sooner he got this over with the better.

“One…” You jerked the arm forward and slipped the joint back into place quickly with a sickening crack and searing pain took his breath away before it began to ebb immediately.

“DANK…. FERRICK!” Din yelled as his good arm reached across to grip his left, bending forward as he breathed through the flash of pain. You moved out of his way, waiting for him to look back up at you through the helmet, deep pants making his chest heave. You cocked your head to the side when his eyes found yours, a clear question there.

He groaned as he sat back, leaning his head against the hull, “It… doesn’t hurt as much anymore.” He admitted, thinking that the smile you gave him was somewhat worth the knock to his ego at having to admit such a thing in the first place. And like last time, before he could even worry about the concerning direction that thought had led to, you were fluttering about opening crates and bins as if you owned the place.

“What the hell—” he made to stand indignantly.

“Do you have any spare cloth?” You interrupted, “Your arm needs to be bound for a few days. If you have bacta it might reduce the healing time a bit but honestly, I don’t think dislocations can be rushed despite recent studies. Rushing back to heavily lifting or activity for at least six weeks is a sure way to hurt yourself again.”

You were rambling now as you set a pile of disused yet clean cloth you found on your lap, sitting across from him as he just blinked at this enigma of a woman. Giving him orders in his own ship, were you daft?

Your eyes sharpened and shot to his and he was suddenly glad you couldn’t see behind his mask. His eyes had widened guiltily at the thought that you had read his mind.

“You will do what you’re told, understand Mando?” You warned as your fingers tied a loose sling from strips of cloth you’d pulled apart without even having to look at it, deft fingers looping the material and strengthening it with several more layers woven in for good measure.

“If you insist on getting injured so often, you live with the consequences. And the consequences are doing what you’re fucking told and being happy about it, got it? Sulk if you want, so long as you keep the arm bound and don’t take on any jobs for at least two months.”

He opened his mouth a few times at the audacity, did she have a death wish? He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to him as if he were no more than a child and it made his blood boil. But just as quickly as the anger arose, it simmered as she muttered while watching her fingers tie off the sling,

“You don’t actually seem like a bad guy, and the galaxy can’t afford to lose anymore… not bad guys.” She seemed unsure of giving out even this level of praise but then again, she only had their first encounter to go by.

He grunted; not sure how to respond. And when Din was uncomfortable, he resorted to silence.

You got to your feet once the sling was suitably strong enough to support the weight of his arm without unravelling or breaking and you indicated to him, “May I?”

He jerked his head up in affirmation and you maneuvered the sling to sit correctly under his elbow and forearm, coaxing him to lift it slightly with a tap before you looped the tied end over his helmet, adjusting the length slightly to fit against him.

“You left Klatooine.” the statement rose from the warrior, his tone quieter than you’d heard him all day. Was he... trying to make conversation? Din told himself that it was merely out of curiosity from seeing you by chance on two totally different planets.

Blinking in surprise, you sat back on the crate in front of him, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back on one of your hands, “New Republic stopped funding the clinic and I realized that they’re all the same when it comes to the Outer Rim.”

He snorted in agreement, honestly, he wasn’t surprised to hear the New Republic had cut their losses on charity. It wasn’t in their nature to funnel money away from the Core planets.

“But it’s not all bad,” you continued, “I work with a doctor here. He’s old now so he should be enjoying his retirement. I’m kept busy and…”

He watched you while he waited for you to finish, surely there was more? But when you just shrugged and sent him a tight smile, he felt an uncomfortable niggle at the back of his neck, a familiarity that made him almost want to smile back even if you couldn’t see it. Almost. But not quite. He was unnerved at the… empathy he had for your situation. He too just… kept busy. It wasn’t towards any end beyond supporting the covert and the foundlings there. But for himself, he just kept working towards some translucent, non-existent goal, one job ended, and another began.

Something in your eyes told him you were doing the exact same thing. It unnerved him to think about.

“Echoy’la…” the word left him without knowing and you blinked,

“Hm?”

He shook his head and stood, grunting a bit at the ache in his shoulder when it jostled a bit, “Nothing. It seems I owe you my thanks again, demon medic.”

“I do have a name you know.” You snorted, letting the previous topic go as it seemed to just make him more awkward and grumpy than he already was. You packed away the medikit and replaced the unused cloth back where you found it.

“Somehow I don’t think it’ll be as fitting.”

“Whatever, sunshine.” You looked over your shoulder at him, the sling looking so out of place as he hooked a thumb in the utility belt he wore. It was amazing that he could still look as intimidating as he did. You gathered your things and started down the ramp leisurely. He followed you silently until he was standing at the entrance to the ship.

“Demon or not… thank you.” He called out as your feet hit the dusty ground of Mynock once again. You looked back over your shoulder and gave a single wave, calling something back to him that did make him smile behind his helmet this time.

As you disappeared into the streets of Mynock, he tested the name you had thrown back to him, rolling the syllables, and testing the vowels as he repeated it to himself.

Pity, he thought. He hated being wrong about anything, but somehow, your name was a much better fit than demon medic.

Not that he would ever admit that to you, of course.

Taglist:

@geannad @ayamenimthiriel @sarahjkl82-blog

#the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfic #din djarin fanfic #din djarin fic #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x you #mando x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #mando #din djarin #din djarin imagine #mando imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fic

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anakinisvaderisanakin · 3 years ago

Text

Introductions (AU; the government are introduced to the Emperor’s right hand man)

Emperor Palpatine sat at the helm of the table, his expensive ornate satin cloak pulled up to cover his deformed features. He had made a rare exception to the never appearing in public rule, if only to summon his little group of closely affiliated followers for a less than chummy supper. The Coruscant sun had already begun to set, its pinkish rays disappearing behind the skyscrapers visible from the large single viewport of the Emperor’s dining hall. Two months had passed since the fall of the Republic. Two months since the war came to an end, two months since the Jedi were declared traitors and executed en masse. Two months since Palpatine declared himself dictator, since his regulations had begun being pushed onto all known systems. Two months, and Governor Tarkin had thought himself to be lucky with his role.

A few faces, he recognized. Former admiral Wullf Yularen was a welcome addition despite being a bit below the required rank, fighting the just fight against outliers and naysayers. Orn Free Taa was a more unfortunate case (he had likely invited himself by flattery and empty promises), while Vizier Mas Amedda was an obvious presence. Sate Pestage, Janus Greejatus, Ars Dangor, Kren Blista-Vanee and Verge’s smug faces had Tarkin fighting the urge to roll his eyes at their insipid subservience. Artist Eveli Charis was, Tarkin figured, the most surprising member of the meeting - serving as the only female face of the small crowd. Her aside, and finance minister Gagh rounded off the gathering.

These people were - each in different ways - the most influential people of the new Empire.

“I have not gathered you simply for the sake of sharing a dinner in the wake of our victory. Indeed, I have been wishing to relay to you my plans for the grand future of our Galaxy,” said Palpatine suddenly, his voice gravelly and his gnarly hands reminiscent of claws where they rested against the table cloth.

Tarkin thought he could see a pair of golden eyes gleaming beneath the shrouded darkness of Palpatine’s hood, but chalked it up to a trick of the light. Instead, he focused on the hand stitched embroidery of the Emperor’s burgundy robes. The man had always had an affinity for fancy dress.

“It is clear that you shall provide eyes and ears for me, and I trust you to fulfill your duties towards the Empire, and subsequently to me. However, I’m afraid I must offer you a small surprise.”

“Another, Your Highness?” Tarkin said with an amused smile, and he couldn’t help but feel triumphant when Palpatine let out a pleased cackle in response.

“I’m afraid so, Governor. Surely, you shall all take this little revelation in stride. Are we not in dire need of powerful allies?” he responded, gesturing with one clawed hand towards the Vizier who stood poised by the doorway.

On each side of the hydraulic sliding doors themselves, a royal guard clad in crimson stood at a patient salute. The Emperor’s personal bodyguards, their faces cloaked and hidden from view much like Palpatine himself. Their presence was an odd mixture of reassuring and oppressive, Tarkin had decided. But he saw no reason to fear them, given his own standing with the Emperor. If anything, he benefited from their presence as protectors.

“Will you reveal to us this secret, Your Highness?” asked Charis, her expression curious and incredulous at once.

“My child, have you not been taught the virtue of patience?” was Palpatine’s response; a thinly veiled insult that put her in her place, as she shrank back in shame and lowered her head in an obedient bow.

“Forgive me my insolence, Your Highness,” she offered, apologetic and the Emperor simply shrugged her words off.

“Think nothing of it. You are correct, it appears to me that I have unfairly omitted mentioning this to either of you. Alas, it is time I remedy this arrogance.”

Tarkin noted how the Emperor turned his head briefly, giving the Vizier a barely perceptible nod and the man stepped back. On cue, the guards uncrossed their electro-staffs and parted to the sides. Confusion seemed to overtake most of the party’s faces, as the doorway slid open with ease - only to reveal a man. Clad in black armour with red and silver accents; broad shouldered, tall and visibly disdainful towards his company. He stalked wordlessly up to Palpatine’s right hand side, where he lingered - gloved hands folded in front of his hips, legs wide apart. His eyes were glowing, an amber shade to their irises, a bloodshot sclera. The man’s face was scarred, rugged; and the only visible emotions seemed to be anger and resentment. One single dark blonde curl fell over his creased forehead.

But that wasn’t the oddity. Someone in the company - Tarkin suspected it to be Yularen, judging by the tone - gasped.

Indeed, it was difficult not to recognize the young man by the Emperor's side - the Emperor, whose features had twisted into a toothy grin. The man said nothing, taller than Tarkin remembered him. Something warped and cruel and twisted distorting his rather handsome features into something unrecognizable, all charm vanquished. He was pale, peering in distaste down at the dining party as if they were beneath him. It didn’t sit right with Tarkin, given that they all knew who he was and what his past profession up until about two months ago would have been.

Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker had joined them for supper.

“May I introduce to you Lord Vader,” said Palpatine, breaking the eerie silence. “Some of you may believe you are familiar with this man. I assure you, you are mistaken. The man whom you may recall is long gone. Lord Vader has seen the error of his ways, and accepted the Jedi traitors for what they are. He came to my aid during the assassination attempt ordered by master Windu.”

Tarkin listened closely, but he was not the only one who seemed unable to tear his gaze from Skywalk-- Vader’s stern features. He looked so much older than his age, as if he had seen a million lifetimes of suffering pass him by. His hollow eyes seemed haunted, but their inherent glow was more reminiscent of a predator locked in a cage. Simply biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce. Still, he made no move and did not utter a single word.

“Lord Vader has turned out to be, much like you, one of my most trusted advisors. He is my right hand man, and while I have neglected to provide him with an official rank - he outranks every single one of you. It is my belief that only he has the means to do what needs to be done,” the Emperor continued.

Yularen seemed to shift uneasily in his seat, his eyes wide and a blunt disbelief etched into his aging features.

“You wish to speak, Colonel?”

Tarkin heard himself say; wondering if they were the only ones present - apart from the Emperor himself - who had maintained some sort of personal relationship to the man Palpatine had renamed and retooled so viciously.

“No, Governor. I--” he began, but was immediately cut off by Palpatine.

“You are wondering how the man you knew as a Jedi could turn on his own kind, is that not so? You are surprised to see that his loyalty towards the Empire could outweigh his loyalty towards his kin. Am I correct, Colonel?”

Yularen seemed to pause a bit longer than required, but gave a curt nod as he found the voice to speak up.

“Yes, Your Highness. I am merely… surprised, as you put it,” he said as a manner of surrender.

“It is understandable that you would be shocked. Should you like to speak of your own decision, Lord Vader?” the Emperor drawled, his voice menacing and sing-songy at once as he gestured to offer Vader the opportunity to speak.

“No,” the young man simply said, standing so still that his lips barely even seemed to be moving; his gleaming eyes scanning each and every person present before it landed on Tarkin - the only man who’s amusement outweighed the concerns. “I believe my actions will speak for themselves, as will your evident trust in me, my master.”

The voice was a bit deeper and gruffer than Tarkin recalled it - but that could be maturity - but its monotone quality was new. Vader spoke as if the words held no meaning to him, as if whatever he said was pointless and a waste of breath. As if his words were unbefitting of anyone but the Emperor. Yet, at the same time, he was matter of fact and to the point. A quality Tarkin had enjoyed in the past, and one he presumed Yularen had as well.

“Oh, I implore you to amuse this unspoken inquiry, Lord Vader,” Palpatine pressed, and as much as it came off as if being in good faith, it was an obvious demand no loyal servant could ignore.

“As you wish, my master,” Vader simply obeyed, his burning eyes still holding Tarkin’s in a cold, disgruntled stare. “I was the single man to commandeer the troops as they marched on the Jedi temple. I surveyed the situation, and I made sure not a single soul present escaped their fate. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to serve my Emperor, and I will not be frowned upon by the likes of you.”

The last word was delivered with such pure, unbridled loathing that it seemed to lower the temperature of the room by several degrees by proxy of mere intent. Vader nonchalantly folded his arms over his chest, lips drawn into a thin line and the perpetual scowl of his forehead had already begun to carve out fine lines in their wake. Palpatine was still sneering, grimy teeth bared in a ferocious grin.

“As you can see, Lord Vader’s conviction is admirable and undeniable. He has proved himself worthy of my trust, and so, I expect you to follow my example accordingly. I expect you to show him the reverence he requires,” the Emperor concluded, that odd glow to Vader’s eyes mirrored by his as he briefly peered up from beneath his hood - this time, it could be no trick of the light.

“I trust your infallible judgment, Your Highness,” Tarkin finally said, being the first to accept the new norm. “I may not be completely assured of Lord Vader’s motives as of yet, but he shall gain my respect when he has proved himself worthy of it.”

“My friend, you need not fear. However, I understand your concerns, and I have no doubt that you will come around quite soon,” said Palpatine, and while there was malice to the tone, he was also unusually honest and benevolent.

Tarkin suspected that was entirely on him, and their long history as colleagues and friends. He nodded, glancing over at Vader whose eyes regarded him still. Their gaze was arduous, and heavy, and vile - but that seemed to be their natural state, rather than any personal vendetta.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” was Tarkin’s only reply, and he shot a defiant glare back at Vader. “You are much too gracious.”

“Will you cease your repulsive display?” Vader snapped, and while Tarkin at first almost expected Palpatine to defend him; he found that the Emperor seemed humored enough by the obvious insult to allow the man to finish his trail of thought. “The Emperor will offer you no favours based on your fawning. You embarrass yourself, Governor.”

“Now, now, Lord Vader. I believe such childish bickering belongs elsewhere,” he finally shushed, as Vader relented like an obedient school boy fearing punishment. “However, I must agree. It would serve you well to evolve your attempts at flattery into a less… tacky matter.”

That triggered a reaction from Vader, as one corner of his lips twitched briefly upwards in a mocking, superior half smirk. He said nothing, but the triumph in those golden eyes spoke for itself.

“Now, with this out of the way, I wish to return to the matters at hand - but there is one more thing I wish to clarify. Lord Vader will not tolerate any mentions of the man you might recall him to be. He is no longer the naive child of yesterday. There will be a penalty for such insolence - no matter whom it may derive from. Lord Vader is a reinvented man. You shall address him only as such, and by no other name. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” was the singular response - and a brief hint of delight, and perhaps relief, crossed Vader’s scornful face.

“Very good,” said the Emperor with a cackle.

__________

I am not generally a fan of suitless Vader, but this idea came to me and it kinda required that so I went with it for once. Enjoy!

Ao3 link below:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32029582

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gellavonhamster · 4 years ago

Text

souvenirs

Dracula (the novel) || Jack Seward/Quincey Morris || very slightly nsfw

ao3 link eng || ao3 link rus

“I remember stitching up this one,” Jack remarks, tracing a scar on Quincey’s shoulder with a tip of his finger. The scar is already pale but still prominent, uneven, resembling a primitive picture of a lightning bolt. “Colorado, right?”

“Oklahoma,” corrects him Quincey, and chuckles. “A fun day it was, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose so, if you believe that nearly dying is fun… which you probably do.”

“Not always,” Quincey wraps his arm around Jack’s waist and pulls him closer. Both of them are still hot and sweat-soaked; cuddling up to each other ought to be unpleasant. However, it is not. “But look me in the eye and tell me it wasn’t a first-rate adventure.”

Jack remembers that day – the oppressive heat, the sun high in the sky, the gang of bandits attacking the train. There was no one to await help from, so the passengers, among which were also he, Quincey, and Arthur, had to defend themselves and, surprisingly, managed to beat the robbers back with less casualties than one would expect. He remembers the smell of gunpowder and the sounds of battle, the weight of a pistol in his hands, and the quiet sobs of the women and children hiding under the seats. He remembers the realization that there was no other way but to fight – not because it was noble or commendable, but because they needed to survive somehow. He remembers what it is like when panic suddenly gives way to clarity of thought, as if someone else is in control of his body, someone much braver and more confident than he. The panic returned when everything was over, when he stepped on a corpse at the platform, when Quincey stumbled into the carriage with a knife handle sticking out of his shoulder – but during the fight itself his heart was an eye of the storm.

“It certainly was… an interesting experience,” he admits. “An enlightening one. Which I would rather not repeat,” he hastens to add as soon as he notices Quincey’s contented grin. “Scars are not the best kind of souvenirs to bring back from travels.”

“That depends. Such kind of souvenirs surely won’t let you forget those travels,” Quincey definitely is of an opinion that arguing jokingly about various absurd subjects is also fun. In this respect, however, Jack is of the same mind. “And they are splendid illustrations for the stories about those travels, particularly if you want to make one hell of an impression on those listening to you…”

“Well, go on, then. Impress me,” Jack suggests. He is aware that he’s stalling for time, unwilling to break the embrace, get out of bed, and return to his rooms at the asylum, even though he cannot afford not to spend the night there for so many days in a row – in a hospital, anything could happen anytime, and being the head doctor, he ought not to leave it for long. This is what his common sense tells him, yet his soul and body keep getting better and better at ignoring its admonitions. It was much easier to retain prudence when all he had were the thoughts he had grown used to pushing away in shame and tried to play over in his head as rarely as possible. It is more difficult by far to keep his passions in check after having a taste of what he’s longing for – a literal taste as well, the taste of kisses and sweat and seed, the feeling of another’s fingers in his mouth. If he could go back in time and refrain from making this mistake, he would have certainly made it again and again and again. “You cannot use this one, of course.”

“Of course. Hmm…” Quincey takes Jack’s hand in his and guides it down, to his hip. The scar there must be old, a smooth light spot on brown skin. “I was fourteen when someone attempted to rob our ranch. Father and brothers weren’t home then – I don’t remember why, must’ve gone to town, so it was just me, my pregnant mother, and our old maidservant. In other words, it was actually just me against these three bastards.”

“Was that so?”

“You bet it was. Well, what was there to do? Mother and Abigail – the maid – barricaded themselves in the parents’ bedroom with a gun, and I took another gun and went to welcome our dear guests. When I took one down, another one got scared and bolted, but the third one flew into a rage and rushed straight at me. He had a hunting knife…”

“With which he struck right into your old scar?” Jack can’t resist interrupting him.

Quincey blinks at him, puzzled. “My old scar?”

“Why, of course,” Jack says, trying his best to keep a straight face. “I recall that when we visited your family, your mother told Arthur and me how as a child you vexed a cow once, and it butted you in the left hip. With all its strength, so that you still have a mark.”

Quincey stares at him in astonishment, then throws his head back, and bursts into laughter.

“Oh, screw you,” he says, having stopped laughing. “You know me too well.”

“I just remembered this for some reason, that is all. It is strange you did not remember it – you were laughing the loudest as she was telling us that…”

“Damn it, Jack, you told me to impress you! Ain’t easy to impress a man who’s already heard half of what I can boast about and seen the other half with his own eyes.”

“Well, sorry for being harder to surprise than a barmaid in a saloon,” Jack says, and bites his tongue at once. He isn’t sure this is an appropriate joke. As a matter of fact, he still isn’t sure about many things, though to a lesser extent than back when he kissed Quincey for the first time, grabbing him by the shirt collar and feeling like he’s making a step into emptiness.

“Far harder,” Quincey agrees. His eyes are still smiling, so the joke must have been not entirely disastrous. “But that is all right,” he continues, caressing Jack’s back. Perhaps one day Jack will get used to being looked at the way Quincey is looking at him now, but he still isn’t sure about that either. “I like you better.”

#this is like pwp without either p i am sorry #also the silliest thing i've written since that b/b/l crossdressing fic #also i have never been attacked by a cow and the last western i watched must've been hmm. bandidas when i was a kid #jack seward #quincey morris #dracula #bram stoker #talk talk talk #gella talks dracula #my fic #morward

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hawkeyedflame · 3 years ago

Note

Ficlet, Royai, 16. 😁

#16: “It doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches…” with Royai Rating: K+ | Words: 1,178

The summer heat boiled oppressively in the east, a mid-July sun bearing down on the valley stream where Roy Mustang laid watching Riza Hawkeye work. Every muscle in her small body coiled with anticipation as she stared down the barrel of an old hunting rifle, waiting for the young buck across the waterway to move just a little bit closer.

Roy kept silent as Riza crept forward an inch, leveling the rifle slowly. She was still for a long time, so long Roy wondered if she'd turned to stone, when a sudden gunshot reported sharply through the air, and Roy jumped in spite of himself.

Across the stream, the buck crumpled silently, dead before it even hit the ground, and the blonde girl was already pulling her battered shoes off to wade through the water. Roy scrambled to his feet, stripping his boots and following her to lend a hand that he knew she didn't need.

"Roy can you rope the tree, actually?" she called out to him, pausing to toss him a length of rope before lifting the deer by the hocks. Roy caught the rope deftly and turned to appraise the tree line, finding a sturdy maple to climb.

He scrambled up its boughs, scooting onto a low-hanging branch to tie off the dressing rope. He dropped the noose and Riza looped it around the buck's hooves, pushing up from below as Roy hoisted until it was secure.

They set to work dressing the deer, Riza's knife working in long, methodic strokes while Roy wrapped the organs she passed his way, scrambling to keep up with her terrifying efficiency. They toiled in silence, too hot to speak. Roy desperately wanted to stick his face into the ice box, but they needed to keep the meat cold on such a sweltering day, so he instead packed the entrails neatly over the top of the ice.

After nearly half an hour, Roy leaned back on his heels and wiped a sheet of sweat from his brow. His knees ached from kneeling and his t-shirt stuck to him everywhere.

"It's too damn hot for this," he grumbled. Riza turned to him with a reproachful glare, sweat and blood mingling in an unsightly smear all over her face. She looked half wild, her short, sweat-soaked hair sticking up every which way and her knife still buried in the buck near her ear.

To Roy's surprise, her expression turned thoughtful, and she hummed in agreement. "Let me just get this bit out and we can take a break."

When she finished, Riza stuck her knife in the soft dirt and crouched at the stream to wash her hands. Roy joined her, splashing the cold water on his face and feeling the rivulets rolling down his neck.

"You have blood all over your face by the way," he pointed out. "You look like you murdered someone." Riza scrubbed at her cheeks vigorously and Roy couldn't help but laugh, bumping his shoulder into hers playfully.

He hit her harder than he meant to, and she threw her hand out to steady herself, her arm sinking into the stream up to her elbow as her head went under. She surfaced immediately, indignantly yelping a sharp hey! as water rushed down her neck to soak her shirt.

Roy felt her hand on his arm and then he was in the water, toppled by her strong shove. The shock of cold made him gasp, and he quickly crawled out to dry land, thoroughly drenched. She laughed, a rare expression, sweet peals echoing in the summer air, and Roy thought maybe he should let her push him into rivers more often.

"Now we're even," she crowed, still giggling. Her honey brown eyes flashed with playful amusement.

"As the resident authority on equivalent exchange, I would hardly call that even," Roy huffed, but Riza only laughed harder.

"Okay mister alchemist-in-training," she snorted, "let's get back to work. We're almost done with this but we still have to pick the blueberries if I'm going to make that crumble tonight." Roy groaned and Riza swatted him lightly. "You look like a drowned rat by the way."

Fifteen minutes later Roy climbed up the tree again to retrieve the rope. Together he and Riza lowered the buck to the ground, and Roy picked the knot until the rope came loose. As he tugged it, his foot slipped, taking his knee with it, and he tumbled out of the tree, yelping in surprise as he reached for the branch to catch himself. The bark scraped his hands and his weight proved too heavy for his grip; he fell, a stray branch slicing the heel of his palm open on the way down.

"Roy!"

His back hit the ground hard, knocking his breath out of his lungs. When he opened his eyes Riza was crouched over him, eyes wide.

"You're bleeding!" she exclaimed, grabbing his wrist and inspecting the cut on his hand. It stung fiercely and bled a lot more than Roy would have expected.

"That hurt," he groaned, sitting up and pulling his hand back to wipe the blood on his still-damp pants. Riza made a strained tch.

"Don't do that-- just go wash it in the stream. It looks bad." Roy did as he was bidden, Riza hovering at his side as blooms of crimson puffed up like clouds of ink, only to dissipate in the current. It still stung, but the cold water numbed it soothingly. She grabbed his hand again and lifted it to her eye level.

"Well," she declared after prodding it somewhat, "it doesn't look like you'll need stitches. It's not as deep as I thought."

"Well that's good," Roy said. "I guess I'll just bandage it up when we get home and try not to aggravate it for a few days."

"You're not getting out of picking the blueberries with me," Riza warned.

Roy laughed. "I wouldn't have hoped so for even a second. You're a slave driver, you know," he teased her.

Riza flushed a little and pouted, her round cheeks puffing out. "That's not funny, Roy," she grumbled.

"What? Come on, you know I don't mind helping you with your chores," he said earnestly, and Riza flushed even more.

"I know," she said simply, and stood up to finish packing away their field tools.

Roy watched her work, admiring the confidence with which she moved. She was completely in her element, and Roy struggled to imagine her in another setting, perhaps a student in university or a city dweller dressing up fancy and going for drinks at the bar. It didn't seem possible; she belonged here, in the backwoods toting a hunting rifle or carrying groceries from the market on her hip.

Truly, they were from different worlds, Roy thought. But here he was, a city kid sweating in the countryside as he field dressed wild game, and it felt natural. It wasn't so impossible, was it?

Maybe she could belong somewhere else, too, in time.

Roy tried not to think about it.

#fmab #royai #young!royai #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #my writing #idk man im just Writing whatever comes into my head

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years ago

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 15: Midnight Manhattan]

A/N: Hi y’all! Thank you so much for your patience and support. I think it’ll be worth it...this chapter has something you’ve been waiting for. Only three more chapters left after this one! 💜

Chapter summary: A family visit turns awkward, Chrissie loses her cool, Roger and Y/N have a difficult conversation, John tells the truth.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies, miscarriage, cute kids, drama, angst, more drama, more angst.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen @allauraleigh@deakydeacy

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

They say losing a child will destroy a marriage, and you’re sure that’s often true; but it didn’t destroy yours.

Roger is the only one who can truly understand—who can feel that same aching and eternal, ravening absence in his bones—because he’s the only one who lost her too. He mourns with you, he stays awake through long nights with you, and when the future seems too oppressively bleak to imagine he drags you back into the light with tired daybreak smiles exchanged over mugs of tea and songs plucked on his acoustic guitar by the roaring fireplace, stories and jokes, walks through the green trellises of Hyde Park and the marble halls of the British Museum filled with ancient treasures stolen from Egypt and India and the Yucatan Peninsula, Italy and Greece, leaving craters of hollow memory littered across the planet like the imprint of the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.

Together you bury her ashes in the garden behind the Surrey house. John brings you a pot of white calla lilies, and when the weather warms you plant them beside the small black stone carved with two names you never speak: Joan Aurora. Together you watch the blossoms grow up and grow old and wither back into the earth like everything does when the clock runs out, when the universe claims back the debt of life we borrow thinking that we own it. And through it all Roger is so persistently kind and patient and present that you’re willing to try for another pregnancy, despite the odds stacked against you like moving boxes, despite the crushing heartache that another loss would entail; despite your fearful, growing suspicion that in both casinos and the genetic lottery, the house always wins.

It never happens again, and you reach a sort of peace with this; but it’s a peace that makes you feel small and immaterial, like when you think too much about how vast the universe really is, like when you wake up restless before the dawn and wander out onto the cracked cobblestones in the garden as the sun burns the darkness off the world from east to west, watching the stars as they vanish in a sky bloodied with another world’s light.

A year passes, and then another, and then another; and every February 15th John sends you a new pot of white calla lilies to plant in the garden where other people’s children play.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Look, look, look!” Laszlo frenetically waves a crayon illustration in front of your face. On his head is the hat you knitted for him, green and featuring a large white L and with sprigs of fluffy brown hair like John’s peeking out around the edges. “I can draw like Daddy!”

It’s November 24th, 1981, and Queen is in Montreal. The band is playing two sold-out shows, one tonight and one tomorrow, and Brian and John have flown in their families for one last visit to tide their wives and children over until the touring break at Christmas. Laszlo is six years old now, Anna nearly five, Lena three, Antoni—fast asleep and presumably dreaming of such complexities as Hershey’s chocolate bars and Care Bear plushies—two; and there have been no additional Deacon children, a fact which seems to be the source of some disharmony between John and Veronica. What Laszlo has drawn with his rainbow of Crayolas most closely resembles a very chubby banana, but with black spots like a Dalmatian’s.

“Oh my goodness, you’re a young Picasso!” you exclaim. “It’s amazing! It’s a...it’s a...a...” Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up. “It’s a...giraffe...?”

“Yeah!” Laszlo confirms, grinning.

Oh thank god.

“Very impressive,” John tells you. “I would have guessed pineapple with leprosy.”

“It’s not a leopard, Daddy,” Laszlo says seriously.

“Yes of course, I didn’t say leopard, I said leprosy, which is entirely different—”

“It’s not a leopard!” Laszlo insists.

“You heard the kid, Deaks,” Roger says, winking. “No leopards. Come over here, kiddo, let me see the nice giraffe...oh yes, it is so obviously a giraffe, you can tell by the expertly placed spots...”

“You’re so good with them,” Veronica marvels, perhaps not quite approvingly, noting how Antoni is dozing peacefully against your chest, a red hat stitched with a massive A snug over his jumble of auburn hair. “He never sleeps for anyone. Not even me.”

“Being comfortable to nap on is one of my many talents.”

“It’s true,” Roger notes, smiling, combing through the knots in his brittle bleached hair.

“No, no, no, don’t try to be modest, you’ve always been fantastically good at caring for people. I remember Brian was half dead when you brought him home from that hospital in Boston.” Chrissie is sitting on the floor of the dressing room with Anna and Lena, helping to facilitate a glamorous wedding for Barbie and Ken. Teddy and Evelyn, both four years old and with massive mops of dark ringlets, are scribbling on coloring book pages of screeching dinosaurs and plunging prehistoric comets above tangles of jungle treetops.

“Hmm,” Veronica agrees lukewarmly. “You’ll be a wonderful mother to your own one day.”

You wince, bite your lower lip, peer down at Antoni’s pacific little face. His eyes, when they’re open, are a greyish blue like John’s. Chrissie kicks Veronica’s ankle and glares at her. Brian glances over from where he’s tuning his Red Special, one rangy leg propped up on a chair.

“Not so sure that’s in the cards,” you demur.

“Keep praying, dear,” Veronica offers. “The Lord will provide in his own time.”

You blink at her. She stares pityingly back with infuriating, weepy eyes. Everyone is suddenly very quiet, except for Freddie; he starts humming Another One Bites The Dust and taps his white Adidas sneakers in rhythm.

“What uniquely helpful advice,” you reply.

“Well, surely one doesn’t need biological children to be fulfilled in life,” Roger tells Veronica lightly, like it’s a warning.

She looks thunderstruck, like this is such a novel concept, like Roger just shared with her the secret to time travel or immortal life. “Perhaps not, but you know...it’s so terribly important for most women.”

“How feminist,” Chrissie quips, lighting a cigarette, flicking the ashes away irritably.

John leans into Veronica. “Stop it,” you can just barely hear him say.

“It’s interesting you would bring up timing, Veronica,” you observe. “We were all so discrete about yours.”

Freddie snorts, tries to pretend it was a sneeze, smooths his moustache as he studies himself in the mirror.

“I’m just trying to help, love,” Veronica claims innocently. “All this can’t be good for you, this ceaseless globetrotting. Almost never waking up in the same place twice. The stress of it!”

“What do you want her to do?” Roger snaps. “Sit at home nine or ten months out of the year and, what, scrub the windows until I come back? Take up watercolor painting? Knit the world’s largest quilt?”

“I’m just saying that less physical and emotional strain might help with the situation.”

“Because you’re a freaking doctor, right?” Roger flares. Chrissie kicks Veronica again.

“People should spend more time close to home,” she continues, undaunted. “There’s nothing more important than family. Look at me, I should have another on the way by now, but the band’s schedule is simply murderous...”

“Trying for a football team?” you inquire. And in the same moment you realize: This isn’t about me at all. This is about her and John.

Freddie is still humming, modelling his Superman tank top and tight white jeans in the mirror, cinching and re-cinching his belt, sliding a red sweatband unto one wrist. The kids—all except the unconscious Antoni—are giggling and pushing each other around on the slippery linoleum floor, seemingly oblivious. John whispers something to Veronica, his face dark and furious.

“John should be home more,” she bursts out. “For me, for the children—”

Roger scoffs and rolls his eyes. “For christ’s sake, lady, he’s not your bloody lapdog!”

“You don’t really need him,” she protests, almost pleads. “He’s just the bassist, he thought this would be a hobby to fill his time on weekends when he was in school, he didn’t sign up to live this way and Queen could find another bassist and you don’t need him—”

“We do need him! He’s not just some bassist! He’s a genius and he’s irreplaceable and there’s absolutely no Queen without him, we swore to it, I’d leave if he ever did!”

“You did what?!” Brian exclaims. Freddie hums louder, stomping his sneakers to the beat, mock-boxing with his reflection in the mirror. John raises his eyebrows at Roger as if he had assumed Rog wouldn’t remember that, assumed he had never really meant it. Roger, flushed, fumbles with his lighter and finally lights a cigarette on his third attempt.

Antoni stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and Chrissie swoops in to take her turn holding him. She bounces him on her hip as she sashays around the dressing room, casting fierce scowls alternately at Veronica and John and Roger.

“You don’t understand,” Veronica hurls at Roger, lashing out like a cornered animal, her voice raw and splintering. “You’ve never sacrificed anything. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of just falls into your lap. No heartache. No consequences. You don’t know what it’s like to be one of the people who get burned.”

“You don’t know anything about me—!”

“Look, I get it,” you tell Veronica. “You want John to yourself. Anyone would. You want a normal life. But that’s the tradeoff when you love someone brilliant, isn’t it? You have to learn how to share them with the world. Because the world is so much better off with them in it.”

Veronica glowers, venomous and spiteful. She’s wearing makeup tonight, quite heavy makeup; she’s started doing that with increasing frequency. “I have no intention of sharing a husband the way you’ve had to.”

Roger stands, stalks to Veronica, towers over her, blows smoke into her stunned face. “Ma’am,” he says quietly, so the children won’t hear. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Okay, darlings!” Freddie flits over, pulls Roger away, fluffs his hair and straightens his black smock-like shirt as Roger glares around Fred’s shoulder at Veronica. “Fabulous. You look like a ten-year-old about to make a papier-mâché vase for his mum in art class. I adore it. Off you go.” He pushes open the door to the hallway and shoves Roger through it.

Roger nods for you to follow him, and you do.

John frowns as you pass him. I’m so sorry, that expression says.

You shake your head in reply. Not your fault.

Roger slips his arm around your waist as you disappear into the hallway with him.

“That fucking miserable, judgmental, delusional, dogmatic bitch—”

“Shhhhh.” You cup his feverish cheek with your left hand, weighty with the ruby ring he gave you four years ago in New Orleans, and yank the white bandana out of his back pocket with your right. Then you knot it around his neck, smiling. “There. Now you look a little more rock and roll.”

“You’re not mad?” he asks in disbelief. “How are you not mad?”

“She’s clearly very unhappy. I feel sorry for her.” You tug on the bandana gently, fondly. You can hear Chrissie chastising Veronica behind the closed door of the dressing room. “Don’t let it ruin your show.”

“No, I would never.” But his eyes are still distant, unsettled, anxious in a way that is rare for him. “You are a freakishly good person, you know that?”

“I try. Don’t forget to smile so I can get some good pictures.”

“Oh, I’ll smile plenty. Just like this.” A grin splits through his face, and the Roger you know and love is back: bright, triumphant, flashing the daggerish points of his canine teeth. Then he draws you into him and kisses you, his rough hands in your hair, his lips smiling against yours. “Love of my life,” he whispers, rather pensively.

He shakes out his right arm—the one with the jagged scar along the soft vulnerable underside, the one he broke in a stairwell in Yokohama in the spring of 1975—and stretches the hand a few times. And you find yourself wondering, as you always do when he seems distracted like he does now, before he starts staying out late into the night, before he starts coming home drunk or high or not at all: Is he getting bad again? Is he?

I would never have to worry about that if I had married someone like John.

You fling that thought, that inconvenient and perpetual thought, back into the shadows where it came from; like a pebble tossed into the misted tree line of a forest, like a shell pitched into the sea.

“Rog, are you—?”

“I’m fine,” he cuts you off like a blade.

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s someone screaming out in the hallway.

You reel out of bed in the darkness, step into your slippers, yank on your fuzzy white robe. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 4:11 a.m. Roger and Brian had stayed for one more round of drinks at the club when you and Chrissie left to go back to the hotel, Chrissie to relieve her nanny from kid duty, you to quiet a budding headache. You note—with a vague, drowsy sort of dread—that Roger is not in the bed beside you, his hair a disheveled blond mess peeking from beneath the covers, snoring softly, his calloused hands outstretched towards yours. Beyond the door there are earsplitting clashes of broken glass, thumps and pounding footsteps, people shouting. And now you can recognize Chrissie’s voice, shrieking and wrathful: “Now you’ve done it, now you’ve really done it, you’re going to fucking kill her!”

You throw open the door to see Roger crouched against the hallway wall, covering his head with his hands; he is surrounded by shards of glass, tiny hotel shampoo and mouthwash bottles, Bibles ripped from nightstand drawers. He’s dripping with what smells like a combination of every kind of alcohol you’ve ever tasted, and maybe some you haven’t as well.

“I wish she’d never fucking met you!” Chrissie screams, launching a bottle of Grey Goose from the minibar in her room at Roger. It explodes against the wall just above his head, and glass and vodka rain down on him. Brian is unsuccessfully attempting to coax Chrissie back into their room as she ignores him. “I wish she’d never stepped off that fucking plane because the day she agreed to come to London with you was the worst day of her life!”

“Will you stop?!” Roger yells. “Jesus christ, Chris!”

“She saved you,” Chrissie hisses, landing an elbow into Brian’s gut and sending him flying backwards. “She saved your life and this is how you repay her, you disgusting degenerate bastard!”

A bottle of Captain Morgan hits the wall and detonates two inches from Roger’s face.

“What’s going on?!” you shout at Chrissie, your arms crossed over your chest.

A few rooms down the hallway, a door opens and Freddie wanders out in a pink kimono. After a moment, John and Veronica appear from their own room in their pajamas, rubbing bleary eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep so I phoned my mum and guess what’s on the cover of the News Of The World this week.” Chrissie points at Roger. “Go on. Tell her. Tell her what you did.”

He knows; he doesn’t say anything, but he knows. You can see that he does. It’s lurking in the shallow cerulean pools of his glistening eyes like a shadow, like a ghost.

“What did you do?” John asks him, mystified.

Roger doesn’t answer. He’s looking at you, at Chrissie, back to you. It isn’t often that Roger is fearful, acutely and bone-rattlingly afraid; but he is now.

“Fine, you don’t want to own up to it? I’ll do it. I’ll tell her, you coward.” Chrissie spins to you. “Dominique Beyrand is seven months pregnant.”

I’m surrounded by goddamn mothers. “Okay. Good for her.”

Chrissie waits for it to hit you. And then it does.

Oh. Oh.

“Bleeding christ,” you hear Freddie sigh, rubbing his forehead. Veronica covers her gaping mouth with one pale hand, and she doesn’t look smug or vindicated or condemnatory; she looks terrified. John is watching you, you can see him on the periphery of your vision; you are dimly aware of him edging closer as you gaze at Roger, your eyes wide and blurring with tears, your throat burning.

You can’t understand it, can’t imagine it, and then suddenly you can: his fingers threading through her glossy black hair, his lips skating over her neck, promises whispered through nightscape phone calls, haphazard lies whispered to you; reckless, small-boned, doe-eyed children with Dom’s olive skin and Roger’s sharp little canine teeth.

This is the part where I wake up. This is the part where it turns out to be just a hellacious dream.

But you don’t wake up, because this is real.

“Oh,” you exhale, brainlessly, helplessly.

Roger doesn’t sputter some desperate apology, he doesn’t beg you to forgive him. He stares at you with huge, starry blue eyes, booze dripping from his hair, surrender etched into the concave slump of his back and shoulders.

You ask him, already knowing the answer: “It’s not just a fling, is it?”

“No,” he replies miserably. “I thought it was, but it isn’t.”

You nod, those first hot tears spilling down your cheeks. “Okay,” you concede, your words brittle and fracturing. “I’ll file as soon as we get back to London.” File for divorce. File this entire misadventure away in my mind as a horrific and juvenile mistake. Shred the good memories into oblivion so I can’t remember how alive he once made me feel.

That seems to bother Roger, jolts him into urgency. The white bandana is still tied around his neck. “You don’t have to do that—”

“Are you fucking joking?” you pitch at him. “Are you not done humiliating me yet? Am I not ruined enough? Do I somehow still look remotely whole to you?”

John’s hand closes around your wrist. “Don’t,” he tells you gently.

Roger begins: “I never wanted to hurt—”

“But you did,” you seethe, tears slithering down your face. It’s sinking in now, it’s becoming real, it’s materializing from years of gnawing distrust into fact. They were all right about him. They were always right. John’s arms circle you, holding you back as you struggle against him. “You fucking did and I forgave you like an idiot just so you could prove to me over and over and over again how exceptionally little you cared.”

“That’s not true—!”

“You’ve done enough!” Chrissie roars at him. Brian wrestles a bottle of Don Julio out of her grasp. “You deplorable slut, can’t you see that you’ve done enough?!”

Freddie approaches Roger, dusts the glinting flecks of glass out of his hair, wrenches him staggering to his feet.

“Come on,” John murmurs, towing you towards your room. Veronica is tracking him with blazing eyes. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Go ahead, Roger!” you shout as John drags you away, as Roger is corralled into Freddie’s room. “Get clean for her, get clean for her children, tell her she’s the love of your life and marry her and give her a ring but don’t forget to remind her that none of it means a single fucking thing—!”

John stumbles with you into your hotel room. He slams the door behind him, and the world goes deathly quiet. You reel aimlessly, collapse onto the edge of the bed, dazed, staring at the bland landscape paintings on the wall, ticking down the mental list of things you’ll need to get from the Surrey house: photographs, paperwork, John’s sketches, the conch shell from Ostia.

What about the calla lilies? What about her grave?

And there’s another list as well, whether you want there to be or not; a list of things you’ll never feel again.

His teeth grazing my knuckles, his palms cradling my face, his raspy voice as he writes songs on quiet nights, the way he loved our daughter, the way he sets souls alight like wildfire.

John just stands in the middle of the hotel room, heaving in ragged breaths, his hands on his waist. And for a long time, neither of you speak at all.

“Do you want me to stay?” John says finally.

“You can’t,” you reply, thinking of Veronica and the children.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No. I’m fine. I want to be alone.”

He comes to you, lifts your chin with one careful hand, touches his forehead to yours before he leaves. “You are never going to be alone.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You hear the key clatter in the lock, and your hotel room door creaks open. You’re laying on the floor after Queen’s second show in Montreal, staring blankly up at the ceiling, counting the black dots in the tiles like stars, imagining constellations of monsters and heroes and doomed love.

John appears above you, his brow furrowed. He shuttled all of Roger’s things to Freddie’s room after you packed them up this morning, then he took Roger’s key. “What are you doing?”

“Fantasizing about my own death.”

He checks his watch. “Will you be done in twelve minutes?”

“What happens in twelve minutes?”

“We have to leave for the afterparty on a yacht.”

You groan, sitting upright, rubbing your sore and sleepless eyes with the heels of your hands. “I can’t do it, John. I don’t have it in me tonight. I can’t mingle with all of those obnoxious music industry people. ‘Yes, hi, hello, yes it’s true, I am the sad barren soon-to-be-ex-wife, oh what a charming nineteen-year-old model mistress you have on your arm there, I too was once young and desirable and disastrously stupid.’”

He smiles. “You’re still somewhat desirable.”

“Thanks.” You reach up, take his hands, let him help you to your feet.

“You realize if you don’t go I’m going to have to hide in the corner and compulsively eat miniature quiches all by myself.”

“Your enchanting wife isn’t attending?”

“She wanted to stay with the children. Also, she hates me.”

You chuckle. “She doesn’t hate you. She passionately does not hate you, which is the problem.”

“So you’ll come with me.”

You mull this over. “Can I get so drunk I forget I exist?”

“Sure. If you promise to stay near me and away from the water.”

“Yes, I suppose that you, as a convicted felon, would be high on the list of suspects if I was to go overboard.”

“Losing you would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. Who would I call to post my bail?”

You laugh as you beam up at him, knot your fingertips through his hair, see your silhouette reflected in his greyish eyes that today remind you of storm clouds, of torrential autumn rain, of thunder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go to your torturous yacht party.”

“Aww, what a tragedy, being forced to enjoy all the trappings of stardom” John teases, and then you can see the regret wrinkle across his face; because people don’t joke about things like tragedies around you anymore.

“It’s a hard life,” you agree. “But it feels a little easier when you’re around.”

You slip into a dark blue dress and heels and your bomber jacket that doesn’t match at all. John meets you in the hallway in a black suit. You share a limo with Brian and Chrissie, who chatter nervously about anything they can think of that doesn’t involve Roger or marriage or children or love. Bri points out constellations through the open moonroof as frigid Canadian air pours in and rattles your dangling diamond earrings, whips through your hair. John smooths the runaway strands, rests his arm across the back of your seat, smiles in a tranquil sort of way and actually appears to pay attention as Brian narrates the stories of the stars and their celestial families: Pegasus, Aquarius, Pisces, tiny Triangulum, the lightning strike zigzag of Lacerta, Perseus.

“You look gorgeous,” Chrissie tells you, and she seems to mean it.

“Thank you,” you reply politely. “If only I was also French and fertile.”

The yacht is docked on the bank of the Saint Lawrence River, an island of roaring laughter and music and twinkling strands of lights in an ocean of night. John leads you onboard, waves at the photographers who douse you in flashbulb luminescence, stands with you by the railing at the stern of the vessel as it pulls out into the river. Periodically some palpably accomplished stranger will appear, shake John’s hand, start asking him about You’re My Best Friend or Another One Bites The Dust or Under Pressure; but mostly the two of you are left alone. You drain flute after flute of pink champagne as John nurses his Manhattans, debating the merits of the various appetizers; you—ever the proud Bostonian—are partial to the bite-sized lobster rolls, while John prefers the Swedish meatballs speared on puzzlingly tropical toothpick umbrellas.

Roger is on the yacht too of course, and every once in a while you catch a glimpse of his blond hair or his blush-colored polka dot suit, hear his voice carried on the cold November wind; and you ignore this as much as you can. Twice he starts migrating towards you, and you and John pretend not to notice, dart through the crowds to the other side of the boat, your hand clasped in John’s as he weaves relatively anonymously through ballgowns and suits and reporters’ microphones. And he peeks back at you, grinning, and says: “I bet you’re thrilled no one knows who I am tonight.”

Chrissie steals you away briefly to keep her company when Brian gets snared into an excruciatingly dull interview about Queen’s next album; and when Brian comes to collect her, John greets you with a fresh glass of champagne in one hand and his fourth Manhattan in the other.

“You better make sure you don’t go overboard, Mr. Deacon,” you say, taking the champagne flute and resting your forearms on the yacht’s railing as waves break against the hull. Freshwater mist peppers your cheeks, your collarbones, the backs of your hands. Through the speakers pluck the opening notes of Hotel California. “Oh god. This song.”

“Fond memories?” John asks with a smirk. “That whole night is a blur to me.”

“It makes me think of sharks for some reason. And the Olympics.”

“It makes me feel...” He considers this. “Overwhelmed with self-loathing.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re the least loathable person I’ve ever met.” You sip your champagne, gaze out into the moonlit currents that run from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean, to the shores of every place you’ve ever called your own. “How long did Dante live in exile from Florence?”

“Twenty years.”

You whistle. “That’s a long time to be away from home.” The fingers of your left hand clutch the railing, which is gold and sturdy and stingingly cold. “I feel a little like him sometimes. Except as you get older, home starts to feel less like places and more like people.” You twist off your ruby ring, glance down at it fleetingly, and toss it out into the glistening black waters of the Saint Lawrence River.

John looks over at you. “It’s really over, isn’t it?”

You nod slowly, mournfully. “Yeah. It’s really over.”

“And how are we feeling about that?”

“Relieved. Petrified. Exhausted. Mostly I’m just sad.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “For everything.”

“Why? None of it was your fault.” You sigh, shake your head, peer out into the river, into the night sky, into the stars. “Maybe this is a good thing, you know? A blessing in disguise or whatever. I can move on knowing I did everything I could to salvage the marriage. I can be free. No more waiting up at night for someone who isn’t coming home. No more searching through pockets and suitcases for white powder or used needles. No more News Of The World headlines.”

John is still staring at you.

“What?” you ask, smiling warily.

He downs the rest of his Manhattan, twirls the glass as the ice cubes clink against each other. Finally, he says: “I could have given you a very different kind of life.”

Your lips, slick with gloss and tingling with sharp carbonation from the champagne, part to ask John what he means; but then you know. Your voice is a quivering, astonished whisper. “It was about me. You’re My Best Friend.”

“Yeah, it was. And most of the others were too.”

It was about me. All those years ago, that song was about me. And it still is.

“John...”

“I watched you fall in love with Roger, watched him fall in love with you. Watched this agonizing fucking dance that you do...he can’t give you what you want, you can’t be happy with less...and I just kept waiting to wake up one day and not want you anymore. And it never happened.” He laughs, briefly, bitterly. “I mean, for christ’s sake, I refused to propose to the mother of my child until I was sure you’d stay with Roger because I thought...I thought...you know, maybe. Maybe one day you’d change your mind. And I wanted to be there if you did.”

You gaze at him, soaking him in, unambiguously aware that there is no part of you that is afraid, no part of you that is shuddering or surrendering or apprehensive; there is no instinctive chorus begging you not to fall in love with him. There’s no sensation of falling at all. It feels like you’re somewhere you’ve never left.

“I know that next to someone like Roger Taylor I don’t look like much,” John confesses. “That I don’t feel like much. That I don’t light anything up the way he does. And if you can’t imagine a future with someone who isn’t him, someone who isn’t like him...then I completely accept that. But you’re always going to feel like home to me.”

You’re My Best Friend. You And I. Spread Your Wings. In Only Seven Days. Need Your Loving Tonight.

They were all about me. They were always about me.

“John...”

You don’t know what to say. You know exactly what to say.

From the crowd, a man dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and holding a Cuban cigar bellows for John. He whirls, offers a shy wave, trots over to say hello. But as they discuss concerts and albums and tours, John’s eyes meet yours through the sea of strangers and cigarette smoke, through the shifting shadows cast by flickering incandescence and moonshine.

And you watch him as the constellations and all their stars rage above, the same stars that in the time of Dante sailors read to point them home.

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maurianasravenholdt · 4 years ago

Text

I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently. There has always been (understandably) a great deal of focus on the events of Nightwing 93, where Catalina rapes Dick. And that is horrible and traumatic, but I also wanted to explore the events that lead up to that culmination. The horror and sadness that Dick survived before he was violated. Too often, the cumulative traumas of that run are eclipsed by the sexual assault near the end. But trauma isn't a competition, and Dick's strength in pushing forward deserves at least a one-shot.

So here it is - another practice piece.

Grief has a Gravity

All Dick wanted was home. John Law’s stories, His neighbors’ gentle smiles. The smell of his father’s leather jacket, the faces of his parents forever captured on the “Flying Graysons” poster hung proudly by the front door. But it was all gone. Taken. Razed for the singular crime of being associated with him. Like a perverted king Midas, he was cursed - not with a touch of gold, but one of death and destruction. He was poison

His eyes blurred with tears behind his mask, and he took a deep, trembling breath. Rain was coming, he smelled it in the air. He could only hope the weather held. Just for a little while. Long enough that he could lie down somewhere in secret and let his aching muscles rest. Sleep would be too much to ask.

Finally, too spent to keep searching for the best place to lay his head, he found a sturdy-enough fire escape landing attached to a largely empty, run-down apartment building. For a moment, he contemplated breaking into an unoccupied unit and taking respite there, but ultimately decided against it. It was enough of a risk sleeping outside. Going in could mean death for the people in this building, too. If Roland Desmond found him. And Blockbuster seemed to be everywhere, these days. Suffocating him.

There were some discarded newspapers trapped in the corner where the bars of the railing met the steel grates of the floor. Carefully, with numb hands, he pressed them flat against the landing. Then, before the wind could sweep them up, he laid down on top, shivering against the poorly guarded metal.

Rest was supposed to do him good. His feet ached and throbbed, his ribs felt like they were split in two, the fissure opening more and more with each breath. The cut on his cheek, a gift from Shrike, stung when he swallowed or worked his jaw. Dried sweat, blood, and dirt caked his face, his suit. Unfamiliar stubble scratched at his skin. He was a mess.

Poisonous, his mind growled viciously.

And really, it was true. Everything in his orbit was turning to rubble. The smell of ash and death clung to his hair, nearly gagging him. He hadn’t felt this weak, this defeated since…

Since he sat beside his parents cracked and broken corpses, wailing with his hands covered in their blood.

There was blood on his hands again, even if it was a different sort. Everyone that died, died because of him. His fault. Poisonous. Even Catalina could see that, and she was a murderer.

Maybe, by proxy, Dick was one too, now.

He couldn’t stop shivering. Whether from the frigid, damp air or the potent self-loathing he couldn’t be sure. It didn’t really matter. He grabbed a spare piece of filthy newspaper and pulled it up to his shoulders. A mockery of a blanket, but he chased the warmth of his breath against it until his body finally gave in to a restless sleep, just as the sun started to poke through the oppressive clouds.

It was nearly nightfall before he jolted awake. An alley cat glared at him angrily, its squashed face dominating his vision. He heaved himself up into a sitting position carefully, giving the animal space when it hissed and spat at the sudden movement. Offended, it gracefully leapt down the fire escape and ran out of sight. There was humor in the situation - something about him stealing a cat’s perch - Dick was sure of that, but he couldn’t find it. Instead, he got to his feet, pulled up the top of his uniform, and took stock of his injuries - a task that should have been completed before he fell asleep. Careless. Reckless. Poisonous.

Separated ribs at least. A deep gash that still bled sluggishly, that he knew he should stitch. His torso was a mottled mess of bruises and cuts. Gingerly, he dug around in the bag Alfred had brought to the apartment memorial. “A few odds and ends”, he had said. There were some clothes, some granola bars, and - blessedly - a host of first aid supplies. He set to work, flinching only a little as he rubbed disinfectant into the gashes littering his skin. Suturing was a mechanical process, and Dick buried dark thoughts.

This doesn’t matter. You don’t matter. You destroy everything you touch. Poisonous.

Indulging that line of thinking was a poison all its own. After all, the job mattered. Stopping Blockbuster mattered. It was the only way to keep the people in his world - the people who were his world - safe. Whatever happened after that…

He kept stitching.

Then there was the matter of his suit. Nearly in tatters. He grabbed another suture kit and pulled the fabric taut, weaving the needle in and out carefully, like Alfred had taught him. Alfred… He had seen Alfred just days ago. Now he was at risk too. Poisoned. Would Desmond take him, too? Or Bruce? How long would it be before everyone he loved…

No. Stop thinking. Keep stitching.

When at last he was done, he redressed himself carefully, making sure to be gentle with his injuries. The suit was damaged, his body was damaged, and his heart had been torn asunder. But he wasn’t helpless. Not yet. There was still time. He could atone for the losses of those at the circus, at his apartment, by stopping this madness his way. The right way. He just had to trap Roland. Implicate him in the destruction. Get a confession out of him, whatever it took. It was the least Dick could do.

He looked out at the darkening sky and took a deep determined breath. He may be bruised and hurting, but he wasn’t broken. Not yet.

It was time to get to work.

#Dick Grayson #Nightwing 93 #CW rape #mention of rape in description #Nightwing #Batman #Fanfic #One Shot

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grimoire-of-seven · 5 years ago

Note

hello lovely!!! i’ve been having just an awful time at school, so i was wondering if u could do a hc of one of the demon boys comforting the mc when they’re overwhelmed?? it would make my day thank uuu xoxo

PROMPT: “I’m here for You”

Rating: SFW || Barbatos’ Warning: Vague main story plot spoilers at Beelzebub’s headcanon.

Words: 300-600

Characters: Demon Boys + MC / Gender-Neutral Reader

Notes: I suppose, what I got after writing this prompt is that no matter what, you deserve to take a break every once in a while despite your mind telling otherwise. I hope you’ll enjoy this!~

Lucifer

Letting your shoes walk you around the House of Lamentation for some fresh air or change of scenery, your bedroom, a place where your bones could rest, became more like a pressure cooker with piles of your homework, additional projects and materials to read occupying your desk that it became obvious that shutting yourself in could not do any good.

With your fingers fidgeting, your worries came like waves clashing to the shore without any rock to interfere, the conversation with your favored professor was a subject that was hard to dismiss and with the exams fast approaching…

Perhaps the fireplace by the common room would be settling.

Or a nice distraction that is..

“Is something the matter, dear?”

Like a feline jerking from a sudden touch or caress of its owner, you clumsily tried to composed yourself, looking to your rear as to who might have spoken, seeing only a prominent string pulled to his chin.

“Oh. It’s just you, Lucifer. Thought I was having some paranormal experience for a sec.”

“Paranormal?”

“Well.. your outfit seems to blend in with the sofa.”

Watching him place his hand close to his chest, an invitation escaped through his lips, asking you to sit beside him with your body just seemingly comply with it, tired should you think about it further.

“You are pursing your lips once more, human. It is like you do not have any lips anymore.”

“I don’t!”

“And your fingers are back in fidgeting again. You only do both of those things when you are upset and in terrible discomfort.”

Silence.

Sensing how this might have been a private matter, with your lips tightly shut and eyes that are so unsure where to look, the Avatar of Pride himself knew too well how it must feel with other people insist on meddling with your own business. Offering you the cup of tea he had brewed himself for, he spoke in a gentle manner, a contrary when hearing him shout his brother’s name; “You could always tell me what is bothering you, dear. However, should it be something personal and intimate, you could always have a nice cup of tea to think it with and I would not insist on the subject. We could just silently stare by the fire and be distracted together.”

Self-consciously trying to compose yourself as you took the offer, it took courage for you to take hold of his hand, making the conversation into a confession;

“Well.. it is just about my academic performance…”

What supposed to feel awkward and perhaps humiliating, none of those surfaced with the light-bringer listening intently, much so that it felt good to be able to find someone to talk to and release what had been oppressed for only your mind to argue with.

More so, to share it with a nice warm chamomile tea.

.. And it is just all overwhelming.”

“I understand,” the Avatar of Pride remarked, as he poured more tea to your cup, followed by a string of advice that brought enlightenment to your studies. Perhaps, to a demon who is prompt to every work, his advice would really help.

“Say,” inching closer; “If it is fine with you, I could accompany you until you feel like returning to your room. Perhaps I could escort you then.”

“Would you not have agendas to attend?”

“Nonsense.” He chuckled.

“I would like to accompany you for once. It seems my brothers have been taking too much of your time and with this opportunity, I would not want to miss spending more time with you.”

Mammon

“Hey! Ya ready?”

Bursting through the door like your room is his too, as he makes a race to the bed to your side, it is obvious that your great Mammoney is really on the mood for trouble.

“You could go ahead, Mammon… I don’t think I am in the mood…”

“Go ahead? But I only count myself in ‘cause ya agreed.”

Pursing your lips, they were only duplicated by the white-haired boy’s brows, now all stitched together.

“What’s wrong?”

Turning to meet his gaze, this little gesture made the Avatar of Greed’s cheeks crimson red, this intimate space between you was something he was so waiting to capture alone. Something that he could perhaps thank God for?

Or Diavolo?

Or Lucifer.. Definitely Lucifer..

With every one of them banned from using D.D.D., it seems they just went on with their business and they didn’t even bother pestering their little human.

And what’s a great Mammon got to do in this situation?

- Not waste the opportunity.

“Nothing..”

“Nothing?” Sitting up as he took a good look of you, it was obvious that you were not well. He may be what his brothers call stupid but he isn’t that stupid now. “What is it?”

“Just a bunch of schoolwork. They’re just getting on my nerves.”

Erecting from the soft mattress you and he just shared for a few seconds to get a sense of his surroundings, there were several open books sitting by your desk. One look and he knew exactly what it meant.

And that is your room is turning into Satan’s room with all the clutter there is on one side of the room.

Truth be told, he had been in that situation. Stuck on an academic project or an exam to pass and he knew just the right solution to get it out of their exchange student’s peabrain.

Or as everyone else calls it, a break.

“You could just… leave me here and tell me if the prank went right… Sorry about this…” you said so with your head already planning how to manage the time to get all your work done, making a walk already to the desk to reread your notes from the day’s lecture to get a grasp once more on what to do.

And obviously, the Avatar of Greed didn’t take this as a hint to leave.

“Well…” Mammon went on contemplating, “I did not like making fun of Lucifer anyway.”

Lies.

“I always get the short end of the stick with him anyways. It’s all fun and games until you could hear that cry for my name at the end. And that’s when you’ll know, I screwed up.”

“How about this,” the demon schemed, “We go shopping! Huh? Ain’t that fun while not necessarily trying to think about how much we’re gonna spend?”

“Lucifer would not like this..”

“Who cares if he doesn’t. I already got my credit card thanks to you anyways.”

Unable to suppress a smile since you already knew how this would end to both of you, mostly him, getting in trouble, it was that smile that made him more convinced to take you out of the room.

“Whaddya say? Are you in?”

“You.. are going to spoil me? With your credit card?”

“Well.. as long as I don’t get tempted at buying something.”

Knowing how that would be difficult to the literal embodiment of Greed, you could not help but feel sorry and laugh at the same time to this moment.

“What if Lucifer decides to tie you up upside down again?”

“I got you to untie me up again.”

Ha!

“Don’t count on your chances.”

Taking the first step out of the door, you could only hear what seems to be a cry of desperation trying to catch up with you.

“Hey, human! Just what do you mean by that?”

Leviathan

Leviathan: Hey, you okay?

Leviathan: We’re supposed to meet a while ago to check if my package from Akuzon has arrived.

Leviathan: You still there?

….

…

Leviathan: Hey normie! Come into my room. Quick!

Why?

Leviathan: I have something to show you. Just hurry!

Leviathan: I’ll be here waiting for you.

And that was how you were hoisted from your room and off to the otaku’s. With your previous class just overwhelmingly taking too much of your energy, it could have been easy to dismiss the text and decline… but it is obvious that he wants to spend some time with you and it sure was convincing enough to get you walking from the hallway to his room.

And here you are, knocking thrice to his door.

“Took you quite a while.” He remarked, seemingly letting your tardiness pass as you dragged yourself inside, something the Avatar of Envy himself noticed.

“Are you okay?”

Were you always that easy to read?

“Just had a bad day.”

“I got something for you.”

With your eyes recognizing the green gem by the monitor of his sleek computer set, the said headline or icon of the game continued rotating until it went to the title screen. It has been quite a while since you have last played it, reminiscing the random shenanigans you ought to do at your saved file, your reaction somehow observed by the other entity in the room; “Have you ever played Sims before?”

“Only at an internet café..”

With his eyes somehow judging you closely, it was all shrugged off as he invited you to take a seat beside his gaming chair, hugging his Ruri-chan body pillow as he gave the controls to you;

“How about we make a new game and create our Sims? Game?”

Letting the visual cues guide you in properly making a household like a spark did an idea popped up and sure enough, this would take your mind off from worrying, at least, while the loading screen is out in the way;

“How about we design each other’s sims?”

“Eh?!”

Completely disagreeing to the idea, his cheeks only got more flustered, making him snuggle his face by the pillow in retreat; “Each other’s sims? But I could design my own Sims. How about we just go straight in designing our house instead?.”

It is too bad for him you got the controls. Selecting the sex “male” by the top corner, you began customizing the sims by removing every article of clothing to get a better picture of what you are working with.

“That’s unnecessary!” Exclaimed the blushing demon to your right but his cries were all ignored as you went through the categories, truly immersed in making the most accurate Leviathan sims yet!

“You have those striking sun-like eyes…” Squinting by the monitor as the zoom were not enough, every click and scroll to the menu, you would take a good look at him before returning to the monitor; “…and that stunning hair swept to your right. And your jawline just beautiful like that…”

“I think that just looks like me already, normie! Let’s move one!”

“And then your nose is a perfectly pointy and lips just thin yet striking…”

“Hey, I said that’s enough! Let’s design our house already!”

It has already come into conclusion to Leviathan that there is no getting through you. Not when you are engrossed and unbothered to his plea of taking the controls back as he somehow just keep on getting these remarks about him that all sounded like a compliment.

From his hair to his eyes… From his nose to his lips…

It is too much for an otaku to take in.

“And done!” Happily concluding your creation where you almost forgot naming it “Levia-chan”, turning to your right, you could just see the Avatar of Envy covering his crimson red cheeks with his hands that are accentuated with a blue-colored nail polish.

“I almost forgot about the nail polish! Wait!”

Just as you were to turn, he used the wheels of his chair to push you aside, sending you at the farthest left of the screen, giving him the full reins to the mouse, envious already to make you flustered just as he was;

“And now it’s my turn, normie.”

Satan

Knock knock knock

“I will bethere in a second!”

Knock knock knock

“Who isthere knocking so late this evening?”

Knock knock knock

“I swear,Mammon, if you are here to borrow money, forget abou—“

“Oh..human..”

Perhapscalling out for the Avatar of Wrath’s help after dinner is not a good idea..

“I did notrealize it’s already that late.. I could just come back tomorrow.”

Trying notto get on his worse side considering there is no Lucifer or any of the brothersto interfere, your heels were already inching farther from the door, biddingyour goodbye already with a smile when;

“It is justfine. You already caught my attention, after all.” His remark making you pausefrom moving away; “What is it?”

But then again.. is your concernsomething to make him allot more time with you? He seems already bothered whenyou were knocking the door.

“It’sjust.. nothing..”

“Nothing?”With his brows knitted to one another, it is a definite statement to say, hewould not be letting go of the subject;

“If it isnothing, you would have not knocked on my door thrice.”

There is nopoint denying it, no?

“It is justthat…”

“Yes?”

“I find thelesson a while ago…

“Human..”

His handsoon came across to your shoulders, his face closer;

“Whateverit is that is bothering you, you could say it to me.”

All right..

“I justfind the lesson a while ago.. quite difficult to comprehend..”

Gesturingyou to come in, perhaps it is only to your senses as to how awkward was itwatching Satan disappear on his clutter of books, only hearing his footstepsand the door shutting on its own. Seconds that soon turned to a minute, it wasunnerving how still it was, making you resort to a conversation;

“Is thereanything I could help you with?”

Followed bya series of footsteps, his head soon popped up along with several books on hisarm, carried like an infant to its mother.

“No need. Ifound what I need. Just that this room, needs organizing at the weekends.”

You couldfeel your fingers fidgeting, knowing not how to continue the talk but withapologies muttered under your breath;

“There isno need to apologize. I am most glad that I could help you.” Looking up, therewas nothing more but a genuine smile painted on his lips, something you werenot accustomed to but something you are comfortable with.

“How aboutwe discuss the lesson at your room? Mine might not provide the proper studyarea, to say the least.”

Was that a little joke added in?

“I could alwayshelp you sort your books if you want!” Offering the deal, for once, Wrathhimself cooled down and just fine.

“Deal.”

Asmodeus

“If it isnot our little human.~”

With thedemon approaching you by your seat at the dining, shopping bags occupying bothof his hands, your head could only take a quick look before declining once moreon your arms.

“What areyou sulking about? You know how that is a big no-no for getting a beautifulface like me.~”

“Not really helping, Asmodeus…”

Pouting hislips, you could hear the chair being pulled as he soon sat down, his shoppingbag all over by the table like how their meals were at the House of Lamentation.

“Are youfrustrated?”

“No. I’mhappy.”

Trying notto make this seem more of a topic considering how petty you think the case was,the Avatar of Lust did not take his eyes away from you, observing every movethe muscles in your face makes.

“Iunderstand. You do not want to talk about it then my lips are sealed.”

That was easy.

“But yougot to let me use your hands, please?”

Your hands?

“Morespecifically your fingers, sweetie.~”

Your fingers? Sweetie?

What isAsmodeus up to?

“What areyou gonna do?”

Looking athim search the largest paperbag, his hands were soon holding tons of nailpolishes, lining them all up on the hard surface as he kept on digging anddigging to the bag and out for your eyes to see, all so diverse and unique onits own.

There weremattes, gels, chromes, metallic, glitters, and pearls that are of differenthues, each one of them screaming to be tested out and was that little category orgroup by the farthest end of the line.. holographic?

“Likingwhat you see? I got them on a sale and the saleslady was happy to help me carrymy cart.~”

“I do notwant my soft skin and beautiful body pushing and doing any physical activityaside fro—“

“Asmo…”

“Right!”Flipping his hair, you definitely had a clearer vision of how his eyes areenamored to his newest collection that pray tell, still has a space on hisroom.

“Anyways.. Icould not test them all out to you, that would take us years but..”

Here it is!For whatever reason, his excitement was contagious as you scanned the wholeline of nail polish. Something you could not afford but could experience it nowwith the Narcissus.

“Which onedo you prefer? You only got to pick three.~”

You will definitely need more thanthree.

Beelzebub

Down went another cup of strawberry-filled yogurt.

With your room a dumpster of books and lecture notes, the kitchen became your little paradise. It has been an hour since you sat down and it is becoming more and more discouraging to do any work despite your brain stressing enough to do move on and start ahead.

It had been like this for a couple of days already. Wasting the whole day then contemplating and scolding yourself for not doing anything related to academics that eating became a form of coping up with the stress. If only things could be simpler then maybe…

GROOOOOoooWWLLL

“Did Lucifer put you again on patrol to the fridge?”

Looking at your blinky box, the Avatar of Gluttony himself is rather prompt to his tummy schedule; 6 o’clock in the evening.

“Nope.. Help yourself.”

Like a giant going in for a snack, you could hear containers and bottles clinking and shifting as Beel started rummaging, closing the door with his feet as both hands were occupied with containers labeled with his name.

“Wow.. you’re going to eat all of that?” Honestly, by now, this amount of food should not come as a surprise anymore. Especially after you witnessed him devour a whole buffet Barbatos prepared during their retreat at Diavolo’s.

“Nope.”

Huh?

“I figured you would want some too. Eating yogurt is not really going to make a cut.”

Laying down two mugs, two plates, two dainty spoons, and a butterknife, it is difficult not to think about what would you be eating that would require a knife.

“What do you have on the menu, Beel?”

“Well…” he soon began opening every lid known to mankind, overwhelming what seems to be a little breakfast table by the kitchen; “We got a cheesecake, red velvet cake, some chocolate-chip muffins, vanilla ice cream, and a chocolate drink to go along with it.”

That is more than what your tummy could bargain for.

“Belphegor and I used to bond like this whenever he is conflicted too.. And since you are now part of our family, you could always talk to me if something bothers you.”

Beel..

Perhaps talking it out rather than letting it grow within would not hurt a fly or Beelzebub’s appetite as he just munched and munched while listening intently. You could tell he has his attention to your story as he would nod and would look at you to see if you are eating as well. And you are definitely getting a slice of the cheesecake with a scoop of the cold dessert on top; He might have said something along with the chomp but it was hard to fathom with bits and pieces of food intervening and crumbs already escaping the inevitable in his mouth.

“Thank you, Beel.”

Watching how he could not wipe the titbits off near his lips, it became quite an eyesore that your hand went subconsciously searching for your handkerchief before leaning in, your face several inches from him;

“W-what are you doing, human?”

And with the napkin guided with your index finger, you wiped away what was intruding by the demon’s lips, meeting its doom instead at a cloth.

“Thanking you. I am all stuff and I feel better now, because of you.”

Genuinely smiling for the first time in days, what you said ended with a hug and you could not help but notice how his body got warmer but his arms stiffer too.

Belphegor

“Taking anap always helps, human.”

Tempted tooblige, even just for fifteen minutes to refresh yourself from being stressedby the day’s lectures, it was something you regarded to as a waste of timeconsidering how reality defies expectations. One minute you plan to only take arest for fifteen minutes and you would open your eyes to see you have beensleeping for an hour or two.

It does nothelp as well if you would just lie down either. Planning to only lie down forfive minutes only to extend it if the minute hand would go to six minutes.

“I do notthink so, Belphie.”

Feeling themattress pushed down, you could sense him taking a seat beside you, looking atyour distraught features with his drowsiness leaving the conversation, even forjust a moment.

“Why not?”

“Well..taking a short nap only makes it worse for me..”

“How come?”

“Well,”heaving out a sigh, it somehow brought to your knowledge how tired andexhausted you are from all the learning and lectures you have to remember..flashbacks of how those three hours of lecture became much more of a torture astime progresses slowly..

“It’s justthat.. instead of working and rereading the lectures for next week’s testdespite almost drowsing off by the last hour, I am wasting it on taking abreak.”

Facing theother side of the bed, your mind wants you to take a stand and resume onstudying, your body declined such proposition and soon, came in another insidebattle.

Having aninternal dilemma, it took you quite a while to sense a rather stronger forcepushing down the mattress, sensing it as your position went wobbly before itall came to a halt, with the Avatar of Sloth himself sitting nearly beside you,feet dangling on the floor.

“But what’sthe sense of working if you are under stress?”

Under stress..

“Wouldn’tthat only affect the quality of your work or how you would perform at least?”

You havenot thought of that..

It wasalways a race with time.. but what about that aspect?

“I..”

“How aboutyou take a nap and I’ll wake you up?”

The Avatar of Sloth… waking you up?The embodiment of sleep and 5-minutes snoozes, waking you up?

“Hey! Don’tlook at me like I’ll let you down. I’ll wake you up, I swear.”

Seeing himtrying his best to make himself the suitable alarm clock, in retreat did youlie down, unable to suppress a giggle, or even a snort by how soft hisreactions were;

“Hey, cutthat out! If you won’t stop and sleep, I’ll sing Kumbaya out loud.”

And thatwas your queue for your eyes to shut tight.

#obey me game #obey me shall we date #obey me #obey me headcanons #anon ask #lucifer #mammon #leviathan #satan #asmodeus #beelzebub #belphegor #mod shin-seul

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fedtothenight · 5 years ago

Text

East of Eden

This is the fourth and last (for now) instalment of paper stories, set, chronologically, before the events of the other stories.

#1 Paper Bodies #2 King of Hearts #3 The bumblebee doesn’t know #4 East of Eden

If you’d like support me, this is my ko-fi page.

Warnings for this are homophobia, shitty parents, mention of past abuse, and mentions of (future) character death.

Summary: When his parents walk in on him and Leonardo, Dario doesn’t know that this is only the first domino to fall, in a long chain of events that will last years.

EAST OF EDEN

Prologue

The first time lost you, betrayal had the taste of cherries and the colour of blood and the warmth of the sun at the end of June and the endless hours of the longest day of the year. It was 2009. I could not know that yet, but these hours would become weeks, then months and finally years, in an endless solstice. Even now, now that you're gone again, you linger on me, like smudged make-up on cheeks and sand on skin, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to wash you away forever.

When Ciccio opens the door to his house, he is only wearing Legea black shorts and a sleepy, confused expression. He makes room for him, keeping the door open, and gestures to come inside.

Almost five minutes ago, he called him and waited for three rings before he answered the phone. "Mate, it's two o'clock," he began, whiny, "what is it?"

He told him to open the door, because he was just outside. He also asked him for a towel and some ice, and Ciccio repeated to him, more worried now, "What’s going on?" He replied that he would tell him later, while his temple throbbed and the headache seemed to be splitting his skull in two, and Ciccio cursed, there was a rustle of sheets, and the line falling. His next message only said: "Don’t make any noise".

Now, he gestures to be quiet, his forefinger against his lips, and to take off his shoes. His eyes widen, focused on the encrusted blood that colours the left side of his face, but he doesn’t say anything. He goes to the kitchen and takes out a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, wrapping it in a kitchen towel taken from a drawer and being careful to close the drawer and the door gently, to make as little noise as possible.

Dario takes his Nike shoes off, and, pressing the bag to his temple, follows him up the stairs and then into his room at the end of the corridor. Ciccio yawns and, after closing the door slowly, lets himself fall onto the bed. "Then? What is that? What did you do to your face?"

Dario counts up to three, then to ten, until Ciccio repeats, "Mate, what the fuck happened?", in dialect, and he is staring at him worriedly, his bare forearms resting on his crossed legs.

Don’t throw up. "I can’t go home," Dario manages to say in spite of himself, and only halfway through the sentence he realises that his eyes are wet. That his throat is constricted, that it’s hard to swallow. He presses the frozen peas against the temple.

"Shit, mate, what the fuck did you get yourself into?" asks Ciccio.

While the weight on his chest becomes heavier, more oppressive, Dario manages to say: "Giulia's boyfriend." He breathes in and out, open-mouthed, quickly, shifting his gaze to the crumpled sheet at the foot of the bed, and adds: "I messed up. I hooked up with Leonardo.”

The first time was feverish, fast, with no opportunity for remorse and second thoughts. The second time, it was impulsive, a coincidence made possible by a missed appointment. The third time, however, was wanted, searched, studied, and so were the fourth, the fifth, and all the others, up to this. Until the last one.

Giulia remained motionless in front of them, her hand still clutching the door handle, for an indefinite number of seconds, victim and witness together. Even before he heard his father ask if he was in his room, or heard his steps nearing, the realisation came, with a clarity that comes only in hindsight, that they should have stopped after the first time, when it could still be one mistake and not the umpteenth. Or, anyway, that they should have paid more attention, as to hear the noise of the car parking outside, the keys in the lock, and the first steps into the house.

And soon after, his father was at the door, and he looked at them, and he said nothing, nothing, nothing. He looked at him, at Leonardo, at their clothes discarded on the ground - the socks, the t-shirts, the shorts, the pairs of jeans - and then up to their naked bodies. A part of him knew he should begin to feel the panic grow, swallow him down. He knew he was supposed to say, "It’s not what it looks like," and find an excuse, and ask for forgiveness. But it was exactly as it seemed.

And then Giulia asked, her voice just a peep, "What does this mean?"

And that's how Dario, instead of asking for forgiveness, or crying, or finding an excuse, began to laugh, and said, in perfect Italian, “It means that your boyfriend is a fag."

When he opens his eyes, the sun filters through the curtains and Ciccio is still asleep beside him. For a long second, he watches him sleep and wonders, confused, still sleepy, why he is here and not at home, not in his bed, not with...

And the memories resurface. Not like ancient shipwrecks, not like treasures: they resurface like corpses pushed to the shore by the waves. The cut on his eyebrow hasn’t bled for hours, the bag of frozen peas is back in its place in the freezer and the towel is in the dirty laundry, but when he touches his temple it feels swollen, still painful.

He remembers stumbling as he ran down the stairs, cutting his right eyebrow open, and, before that, that his father had begun to scream, but that he had not been able to take his eyes off Giulia's betrayed expression, from her gaze following Leonardo's movements as he got dressed, with her hands clasped on her mouth; he remembers the pleasure that followed, for a short, intense moment, and remembers Leonardo, his fear-stricken face, as if he had been caught committing a crime, as if, unmoving at the door, there wasn’t his girlfriend - the girl he had cheated on, over and over again, with her own brother - but something far more terrifying, as if she were the executioner and not the victim.

He checks the phone. There are thirteen missed calls and five unread messages.

One and forty-three minutes, Leonardo: I'm sorry

One and forty-three minutes, Leonardo: I 'm home

One and forty-seven minutes, Leonardo: I can’t go inside

One and forty-seven minutes, Leonardo: theyre gonna kill me

One and fifty-eight minutes, Leonardo: I'm going in, I'll call you back

The calls were from his parents and one from his neighbours, up until three in the morning. Only one from Leonardo, at one thirty-seven, and then nothing else. And only then does Dario go to the bathroom to throw up.

The retching has just hinted to stop when Ciccio knocks and, without waiting for an answer, enters the bathroom to crouch beside him and offer him a glass of cold water. "My mom made coffee and we have a piece of ice cream cake, if you’d like."

Dario pulls the toilet cover down once more, then drags himself back, until he can lean his bare back against the wall. He accepts the water, nodding, and takes a sip. "I'm not hungry."

"You also need to get your head checked. We'll take you to the hospital if you want."

"I'm fine," says Dario.

"Sure doesn’t look like that, mate."

"I don’t even need stitches," insists Dario. He places the glass on the floor, his back bare cooling down against the wall. He stretches his legs. "I'm fine. I'm just a little nauseous."

Against all his hope, Ciccio doesn’t leave the bathroom. He flops down, crossing his legs, and, for an indefinite number of seconds, keeps opening his mouth and then closing it again.

At one point, Dario begins to count, managing to get to seventy-first before Ciccio finally says, "So..."

Here we go. "So," he echoes.

"When you say you hooked up with Leonardo," the other says slowly, "what do you mean exactly?"

Dario turns his gaze from the corner of the floor behind Ciccio’s head, which he was staring intensely at since the beginning of the conversation, and turns to stare at his friend in the eye, without batting an eyelid. "What do you think I mean?"

Ciccio is absently scratching his arm, like he always does when he is nervous, before an oral test, or when Juventus is playing. Like that time, during the first year of high school, they were discovered skipping classes, seen by an old friend of his father's, a council employee enjoying his nth break at a cafe. Out of the blue, it comes back to mind now. The employee had seen him by chance in the town square, directed to the park, he had said, to himself, is that Tano’s son? He had called his father to tell him Tano, listen to his, your son his not in school, I saw him at the square.

When they went to Ciccio’s house for lunch, his mother Lella was waiting for them; she asked him, How was school today?, and Ciccio knew immediately that they were in trouble, or at least suspected, because he started to scratch himself exactly as he is doing now, his short and strong nails ruthless on his dry skin. That time, Lella then added, Dario, go back home, I already talked to your mother, and he and Ciccio, stupid and melodramatic, exchanged the look of two old soldiers called to two different fronts, ready to never see each other again. They did see each other again, obviously. With two swollen cheeks, and their dignity a bit chipped, after the slaps - and, for Dario, a dose of wooden spoon - from their mothers, but they saw each other.

He never thought that one day he would be the cause of this tic; he always believed that he would be there to give him a light slap on his arm, telling him, Stop scratching yourself.

Ciccio shrugs. "Mate, what the fuck should I know."

"I received the membership card just a few weeks ago,” Dario answers, after a moment. “The bureaucracy is long, but they finally accepted my request to join the party."

Ciccio hides his face in his hands. For a long, terrible second, he’s afraid that he’s finally made him lose patience - he fears that he has finally turned him away, that he is about to tell him, I don’t feel comfortable, mate, to tell him to leave because he is not friends with fags. Then, however, he sees Ciccio’s shoulders jerk one, two, three times, and realises, with amazement, that Ciccio is barely holding back a laugh. He seems to give up, because it turns loud, vaguely hysterical, as he runs his hands through his hair and finally joins them as if in prayer and, rolling his eyes, says, "Mate, that’s the issue," and shakes his head, "’s not that you’re gay, it’s that you’re an asshole."

Later, sitting at the table, Ciccio asks him, So? and Dario finally decides to answer him seriously. Still with a little nausea, he takes in a deep breath, and explains: I also like girls. It seems such an abstruse concept, to Ciccio, who frowns, rubs his fingers on his forehead, seems to focus on the question as he would with an equation he cannot solve. He is trying to adapt, Dario realises, as do people and animals in adverse conditions, to reconcile the friend he has known for a lifetime, who used to draw Dragon Ball characters during history class, with whom he plays table football at the bar, with this new person; the life he knows and the one he is discovering, imagining now: who knows if he is thinking about their childhoods, when they used the common showers after the swimming lessons, if he is trying to focus on the memory to find some furtive glances going a bit too low, some misplaced looks. Who knows if he's analysing all his movements, the way his wrist bends when he sips his coffee, or the nonchalant gesture when he fixes his hair, if he's considering his choices in fashion, to find something, a clue, a nod, that he, the friend he believed to know deep down, is a person who is new to him. “But is it possible to like boys and girls?”

“It is.”

“But then you’re not gay-gay. Like, you’re 50% bent. A flexible contract gay. Wait, can I say bent? Queer? How do you call it then? Bisexual?”

In his mind, Dario repeats the word: bi, bisex, bisexual. Bisexual. He savours it slowly, tests its consistency, its quality, its cut, as he would with a mouthful of tender meat, bites it, lets it melt on his tongue. What do they call it, he wonders, when you like girls, but you also hook up with your sister's boyfriend? Faggot? Bent? Bisexual? Traitor? Judas?

Ciccio clears his voice. “Isn’t it weird that he’s also hooked up with your sister, though?"

"He hasn’t," Dario replies. "He doesn’t like women at all. He said to her that he wanted to ‘be serious’, so they have never done anything. "

"Ah, so he's gay-gay, 100% it,” considers the other. Then, he grimaces. "But why him, honestly?"

How to explain it to him that it couldn’t have been anyone else but him? That it was never a choice? So, unable to do anything else, he just nods. Ciccio shakes his head, comments, with a half-laugh, "Fuck, mate, you Cain," but, at least, he has stopped scratching his arm.

The day he and Ciccio skipped classes, when his cheek still burned with pain and humiliation, he was in the dining room, his fists clenched at his sides, and his mother was still screaming, "How is it possible that you don’t even go to school, on top of not studying?! Why do we even bother to buy your books? Why do we bother to pay for private tutoring?” until she finally shouted, “Can you not be at least a little bit like your sister?!”

Giulia stood at the doorframe, as she often did when their mother scolded him. He always wondered, if only to himself, if she did so because she was afraid that she’d eventually be asked to join the tirade, like it happens in school, when the teacher has already called another classmate to the blackboard and, yet, all others remain alert, on guard, worried that the teacher could ask them a question and catch them unprepared. Or if she did because, subconsciously, somewhere inside her, she felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that she would never be at the receiving end of the scolding: she was the mature child, the smart one, polite and respectful, who went to sleep at the right time and didn’t talk back at her parents or teachers, who brought home only grades like: good distinguished and excellent. If she did it because she enjoyed it a little to see the proof that, between the two, she was, and had always been, the best twin.

The day he did càlia con Ciccio, and skipped school, Dario eventually screamed back to his mother, "Maybe it would have been better if only she had been born, right?" He continued, "You're a shitty mother, because you've always preferred her and we all know that," and she remained, for a long minute, too stunned to answer, as he turned to his sister and, against her, he finally shouted, "At least admit that you're here because enjoy to see her mad at me!”

Only then did his mother give it to him with a wooden spoon, wherever she could catch him, while he tried to wriggle away. A blow for every time he did not apologise to Giulia: one on the back of the right thigh, "How can you say such a thing about your sister?!" then on the ass, "Tell her you’re sorry!", one on the side of his legs, "You’re a disgrace!”, two blows behind the knees.

Now, he is sitting next to Leonardo on a bench in the farthest corner of the town's park – the gardens, away from indiscreet looks, from the families in the playground, and Leonardo has a bad bruise on his left cheek which Dario tries not to let his gaze linger on.

(He left Ciccio's house only after receiving a text message from Leonardo. It only said, Let's meet at the gardens in half an hour. After some hesitation, he also texted his mother, warning her that he will return home in the afternoon. She hasn’t replied yet. )

“Your neighbour, Accountant Salemi, knew that my father would react badly," Leonardo is telling him. "He knows him. He remembered that my father was not exactly open-minded, you know. So, he brought me and demanded to come inside with me. Your mother had already called them. I didn’t even want to go in – took a lot of convincing."

Dario swallows. "What will you do with your parents now?"

"Another year," answers Leonardo. "Another year, and I'll leave this town. They told me that they will let me finish high school.” He looks down at his clasped hands. "I have written to Giulia that I am sorry,” he adds, “that it’s not her fault, and that I will disappear from your lives. That I won’t even see you again, if not at school.” His voice shakes, and his eyes are red, and Dario thinks, Tell him, give him a culprit, but the words get stuck in his throat, and Leonardo is saying, “It’s going to get better,” he’s saying, “I will move abroad, and it will get better,” and he holds back the tears, looks at him, asks him, “Right?”

Tell him, Dario thinks. Tell him the truth. Instead, he replies, "It will. It will be better.”

"We couldn’t know that they’d be back early," Leonardo says. "It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault."

Dario inhales, exhales, thinks, We could. I could. Thinks, Tell him.

"No," he says instead faintly, "It's nobody's fault."

Despite everything, Leonardo smiles at him, sniffling, and intertwines his fingers with his. With his thumb, he draws invisible lines on the palm of his hand. Presses gently. It almost seems like the park - the flashes of green divided by small pathways, the slides, the swings, no more than old chains left to rust - the sky, the burning sun, the sultry, suffocating air, the whole town with its corners and construction sites and post-war schools, do not disappear, exactly, but flow into that gesture, that the matter and the universe are shrinking, contracting there where the palms of their hands touch, that it all finds space inbetween their fingers, that this, only this, has meaning, that only this exists. If only we could stay like this, Dario thinks, if only this moment could be prolonged for days, months, years, or remain still, immortalised in an indefinite point in time, like a picture or a portrait. He thinks that if this is the end, if tomorrow there will be two strangers inhabiting two bodies that of each other know smell, taste, edges and weaknesses, then, as long as he is allowed, he might as well hold his hand for some more time, and then some more, and then some more. Until, from their fingers, the matter expands again, returns to being grass and oxygen and the concrete of the walls, creating a universe in which they are two different and new people. Like two set of rails intersecting before they branch off again in two different directions. He allows himself to have this, before tomorrow comes, before Leonardo stops knowing him as the boy who’s loved him, at least somehow, at least somewhat, who has given him his body, in some way, and recognises him as the one who’s ruined his life.

In third grade, it was already clear that Giulia was much brighter than him. Or that, at least, she was much more gifted that he was and would ever be. What was simple calculations for her, for him meant long, pointless afternoons spent, after school, doing and redoing the same maths exercises. When she had already learned all the multiplication tables, he still had difficulty learning the six table, struggling to remember six by eight?, six by nine?. One evening, his mother spent three hours trying to get him to learn a paragraph of history on the Etruscans; at the end of the day, her sister was busy reading the first book she’s been given, Harry Potter and The Philosopher's Stone.

While she was building case and school diary walls not to let her desk mate snoop and encouraged the competitiveness with another girl named Silvia, the second best in the class, who for five years would wear mustard-coloured hair and a pair of blue-framed glasses and, for five years, would be the only one to suffer the academic excellence of her sister more than him, he was sitting at the teacher’s desk, punished because he would stand and talked without permission with his best mate, Ciccio.

One day, when he was eight, he found a white board attached to the fridge. He would remember for years that he kept watching the words next to his name and his sister's: in her row, a series of distinguished distinguished distinguished very good, and below, in his row, his sufficient scarce not very good, his failures lined up next to each other. The board would remain hanging for years, taunting him, a constant reminder of his lacking.

He would also remember another time, a few weeks later. Their teacher Carlotta - who knew of her mother's efforts to improve his grades - had sighed looking at his math exercises and had told him that she wouldn’t grade him, this time, provided that he’d try and redo the exercises. During the break, he had copied an excellent from the notebook of his desk mate, being careful to the curve of the o, to the straight lines of the t. Once home, he left the notebook open on the kitchen table and went to wash his hands before lunch, expecting, upon his return, to find his mother ready to congratulate him. Once back from the bathroom, he heard his sister say: Mum, Dario cheated! He wrote the grade himself. That evening, he wrote: Who acts like a spy is not child of a Mary’s, not a child of Jesus, and when they die they go down there, in Giulia's school diary, and his mother spanked him for that as well.

At home, he thinks, Scream. Shout that you hate me. That you do not want me at home anymore. Shout that I am a shame, a shit son, a disgrace. Tell me to go away. But they don’t scream; they say: "The heart wants what it wants,” and his mother puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, "We don’t love you any less, okay?", but she doesn’t look at him in the eyes at all, her eyes pinned on the doily under the vase of fake flowers.

Matter doesn't retract: matter remains motionless, like a still life painting. It doesn’t change anything, they tell him, we don’t love you any less, but he knows it's not true: he knows that it's another crack in an already chipped, worthless vase. He is laid bare, yet, opposed to how it felt in front of Leonardo and in front of Ciccio, he doesn’t feel anything, not shame nor fear nor anger. Within himself, this awareness creeps in: the reason his parents are not screaming, are not cataloguing this one as another of his failures, it is that they know it is not his fault. This is not him not studying. They are educated, open minded enough to think: he was born that way, and then, if it’s not the result of a wrong education, of a lesson imparted badly, or not imparted at all, it’s not their fault, either. And, suddenly, they are redeemed. But he sees it all the same, this day lined up on the board next to his bad grades.

They encourage him and his sister to talk, in her bedroom. Sitting next to each other on her bed, on the Harry Potter duvet cover their parents bought her for Christmas, her with her arms folded, curled forward as if she had a stomachache, his legs slightly apart, his shoulders slumped.

Just like his mother didn’t look at him, he doesn’t look at his sister, his twin. He does not look up from the floor, even when Giulia asks him, "How many times?"

"I don’t know," he answers honestly. "Many. For quite some time."

And Giulia mumbles, "We haven’t had sex.” I know, Dario thinks. He told me. But then she adds, quoting her mother with bitterness. “The heart wants what it wants, right? Maybe I should have understood that. And I accept it. I thought about it and I accept it, you know, because I know you can’t do anything about it. I forgive you."

Anger builds and is blinding. He sees what his sister is doing: if she can forgive him, then she too is redeemed. The heart wants what it wants. But his heart is not the part of the body that made him fuck Leonardo. If it has to be his heart, though, and not of his brain or his hormones, it’s not the piece of it that belongs to Leonardo, but the one that overflows with everything he feels towards her.

And that's how he says it, with a perverse twinge of pleasure when it takes her breath away. “I don’t love him," he says, turning to look at her. "I lied to him, when I told him that I did, because I do feel something for him, yeah, but it's not love. I did because of you."

Giulia's light olive skin has turned so pale that it looks yellowish, sick. "What do you mean?”

So, finally, he says it. After years, he release the resentment gathered at bottom of his stomach, twisted around his guts like a snake.

“One year, we were on holiday at the seaside, in Calabria,” he begins, "the hotel entertainer made us compete – who would build the best sand castle. We were probably around six. I had even forgotten all about it, until last year, while I was looking for a photo of me and Ciccio in primary school, and I saw a picture of you smiling next to your sand castle and. I remembered that you told me to get closer to the waves, to use the wettest, most malleable sand. This way, you don’t have to go back and forth, you said to me. Then, a stronger wave hit my castle full on, and you won."

Giulia exhales, "I’m not following you."

Her slender legs, half-covered by a pair of shorts, are shaking. For anger, frustration or sadness, he cannot figure it out. And, not surprisingly, he doesn’t care. He opens himself up, sinking the knife as deep as possible. It’s not enough for him to be bare: after years of silence, he feels the need to eviscerate himself, like hunters do with their prey. He is one and the same.

“I asked myself, ten years later, if you had said that on purpose. In the end, I had nothing, but you had won. Mom barely had time to take that picture before I destroyed your castle out of spite. And it has always been this way, all this time. You've always been,” he concludes, taking a deep breath, driving the knife in, in, in, "the best child. If there was one thing that I could finally take away from you, that I could take, I would do it. I wanted him, and I wanted you to see, sooner or later, he was mine, that in spite of all your victories, him I won easily. "

Giulia's sobs are the only thing that fills the silence of the room. She shudders, and it is an ugly cry, not like the ones in the movies, and he only feels even more frustration, listening to her whining. Here they are, next to each other, twins so similar in appearance and yet totally different, in character, interests, choices.

It’s as if they are not siblings at all, albeit tied by the same genes, by the same blood. They are dust twins, already swept away; ash twins, nothing but what remains of something that has gone up in smoke; sand twins, because sand is fine, crumbly, weak, and nothing made it of it survives for long. Footprints don’t last, castles don’t hold up.

Like sand, he imagines her crumbling down, grain after grain. And he doesn’t feel anything. If we are made of sand, a part of him thinks, if we are weak by nature, crumbly, almost insubstantial, maybe it's more bearable to know that you have destroyed a person. Or, the contrary, that you have let someone destroy you.

When Giulia finally speaks, her words are slurry for the tears. "I did it on purpose, the castle thing,” she says. “And I liked when Mum screamed at you. Not get out."

The first time was impulsive, and, at the same time, it was not at all. Maybe that's how a murderer feels, before committing his first crime: the last moments of hesitation before sinking the knife into the flesh, or wrapping his hands around a neck, or pulling the trigger.

He was alone at home, on a Saturday night Giulia had gone out with their parents and he had refused to go out with them and their relatives and be bored for an entire night (a decision that had, however, caused a long quarrel). Leonardo rang the doorbell, apologising for the time. "I have to leave Giulia’s Latin notebook here," he explained, "she needs it for Monday."

He opened the gate, then the door of the house, he let him in and went back to the sofa, vaguely pointing to his sister's room. "Go ahead," he told him, getting comfortable again.

He was sipping a beer as he watched the game, and when Leonardo returned to the living room, he also offered one to him. Leonardo raised his eyebrows. "Are your parents okay with this?"

"My parents don’t have to know, do they?" he replied.

Leonardo accepted the beer with a nod and sat next to him, his legs apart enough that their knees would touch, from time to time, and seemingly focused on the game. He moved them imperceptibly, close and open again; after long minutes spent commenting on the match under his breath, Leonardo's right knee stopped, pressed against his.

Suddenly, it became all Dario was able to focus on. The alcohol had made him pleasantly relaxed. Nevertheless, that touch, the almost non-existent rubbing of such a tiny part of their bodies now become a constant and present pressure, seemed to burn every vein and capillary, like fire spreads along gas lines.

He had noticed, and for quite some time, that Leonardo was attractive. Even before that, he had realised, albeit with reluctance and resignation, that he could find beauty in men. He could not understand, however, if the other was unaware of what was raging inside him, or if he was just polite enough to ignore it – to ignore the way his breathing faltered a bit in feeling his leg against his.

Dario recalled all those times they had spent time together because of Giulia: it’d seem, sometimes, that he could catch Leonardo looking at him intently, his gaze roaming down his body. He recalled that time he complimented his drawings, the way he squeezed his shoulder and let his hand slip down his shoulders before he pulled back. He catalogued the the curses and sighs he sometimes caught in school, in response to homophobic jokes, wondering for the first time if were angry rather than resigned.

Is it possible? Dario suddenly wondered. He pushed his knee against his, and Leonardo did not pull back: he swallowed, leaning forward to leave his beer on the table, and then bent his elbows back, letting them rest on the back of the couch. The game was just a background noise now, and Dario, both for the alcohol and the thrill triggered by the uninterrupted, burning physical contact, leaned forward and rested a hand on Leonardo’s thigh. Leonardo jerked, his hand flew to cover his, as if to stop him. He didn’t stop him, though. The long, electric seconds before he leant forward and kissed him were like a glass trinket dangling back and forth for a long moment before shattering on the floor. They kissed. Then they fumbled with their jeans and did more than that.

Did he have a choice? Could it be someone else, if not him? If he had not been his sister's boyfriend, would he have acted the same? Since Leonardo was cheating on his sister in the first place, would that erase Dario’s guilt? He would never love him, he knew that, because to love him would mean giving away the last piece of him that he had left for himself. The one not saved for his parents, his sister, Ciccio and the rest of his friends, for all those people who seemed to demand even more pieces of him, to store away like religious relics or to chew and spit out.

In the end, he decided to lie, to say I love you to Leonardo. He convinced himself that, perhaps, it’s easier to accept that someone has has hurt us, if they did so by mistake, by loving us imperfectly. Then, perhaps, Leonardo would have forgiven him.

He sleeps for long hours, and when he wakes up, the sun is finally setting. It is a mistake to head down to the kitchen for a glass of water. He stops behind the wall, hearing his parents whisper. His mother is saying, "Maybe this is the cause of his uneasiness, as a child," and the nausea comes back, ruthless. He fights the urge to retch as he retracts in his room like a wounded animal and sits on the bed. Discomfort. Cheater. Bisexual. Brother. Twin. Ciccio’s words, his sarcastic tone, you're a Cain, mate, echo in his mind, and he grabs the laptop. With the laptop fan as background noise, he opens a Google tab.

It was just Giulia that was supposed to come back early yesterday. Just her, accompanied by a family friend’s daughter. This is what her text said. Just her. She would see with her own eyes that her boyfriend wanted him, that at least one thing, only one, was his, and his alone, and he would have his payback, and Leonardo, the cheater, would be a victim and an accomplice together, and perhaps he would feel the guilt, sure, but not forever, not for long, not enough to make his breath stutter. Their parents would be left out of the equation. Giulia would have been too ashamed to ever say anything

Dario couldn’t know, then, that his mother had had food poisoning. He couldn’t know that his parents and Giulia would come back together early, that they would walk up the stairs, that they would open the door and find them together, that his mother would call Leonardo’s parents and tell them the truth, convinced of doing the right thing.

Dario couldn’t know that the Accountant would have to drive Leonardo home and protect him from his own father, and that the Accountant’s wife, that old gossip, would spread the details of the fight, of the family fight, of the seemingly perfect son with only one fatal flaw, poor thing, to an entire town.

Years later, Dario would smoke a cigarette outside the church of their town and think, It was me. I pushed the first domino. He would sit cross-legged in front of a grave - a grave with no epitaph, just with a name, a date of birth and one of death - and he would whisper, crying, You promised me that I would never see you again, and then, lying on this same bed, staring at the ceiling, he would imagine to go back to years and years prior, to fix everything.

Years later, Dario would imagine to read Giulia’s text, the one that said I’m coming back home tonight, not tomorrow, and warn Leonardo, tell him they would meet another time, no problem, instead of leaving his phone in the hall and pretend, for the years that followed, that he had never read that text.

Years later, Dario would imagine to make a different choice, to give Leonardo a future, to give him a better chance at life. Perhaps, had he not let his bittern win, if that afternoon, a lifetime ago, he had cancelled their plans, perhaps Leonardo wouldn’t have fought his father. Perhaps he would have not moved abroad.

Maybe, Dario would think on July 1st, 2015, Leonardo would have been alive, happy, and with him. Perhaps, then, their hands could have been joined for some more time, and some more, and some more, fingers intertwined in a different universe.

He would wonder how many people he had hit with one decision.

He would think that it would have been enough to save one.

But he can’t know that now. At the end of the longest of the year, in 2009, Dario recalls Ciccio’s words and looks up Cain on Google.

Gently touching his sore eyebrow, he reads, for the first time, about the story of the two brothers from Genesis, of Cain, who killed Abel for envy, and was condemned by God to wander, a restless wanderer on the earth, with a mark on the forehead, until he settled in the land of Nod, east of Eden.

#my writing #paper stories #east of eden #words #writeblr

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madamlaydebug · 5 years ago

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The Great Awakening has begun ★

Anger, hatred, aggression and fear are the food source of the Archons

The Mainstream Media is the last bastion of the “Deep State”

The real question is how do we become conscious?

We all are Slaves to the System

We all want to be free, healthy, educated and live in a peaceful society

Mass Awakening is the Cabal’s greatest Fear

The awakening is erupting. Being awake comes with a price. It may have been difficult and painful going through the stages of awakening, but convincing others by challenging circumstances and conditions to open the eyes and minds of others is even more difficult. It has become a struggle against time when awake and one sees all the injustices that could have easily been avoided.

It’s very sad to see unawakened people being tossed to and fro, without having a clue as to what is really going on. But even that is an “engineered” shake-up designed by the Deep State. Nevertheless, that should help every one of us to come to our senses and surpass this false reality. Millions are flocking to alternative news sources to try to make sense of what’s going on, stumbling across realities they never considered possible, or could have ever imagined before.

If the truth be known, the awake are responsible for sharing it ardently, but also for doing it with a passion. Not always pleasant, but a duty that must be done. The hour is late and the timeframe we are living in is terrible, the necessity brings forth optimal awareness and swift action. There’s no alternative left.

The world is bankrupt financially, economically, and morally, but through manipulation and deceit, people are led to believe that all is well. It’s absolutely absurd that all the bubble assets are at such astronomical highs, while wealth-preservation assets like gold and silver have been totally annihilated through manipulation. The elite and the media continuously fool the people regarding the state of the world.

Anger, hatred, aggression and fear are the food source of the Archons

The tactics employed are comprised of manipulating economies, trade and the masses through fear: fear of war, fear of starvation, fear of economic collapse, imprisonment and death. This state of mind has directed and shaped global events for centuries and has become the standard operating procedure. This process of enslaving civilisations is contrary to the survival drive of humanity and suppresses the natural instinct of all humans to do good and be kind to each other.

Do not view all this madness from a foundation of fear; this will just make you angry and aggressive, which in turn will lead to violence and a perpetuation of this madness. It is hard to remain calm when faced with the hard truth, but it’s what must be done, in order to safely get through this. Anger, hatred, aggression and fear are the sort of emotions that have led to this madness and it is the food source of the Archons. Stop feeding them and help to change our world view completely. In this way, we will change everything for the better, by changing our way of thinking.

Bear in mind; the real purpose of government is, always and everywhere, to enable the few to exploit the many. The credit money system is a clever way of doing so. The bureaucracy will continue to churn out laws, statutes, codes and regulations that reinforce its powers and value systems and those of the police state and its corporate allies, rendering the rest of us petty criminals. The average citizen unknowingly commits three felonies a day, thanks to this overabundance of vague laws that render otherwise innocent activity illegal. As an example, small farmers who dare to make unpasteurised goat cheese and share it with members of their community will continue to have their farms raided.

The Mainstream Media, the last bastion of the “Deep State”

The Mainstream Media is the last bastion of the “Deep State” organised crime network that, over the years in the past, has infiltrated and hijacked most, if not all institutions. But, their days are numbered and the ensuing collapse will most likely be violent and shocking to all those unaware of what is unfolding.

The principal source of the Deep State’s power is their control of the process of creating and distributing money, i.e. their ownership of almost all of the world’s central banks, and multinationals. They have used this money-power to bribe, blackmail and assassinate people at top levels of power in order to enforce their control. They also control the corporate media and have been using every propaganda tool at their disposal to rig society and markets where necessary.

Fortunately, trust in the mainstream media has fallen to an all-time low and continues to plummet. Much of this has to do with an increasingly aware and disgruntled public: More and more people are able to discern a mainstream media totally lacking integrity, thanks to the rising popularity of the independent/alternative media, exposing the dishonesty.

People are increasingly seeing right through the various media sources with their dogmatic, unhealthy sceptics, shills, trolls, pseudo-debunkers, controlled opposition agents, biasing, filtering and in-your-face lies; intended to sell us the spin of disinformation to keep people ignorant, deceived and helplessly anaesthetised in the world’s matrix controlling system.

The real question is how do we become conscious?

Our overwhelming, uncontrollable mass awakening is what the world’s ruling elite fear the most. Since we greatly outnumber them and their associates, they wouldn’t know how to deal with our vast numbers, even with their advanced technology. As a result, the real question is how do we become conscious?

Since ancient times, under the ruling thumb of the world’s Black Nobility or dark overlords, humanity has been hacked, stymied, suppressed and coerced into submission through mind controlling, soul destroying atrocities. Those unable to see that just about every matter under the sun is a deception, that their family and friends are affected in every way imaginable; those who don’t yet realise the extent to which the dark overlords have us tightly stitched up, are indeed about to experience the shock of a lifetime when this entire fraudulent system comes crashing down. What they have clung to as a reality will soon sink into the abyss of Grand Deceptions.

Simply, become conscious by choosing it. By acting on those synchronicities better known as meaningful coincidences. By acting on that which calls, moves and inspires us. Taking action through listening to our inner voice, coming from our inner being; paying attention to our gut feelings and basic instincts.

Choosing to become conscious means detaching one’s self from the mind control programming; escaping the effects of the physical, mental, emotional and spiritual prison matrix woven around us by the Globalist’s oppression.

Breaking free from the mind programming and the imposition of others, with multidimensional consciousness, escaping the dualistic confinements of matter, energy and space-time, anything is possible, and the Truth will be revealed. Creating a driving desire to find out more about the truth regarding what is going on in our world. Seeing that the world is in a mess and we are all plodding along, business as usual, expecting someone else to sort it all out. Most of us are too busy earning money and surviving, as surviving, by design, takes up all our time. Most people cannot seem to see beyond that and that is why we are in this mess in the first place.

We have all been manipulated and played. We have all been mesmerised, hypnotised and turned into consumer-driven slaves. Making money for the large corporations and the 0.1% rich of the world is the name of the game, or so we have been programmed. Each day they get richer and richer, finding new ways, like global warming and CO2 emission taxes, to force us to part with our hard-earned money; they are very clever at it. They know how to manipulate the human mind, they know how to get us to spend our money and we don’t even realise it is happening.

Governments extract far too much money from us, and we use almost all of our time on Earth working for this money. They leave every family with a small amount to spare, while the really wealthy manage to avoid paying their taxes through carefully engineered loopholes.

The real purpose of government is, always and everywhere, to enable the few to exploit the many. The money system is a clever way of doing so.

We all are Slaves to the System

The modern world of industry, commerce, and investment works on win-win software. Only governments with their conflicts, wars, taxes, tariffs, ‘do-this laws’, and ‘don’t-do-that prohibitions’, continue to operate on pre-civilised programming. It is a relic, an institution with a ‘grab whatever we can grab’ mentality.

A trade war is just as phony as a war on drugs, a war on crime, or a war on terror. None are worth fighting for. And none are winnable. It is meant to reward the elite at others’ expense. Nothing more, nothing less. Think of it, we are all, quite simply, slaves to the system! The people at the bottom are paying for the people at the top to keep their lavish life styles. We pay our taxes and any money that is left over is coveted by major corporations.

We are bombarded with adverts continuously, telling us to buy more stuff we don’t need. We are encouraged to spend, spend and then spend some more. We replace everything, even when it doesn’t need replacing. We need to get out of this mentality.

We need to re-cycle, re-use and make do with what we have. We have all been brainwashed into this consumerism insanity. It’s all been smoke and mirrors, mind-games, played out on the world stage, aiming to keep us all in a state of awe and fear.

We all want to be free, healthy, educated, and live in a peaceful society

Our subconscious minds have been conditioned to see only what differentiates us, rather the things that bind us. Believe it or not, we’re extremely similar in all aspects.

We may come from different backgrounds or different cultures, but we all have the same basic values in life. We all want to be free, healthy, educated, to live in a peaceful society and to have access to the basic necessities for survival. That’s about it. Wherever we live in the world. Basically, all we really want is to be happy and healthy.

Instead, we have wars, hunger, insecurity, homelessness, and many around the world don’t have access to clean water and food. And it’s all by design because, people who are constantly “on the edge” don’t have time for self-education, introspection and eventually spiritual awakening.

We all are the victims of mass propaganda and brainwashing. It has reached the point where families choose to believe the media and the governments of the world, rather than members of their own family and friends who have woken up to the truth and are attempting to warn them and awaken them.

The truth can be frightening and that is why people want to avoid it. They would rather stick their heads in the sand like an ostrich, believing that as long as they choose not to look at it, it will not exist. Unfortunately for them, Truth has a way of existing, even in the face of ridicule and denial. It does not need the approval of a counterparty to become legitimate. Truth simply Is. Once you know the truth, you can never go back, even if you want to. The truth cannot be unseen; once seen, the truth stays with you forever. In any event, be assured, the truth will come out in the end, as it always does.

The truth comes at a cost – it will end all the lies and the illusions that people previously based their entire lives on. And that is an on-going process. – Many feel lost and afraid right now all across the spectrum of humanity. This deliberate creation of chaos is designed to do just that. However, parallel and simultaneous to their psychotic designs, a massive arousal of the human spirit is occurring, spurred on by an arising of conscious awareness and a deep sense of growing personal realisation and empowerment.

Most may not recognise these rising, seemingly confusing energetic changes, as being the creative process at work, but it is, THE GREAT AWAKENING. First, preceding this creativity is a destructive process, eliminating everything that is unreal and inhibitive of personal development and progress. These two dynamics work alongside each other.

The Elite see us as their slaves, our sole purpose being to provide them with our energy money, so that they can follow their master plan, bringing about the New World Order.

We have procreated very well and are now, in their view, overrunning the planet, so they now want to cull a large number of us. Hence GMO’s, fluoride, chemtrails, vaccinations and the endless wars; all these things lower our immunity for whatever they have planned for us.

They want us to be in a state of eternal slumber, hypnotised and brainwashed by their omnipresent propaganda and most of us have unwittingly complied with their wishes. But, we are more powerful than them and they know it, which is why they have been so patient. Humanity is waking up, slowly but surely.

One of the reasons humanity cannot grasp what is going on, is because these creatures are so evil, that it’s hard to believe just how vile they are. And people are actually right in their disbelief of these atrocities: human beings cannot be this cruel!

Humans are not at the pinnacle of this diabolical plan, it is a Reptilian agenda, and Reptilians cannot experience positive emotions. They are simply unable to care for others or to experience noble emotions, such as love or empathy. They are driven by fear, hate, rivalry and competition. The truth is far stranger and more incredible than we can imagine, say whistle-blowers like Corey Goode.

Will our mass awakening to the deception produce a turnaround, into a world that makes a difference for everyone? A world where there are no predators, no controlling hierarchy, no blood-sucking vampires, slave-drivers at the top, ruling the enslaved at the bottom. No more fighting for self-sufficiency, because we will achieve everything in the communities we live in.

It is up to all of us to contribute our part.

Source: Final Wakeup Call

LOVE; ONE Inner Light & a New Earth to EveryONE ★

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nadiarizavi · 5 years ago

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a different definition of stars- chapter 1: blue, a color, a feeling

@planceminibang SUMMARY:

Lance McClain was born for the spotlight. But after a surprise scandal, his mom gets worried that the fame’s starting to get to his head-- and Lance gets shipped off to live with his brother Luis and his family in the countryside town of Garrison, in the middle of Altea County, population barely breaching a thousand. In a new place where no one knows his name, Lance should be grateful to have a break from the lights and cameras-- but being a farmhand isn’t the life of glitz and glamour he was used to. And it’s definitely no picnic when the girl next door has blackmail on you.

RATED: T, TAGS: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Minor Injuries, Cows, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Car Accidents, minor kallura

CHAPTER ONE ON AO3!

A/N: huge thank u to the mods !!! huge love to @zoedozy for making SUPER LOVELY ART that’ll be shared soon !! the fic is below the cut or you can read it on ao3! <3

Slap.

Lance withdrew his legs with a hiss, turning to the driver--his sister in law, Lisa-- who by now had turned her eyes back to the road, a satisfied smile on her face.

“The hell was that for?!”

“I told you four times to get your feet off the dash, Lance.”

Lance gestured to the dash, then at her. “It’s--look! I didn’t leave a mark!”

“And you’re adorable if you think that attitude’s gonna fly here.”

“Attitude--?”

“Lance.”

He slumped back into his seat, the dirt road causing the truck to bump and jostle along as it did. His eyes wandered back out the window-- miles and miles of grass and trees, cattle, hazy purple mountains in the far off distance. Not another car for miles. No music played on the radio--white noise. An unrelated buzz--Lisa told him that it was cicadas in the late summer--hummed in the air, and the sun was high in the afternoon sky. Cloudless. An infinite blanket of blue.

“How’s Veronica?”

Lisa was asking him questions again. Lance looked down at his shirt, tugging at a loose string, brows furrowed. How’s Veronica?

Mad at him.

Well, he couldn’t blame V for being mad at him. He was still trying to ice the burn from his parents being mad at him too.

He heard the shutter of a secret camera click in his ear, and Lance planted his forehead against the window.

“She’s fine.”

“Mami told me she didn’t come to send you off.”

“Busy at work. She has a life too, yanno. Outside of being my babysitter,” he grumbled. They drove past one, two cows. He should add on to that. “Sorry you got stuck with babysitting, by the way.”

“You’re family.” A pause. She was thinking of something to add on, too. “We want to take care of you too, Lance.”

The cicadas buzzed on.

Nadia and Sylvio were his next assailants-- running down the porch steps of a wooden, white ranch house at full speed, down the dirt driveway, and into his arms. He only ever saw the kids when the family came to Hollywood for the holidays, for summer vacation. They wore wide smiles, their teeth bright white, Nadia’s dark hair braided down her back, Sylvio’s hands were dried with mud. Lance couldn’t help but laugh.

Despite the circumstances, he could never resent seeing his favorite niece and nephew.

“You guys keep getting bigger. Stop eating your vegetables.” Lance said, bending his knees for Sylvio to wrap his thin arms around his neck, lifting him into a piggyback ride while Nadia skipped alongside them.

“Do actors need to eat their vegetables?” Nadia asked, a curious twinkle in her eye. She wanted to be just like her uncle Lance, she had said at Christmas the last year. Just like him.

For the moment, the reminder made his stomach twist in knots.

“Well, kinda.”

“Then I won’t stop.”

Sylvio wriggled against his spine, chirping directly into Lance’s ear. “Me too! I won’t stop, too!”

That made him laugh, the knot undoing itself for the thirtieth time that day, and he let the boy down as soon as the porch steps came to view. It was a big porch. It was a big house. Stark white, freshly painted. An oasis in the middle of a lifeless world. Lisa whistled for him, back down the driveway.

“Lance, you don’t seriously expect your pregnant aunt to get your bags, do you?”

Lance bolted back down, ignoring the sting in his chest when he reached the truck and looked down to his shoes; once pristine, white, now dusted. Lisa gave him a curious glance as she handed him his duffle.

“What’s wrong?”

“My shoes.”

And then she rolled her eyes, dropping the duffle into his arms. “You’ve got money. Buy new ones. Probably something better suited for the farm.”

He followed her dejectly--her and his rolling suitcase--back up the driveway, feeling perspiration on his forehead, in his hair. The late afternoon was hot, the sun oppressive against his neck. Sunscreen. That was definitely first priority once he’s settled in.

The air inside the house was cool and inviting, a welcome reprieve from the hot summer sun. The kids followed their mother and Lance like ducklings up the stairs, into the spare bedroom, inspecting Lance as if he were a new toy.

In a way he kind of was. All city and no country on him. He was dressed for first class travel, not for the dirt roads and cattle and buzzing cicadas.

The bedsheets were a shade of wet soil and smelled faintly the same. The lacy curtains were open, and he could get another view of miles of grass and purple mountains and an infinite sky. The wallpaper-- blue, white, floral--right out of a homestead decor magazine. There was a desk and a closet, empty save for boxes labeled ‘WINTER COATS’ and ‘XMAS DECOR.’ Lance dropped his duffle on the bed, watching the dust float up and catch in the light. Sylvio and Nadia set to inspecting the room itself, and Lisa let out a content sigh as she looked around. She threw him a smile.

“Nothing like Beverly Hills?”

“Don’t see an infinity pool out there,” Lance said, hoping he sounded funny. Please think I’m being funny, Lis.

She outstretched a hand to him, adjusting the sleeve of his shirt, following his gaze out the window to the sky and the mountains and the grass. “You don’t need a pool to see infinity out here, mijo.”

She started out the door again. “Let’s get the rest of your bags and get you settled in, right? Sylvio, Nadia, can you two go check on the chicken coop?”

The two were glad to oblige, racing down the stairs in fits of laughter, and Lance could only follow Lisa, dumbstruck, hand out to help her if she needed a hand down the steps. “You guys got chickens here too?”

She laughed, throaty and warm. “You’ll get to meet them tomorrow, I hope. I don’t know what Luis wants you to do yet.”

“Probably wrangle a cow.”

“We don’t wrangle anything here. You’re a farmer now, not a bull rider,” Lisa let out a breath, looping her arm through his as they left the cool air of the farmhouse and started back down the driveway, kicking up dirt as they walked. She was quiet, until they were back to the car, back to the luggage Lance toted from sunny California. “Your mama didn’t tell us everything, you know.”

Lance bit his lip, hoisting his luggage out of the truck bed and onto the road. “You can probably just google it.”

“I’d rather hear it from you, Lance. Not the tabloids.”

That was reassuring, considering his parents and Veronica preferred to read the tabloids.

He looked Lisa in the eye, and the knot in his chest twisted itself right back up. Lance wondered if there was a chance he could get an Eagle Scout badge for his impressive knotting skills in the last month, because this was one hell of a situation to be tied up in. And, hell, no sense beating around the bush with her.

“Uh, it was a DUI.”

Her expression fell.

“Lance…”

He remembered his luggage, one hand reaching for it, the other gesturing at Lisa. “No, no. I, uh, I don’t want you to say anything. It was my fault.”

She was still looking at him with a furrowed brow. Pity. Worry. Other emotions he wished he couldn’t see, couldn’t understand. “No one was hurt. Just me,” was tacked on quickly, almost too quickly.

She picked up the other luggage, and she squeezed his arm again, but pulled away quicker. “No, yeah, of course. You got lucky.”

There was ice in her words, and Lance could taste bile. His free hand went subconsciously into his hair, eyes back up at the sky, tracing the bumps and grooves of a healing, stitched wound, the sweat on his hands sliding against the sweat in his hair, and the infinity of blue began to break up and crack like a shattered windshield.

Lance closed his eyes.

He got lucky.

His first task was dishes, drying as Lisa washed, and the sound of a car honk outside and the ecstatic shouts of his niece and nephew almost made him screw it up. He sat the plate down on the counter, giving Lisa a wild look. She snorted.

“Luis is home.”

“Where’s he even been all day?”

“Hey, farm work is more than just staying on the farm.” She dried her hands, following the kids outside, and Lance could hear them chatter, hear his name be shouted in excitement by Sylvio. He shuffled along, tail between his legs; the nerves, the anxiety building back up again as he peered through the screen door. There was Luis, and a dog, and the door swung open. Lance stumbled back. The stranger just raised her brows.

“Oh. My bad.”

Lance peered down at her. She wore her hair pulled back under a baseball cap, eyes behind large, round glasses. She was dressed for work, dusty denim jeans and a loose tee covered in suspicious red stains, and in her arms was a crate full of mason jars labeled by fruit (and Lance’s suspicion of the stains dissipated). She looked around his age, maybe younger. Her amber-toned eyes eyed him curiously, and Lance wondered for a moment if she recognized him. They had television here in the middle of nowhere, didn’t they? She had to know who he was. Maybe she’s starstruck.

Her curiosity quickly turned to annoyance.

“Can you… please move?”

Right. He was blocking her path. Lance obliged.

“Sorry. Uh. Hey, I’m Lance.”

He followed her into the kitchen as she set the crate down, setting to unboxing the jars, reading the labels, organizing them by fruit on the counter. Lance watched her for a minute, listening to the sound of glass tinkle. He had about a thousand questions. Many revolving around the stranger in his uncle’s kitchen unboxing fruit preserves like her life depended on it.

“I’m Lance.” He said again, louder, hoping her silence was just because she didn’t hear him. “I’m, uh, Luis’s little brother.”

“Uh-huh.”

Silence. She picked up the now-emptied crate, turning around to face him. Nothing. No reaction, not even a little one. Lance blinked at her.

“Lance McClain.”

“Yeah. You’ve told me your name three times already.”

“I… I did.” He did. “And you are…?”

“Not staying.” She brushed past him, and Lance stared after her. No way. There was no way. He knew his brother was disconnected, but even Luis watched TV.

“Wait, you don’t… do you watch TV? Ever?”

She stopped, turning around, holding the crate against her hip as she gave him a bewildered stare. “You’re kind of a weirdo, Lance McClain.”

“You don’t know who I am.”

She shifted her footing.

“I do now. Why’s that matter? You’re special or something?”

“Yes. Wait, no.”

She raised a brow again, and maybe he was imagining the amused twinkle in her eyes. “O-kay. See ya around, Lance.”

Good brother manners told him to follow the girl back out, greet his uncle. But at the moment, Lance was having a reality check.

Out in the middle of farmer country and the first person he thought would recognize him… didn’t. Was this what a blessing was? Or maybe it was just a blow to his ego. Either way, it was devastating. He peered back out through the screen door, watching the stranger laugh and smile with his brother and Lisa, giving Sylvio and Nadia hugs. And he watched her whistle for the dog, and watched them disappear down the dirt road. He turned toe back towards the kitchen, grabbing the next plate they used for lunch and began to scrub it down, listening for the door to open, for anyone’s voice. It was a relief when the laughter finally carried itself through the foyer, through the kitchen, and Lance felt a calloused hand clap down on his neck.

“What, didn’t want to come say hi?” Luis pulled him into a half-hug, and Lance splashed dish water, a laugh escaping him.

“I wanted to finish these, man.”

“Dishes! I thought Mami was making up urban legends when she said you still knew how to do these.”

“Dickhead.”

Luis laughed, setting to drying Lance’s dishes, his eyes wandering to the jars stacked up neatly on the counter. “You met Katie, at least?”

“Was that the girl?”

“Isn’t she great? Smartest girl we know.” He gestured around the house. “Set up the wifi and TV and even fixed the truck last spring with her mechanic buddy. Complete wonder girl.”

“What the hell? She set up your cable and she apparently has no idea who I am.”

Luis slowed his motion with the dish towel, rolling his eyes. “You can’t be serious. You’ve barely been here a day and you have expectations.”

“It’d be like if you didn’t know who Leonardo DiCaprio was.”

“Leo is an international icon and you’re on a daytime drama. Perspective.”

Lance took a step back, eyes on the preserve jars. “It was just… weird.”

Luis glanced at him, smiling. “A good or bad weird?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, get used to it. Mami sent you over here because she knew you’d be out of the spotlight while this whole thing simmers down.”

He winced, involuntary, leaning back against the counter. Simmer down. That’s all this was, right? The press will stop seeking him out and some other celebrity will do something equally or more insane, and Lance and his car wrapped around a pole would be old news. Simmered down. Cooked and salted and chowed down and passed right through and the next meal comes along and the cycle repeats itself in a vicious self-sabotage.

It didn’t sit well with him, suddenly. A headache spiked where his skull had split opened and flowered, however many salted and simmered days ago. The bile came back.

“Yeah, when this all simmers down.” Lance said, a little too loud, and he faked a yawn. “Anyways, I’m beat. Jet lag and shit. When should I set my alarm?”

“I’ll cut you some slack. Seven A.M. sound good?”

“Good god, no.”

Luis threw him a well meaning smile. “Let me or Lisa know if you need anything, okay?”

“How about building a luxury pool and spa in the backyard?”

“Anything but that.”

They laughed together, shoving and shoulder-checking, and Luis followed Lance as far as the stairs, a grin on his face, a crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

“Make sure you stay knocked the hell out, because you’re going to need all the sleep you can get. You’re on farm time, now.”

Lance shuddered hard, overdramatic. “That’s scary shit, Lu. Love you. Goodnight.”

He bounded up the stairs a little too fast, sinking down into his four-post bed, onto a blanket of soil and stared up at a dark ceiling. The buzzing of cicadas was replaced by the chirps of crickets, and Lance squeezed his eyes shut, rolling onto his stomach. His fingers itched to check his phone, google himself, see if his co-stars were texting him; but he knew better. Now was not the time.

Simmer, simmer down, Lance.

The jet lag caught up to him, eventually, and he breathed in the scent of earth and sky.

#plance #plance mini bang #planceminibang #amaje fics #a different definition of stars

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dr-gloom · 5 years ago

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FandersPrideMeetup Week 2: Representation. You Are Not Alone

Week 2 of @fander-pride-meetup: Representation- Draw/Write/Edit/Express yourself with the Sides/TSCharacters to represent your LGBTQ+ experiences!

A/N: So this is basically just the story of my first Pride (which I went to this year) told through the sides with a few small tweaks. I chose Roman cause I made a post about how important it is to some of us to see Aro!Roman content and a lot of people have agreed with me so here we are

Fandom: Sanders’ Sides

Pairing: none

Words: 1,335

Summary: Roman’s both excited and nervous for his first Pride. With all the discourse online, and so many people telling him he doesn’t belong at Pride because he’s aroace, he can’t help but let his imagination run away with him. What if a TERF comes up to him and starts something? What if a fight breaks out? What if he’s kicked out of Pride because he isn’t “oppressed enough”?

Tags/Warnings: aroace Roman, trans Roman, genderfluid Roman, Pride, anxieties, genderfluid Remy, trans Patton, Patton is pre-T and Roman and Remy are on T, mentions of top surgey/post-op

Read it on AO3

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Roman groans, the hot June sun beating down on them and making them regret dressing for the aesthetic. This was their first-ever Pride event, and they’d wanted to look badass for the parade they were marching in. They were wearing their tye-dye trans shirt they’d made a year ago, their aro flag over their shoulders and dark wash skinny jeans that were tucked into their new military-grade combat boots. They’d jokingly called them their “TERF-kicking boots”, getting plenty of supportive high fives from the other Kaiser volunteers they were marching with.

They fanned themselves with the paper fan someone had handed them while they all waited to march, saying for probably the tenth time that morning, “It’s too damn hot.” They turned to their friend Remy, who was fanning themselves as well, though they were dressed in more weather-appropriate in short shorts and rainbow socks. “I wish I remembered my water.” Remy pats them on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry babe, I’ve got water if you need any.”

“I brought some frozen water bottles! You want one?”

Roman turns around to look at the shorter man behind them. Patton, they think his name is? “Oh uh, sure! Thank you Patton.” Patton smiles and nods, handing Roman a frozen water bottle that they immediately press against their neck. They groan at the cool mercy on their skin, making Remy and Patton laugh.

___________________________

“Woooooooooo~!” Patton cries, along with the rest of their group and the audience they pass by. Roman and Remy share a look, laughing.

“Wee-snaaaaaw~!” Roman cries, laughing at how pitchy their voice sounds. Not even five minutes in, Roman and Remy realized that they could no longer “woo” loudly since the T was changing their voice. Maybe in a year or two when it stopped, but for now?

“Wee-snaaawww~!” Remy crows, immediately cackling at the confused looks they received.

Roman unties the aro flag from around their shoulders, the fabric doing nothing to cool them off. Instead they hold it out in front of themselves, trying not to pay too much attention to the audience. The same thoughts that had been plaguing their mind for days come to the front of their brain. What if someone sees them carrying this flag and harasses them? What if they get pushed? Their chest is still healing, they can’t afford to get in a fight.

“Woooooo~!” Patton cries loudly right behind them, silencing their thoughts. Roman laughs shakily and looks around. They’ll be fine.

They aren’t alone anymore.

“I love your flag!!!”

Roman beams.

_____________________________

When they reach the end of the line and everyone starts dispersing, Roman takes Remy’s hand to make sure they aren’t separated in the crowd. The two of them, along with Patton and his mom, find the nearest shade and settle down for a moment. Roman lays out their flag in the grass and bodily collapses on top of it, laying on their stomach. It’s only then that they remember that they’re in fact healing from top surgery, and ow that hurts, why did they do that?

Roman sits up with a pained hiss, a hand over their left pec where it feels like they just got punched. Yeah, they fucked up. In their defense, they were super tired, hot, and possibly dehydrated.

“You okay, babe?” Remy frowns at them, hunching over a little to look Roman in the eyes. Roman does their best to give Remy a reassuring smile. “I forgot I’m not supposed to lay on my stomach. I feel like I just got punched in the tit.” Remy gives a sympathetic hiss, their face scrunched up in pain. “You good though?”

“I don’t know, it hurts like a bitch.”

Paton frown from beside them. “Maybe you should check it?”

Roman looks around. Lift their shirt, in public, and take their binder off? Their heart beats a little faster, and they have to remind themselves that it’s fine. This is Pride, they don’t have boobs anymore, and this is a health concern. Roman nods, lifting their shirt and pulling the velcro aside to take off their binder.

Everything looks the same; almost-flat chest, tape covered stitches… Roman prods at their sensitive flesh. It seems kind of tough, but that’s probably just swelling, right? They pointedly ignore a passing girl going, “Oh, gross” and put their binder back on. After fixing their shirt, they smile at Remy and Patton. “It’s fine. Why don’t we head to the festival?”

__________________________

“They’re blocking this entrance, too?” Roman grouses, starting to get really annoyed. And yeah, they get why people are protesting. The city had taken away their ban on uniformed cops at Pride and tons of people were pissed, but… “They do realize the only people they’re hurting by blocking all the entrances is their fellow LGBT, right? Like, we had no say in this shit, hell, I don’t want uniformed officers here either, but I still want to have fun.”

Remy nods at their side with a frown. “This is getting kinda redic. We’ve been walking around for twenty minutes now looking for an opening.”

Roman holds their hand out and Remy takes it without a second thought, letting Roman lead them through the crowd. The two keep walking, passing by a cop who was talking with some other people looking for an entrance. As soon as they round the corner, they see a large black woman dragging a knife back and forth over the zipties keeping the fence up around the festival. Roman slows to a stop, Remy at their side watching curiously. The ziptie snaps and the woman pulls at the fence, but it doesn’t move much. By this point, they’re starting to draw a bit of a crowd. Roman speaks up. “See that thing on the ground? You gotta pull the fence up- there you go.” They grin as she lifts the fence, freeing it from the stand and pushing it open. Roman rushes forward with Remy and the rest of the crowd, everyone spilling through the gap like water on a sinking ship.

Roman is practically giggling with glee, their steps almost like little hops with the sudden surge of excitement in their veins. They look back at Remy, who’s got a matching grin on their face. As they pass the metal storage crates and get closer to the festival they catch up to the woman, calling out a “Thank you!” and running off.

___________________________

Roman walks away from the stall pouting, dragging their feet.

“Not here either?” Remy asks, but pity and amusement in their eyes.

“No! You’d think one booth would have more flags than just- just the basic L-G-B-T! That’s so basic! What the hell!”

Remy pats their shoulder sympathetically. “Babe, we’ve been walking around for like… An hour. You’re hungry, you’re out of water, and your feet hurt, yeah?” Roman nods. “Then let’s get something to drink at least and then maybe we’ll go.” Roman sighs and nods again.

“Yeah, okay, let’s go.”

They’d gotten their drinks and walked around once more to make sure they saw everything, stopping at at least half the booths to spin their free-stuff wheels. Roman saw a girl walking around with an ace flag draped over her shoulders like a cape and their face lit up.

“I love your flag!!!”

_____________________________

“So how did it go?” Roman’s mother’s voice flows from the speakers of their car. Roman grins. “It was pretty good. The parade was really fun, and I got some free stuff. Met some really cool people. There was a guy there dressed as gay Satan! It was so awesome, he was like, rainbow everything. I got some good pictures.”

Roman’s mother laughs. “I’m glad you had fun. I’ll see you at home?”

“Yeah mom, see you at home.” Roman smiles as they hang up, reflecting on their day. They had no idea what they’d been so worried about. No one had bothered them, or questioned why they were there. In fact, they weren’t the only aroace there!

They weren’t alone anymore.

#fanderspridemeetup2019 #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides fanfic #aro roman #trans roman #genderfluid roman #genderfluid remy #trans patton #Pride #ace roman #aroace roman #roman sanders #patton sanders #remy sanders

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dingletragedy · 5 years ago

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robron + choose (angst/affair feels maybe) love you 💖🥰

i’ve just been to have my stitches out and the loooong wait made this happen! love u dear xx

—-

Aaron remembers their first kiss, the second kiss, the third, and every kiss after that. He also remembers how they end; abruptly and with uncertainty, but perhaps that’s what draws him back time and time again.

It’s hard to find time to themselves these days, real, substantial, time when there’s no threat of someone walking in on them. No threat of nagging wives or over-protective mothers catching them in the act and exploding the little life they’ve built themselves this past week.

Aaron doesn't think it's possible to ever forget this feeling, the way it is to have every bone inside his body individually pulled apart, Robert’s fingers clutching at the skin of his chest and tearing it off, releasing the myriad of galaxies hidden behind Aaron’s scars and tears.

Being here, with Robert, this week, is the first time he's ever felt flowers blooming inside himself, as if Aarons worthy of having a whole garden litter his chest. It’s the first time he feels like he wants simultaneously giving everything he has, and then take everything he’s offered.

The late April humidity is flowing through the air in waves, traveling along the bare field of the village. It twists and swirls its way up the side of the large house, the one so foreign to Aaron, yet so familiar with robert here. A slight breeze travels through the open windows of the bedroom up at home farm, past the sheer plum-colored curtains, and settles into the atmosphere. They’re lying on Robert’s bed, skin slightly sticky from the oppressive heat; a mixture of the day’s soaring temperatures and a heat that’s entirely their own.

The room beings to cool as the sun makes its journey from the sky to the darkening horizon, and Aaron stares at the ceiling. He just states and stares and over-thinks. Robert’s breaths are shallow beside him, warm and ever present against Aaron’s shoulders and all he wants is to curl into Robert’s warmth. But he can’t. He can’t, because one day the heat is going to kill him.

Robert is, put simply, the best thing to ever happen to Aaron and he doesn't know what love is but he thinks that this might be it. He knows that this is it. Whether or not he deserves it, is another thing.

But Aaron’s selfish when it comes to Robert. he’s ruining lives and his own too but he doesn’t care. He just wants Robert to be his. His and his only.

And now he’s had a week, a week of Robert, unguarded and completely Aaron’s, he wants it forever.

He turns then, calls Robert’s name softly and breaks the calm with a question that has the ability to shatter all: “In another life, would you choose me?”

“I’d choose you in this one, Aaron”

And that’s not at all the response Aaron was expecting. He studies Robert then, takes in the way his eyes reflect nothing but sincerity, the way he's biting his lower lip as if he's nervous, and the light flush dusting his cheeks that signals he’s just put his heart on the line. They both have.

They go back and fourth for a while then, the you wouldn’t and I would argument is relentless until Aaron snaps. “You could have chose me Robert, time and time again - you still could, but you won’t. And it breaks my fucking heart but it’s fine, I’ve accepted now.”

“Why? Why do you settle for this?”

“Because I love you.”

And for now, that’s enough.

#i feel 30% human again so these are BACK #no idea what this is but it’s this #<333 #robron #robron headcanon #my words

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emberbent · 5 years ago

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Book 1: Fire | Chapter 6: The Dragon

What little resolve Shinza had managed to muster after the test had washed away with the rain. The memory of Chief Mongkut leaving her hanging was still fresh, and each time it replayed in her mind, it made her more uneasy. In an attempt to calm herself, she’d brought a pot of jasmine tea to the covered rooftop of the little villa she’d called home for the past ten months. Cradling the hot ceramic cup in her hands, she focused on the sound of fat raindrops on stone, on dirt, on the canvas canopy above her; through the downpour, she saw the village through a gray filter, watching vendors closing up shop, adults running for cover, and children splashing in the puddles along the main path.

She had no idea what to expect when she first came here, and she was a little surprised to find she wasn’t homesick. Not for Republic City itself, anyway: she preferred the quietude of the village and the friendliness of its people, even if she couldn’t escape the smog of the mainland’s industrial endeavors.

Nero crossed her mind often. Shinza should have written her a letter a long time ago; it would have been the least she could do, after her the shock of seeing her friend essentially dragged away. They’d never even gotten to say goodbye, and the guilt she felt for not having written to Nero was palpable. But a small part of her had been anxious to extricate herself from her life in the city, and from the people she knew, with the hope that whatever came next would lead her to what she’d always felt was missing.

Another memory that stuck to the forefront of her mind was her mother calling to her down the hallway after she’d come to say goodbye: We love you, Shinza. No matter what. She knew that, though, and she’d never questioned it. What she’d needed to hear was that they were proud of her. Would they be proud of her now that she was a firebender? Did they respect her now because she was the Avatar?

She didn’t know, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Taking in the fragrant steam of her tea, she took the first hot sip and rested the cup on the table, turning on the little radio in front of her and tuning in to Republic City’s main station. The signal was choppy at best, but if she pointed the antenna east, she could make out the announcer’s familiar voice: “...And if you’re tuning in just now, thank you for joining us. Republic City officials today have confirmed the identity of the new Avatar. Supporters, devotees, and fans alike have awaited this announcement for almost three decades; after the tragic, untimely death of the child Avatar Yeong, the world rejoices at this new emergence. Officials are withholding the new Avatar’s identity in the midst of protests by The Organization, taking place in the city this week.”

A fresh wave of anxiety rolled over her, in time with a heavy sheet of rain that battered the uncovered portion of the rooftop patio. She turned the dial in search of something less troublesome and settled on the crooning of a familiar artist - famous for having gone from working at a dingy lower-ring club in Ba Sing Se to overnight sensation - who sang about the troubles of her neighborhood and her real-life addiction to opium. Shinza listened for a while, and then sang along, harmonizing in her silvery, resonant lilt, until the song came to its doleful conclusion.

“Hey,” said a voice behind her. Shinza leaped out of her seat, finding Amrit standing in the doorway, hands up in submission. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I knocked, but I don’t think you heard me over the rain.”

Shinza waved it off and gestured to the seat across from her. “It’s about time you came around. Want some tea?”

Amrit came to sit and watched as she gracefully poured him a cup. He took it with gratitude and waited for it to cool down, feeling Shinza’s eyes on him, no doubt wondering why he’d chosen this moment to come over.

Looking deeply proud and gravely serious, he said, “You passed.”

The color drained from Shinza’s face. She set her cup down and scrubbed her hand over her mouth, taking in the news and swallowing her rising emotions. “Okay.”

“The council sent word to the Eastern Air Temple. They’ll be expecting you.”

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. Then she asked, “Why did it take so long for them to make a decision?”

Amrit took a deep breath and released it. “Chief Mongkut didn’t want to pass you at first. He thought you were too hesitant. But the rest of us vouched for you. You defend yourself well, your technical execution is flawless, and you display an exceptional understanding of the origins of fire. It took him a day or two to think about it, but he came around.”

Shinza quietly took that in and stared down at the table, as if scanning some invisible book.

“Hey. What’s on your mind?” he inquired, leaning forward. He knew her to be reserved, but in a circumstance like this, it worried him to see her simply not react. “You don’t have to keep it all in.”

“Yes, I do,” she blurted, puzzled at why she’d said it. She felt it was true, but she couldn’t put her finger on why.

She sighed. “Okay, fine. I’m ecstatic that I passed, but I’m disappointed it wasn’t with flying colors. I’m terrified and excited at what comes next. I’m devastated because I’m going to have to leave you, and because if I move on and I learn how to airbend, then there’s no turning back. There will have been no case of mistaken identity, and I’ll have to shrug off this denial I’ve been living in. And I’ll have to face the fact that there are people who want me dead.”

Amrit took that in. He wished he had some sage advice to give, but all he could do was chew the inside of his cheek. “That’s rough, buddy,” he said in defeat.

Shinza scoffed. “Helpful.”

“Can I have this?” Amrit gestured at her hand.

“Yeah.”

He took her hand in his, studying the taut skin of her elegant fingers and the thick scars over her knuckles. No part of her hands were unmarked. “I think you’re going to be an incredible Avatar,” he said, finally looking up and pinning her with his night-sky gaze.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because you care so much.”

Shinza squeezed his hand, feeling flooded with warmth. People in the city didn’t care about each other like this; no one made eye contact or spoke to anyone else unless it was to shout at them to get out of the way. In a place populated by millions of people, she hadn’t realized how alone she’d been.

“I believe in you,” Amrit murmured, sandwiching her hand between his. “I wish you’d believe in yourself.”

She gave him a little half-smile. “I’m working on it.”

A familiar, comfortable silence fell over them; the rain stopped and the storm clouds rolled by to reveal the sun, which summoned back the fallen rain in the form of an oppressive steam.

“I didn’t know you could sing like that,” Amrit noted, trying his hand at being casual, although he couldn’t stop a coy smile from breaking over his face. He’d never forget the sound of her voice.

Shinza gave her own fond smile. “Yeah. You know, at one point, I wanted to be in a metal band.”

“I can see that.”

“Actually, that’s what I was doing just before all of this happened - performing. My friend and I were playing at this empty tea house. No one was even listening, except for one person, bless him. At the time, I thought that was what my life would amount to, but now I can’t imagine going back to such a simple time.”

Amrit nodded lazily. “No Avatar ever led a simple life.”

_________

The next morning, Shinza made her way up the cliff that overlooked the beach - the place Amrit had asked her to meet him before he saw her off to the Eastern Air Temple. The sun rose in the east, awakening the island with gentle, rosy clouds. With a small pack filled with the few belongings she’d accumulated on the island, she reached the summit, finding him waiting for her.

“Morning, sunshine,” he greeted her, handing her some water. Gratefully, she took the cup and gulped it down. The sun glinted off the clean-shaven sides of his head; the edges where his long, black hair started were sharp and perfectly symmetrical, cut into a cat-eye shape that started at the crown of his head and ended somewhere just above his neck. A gentle wind roused his ponytail. She’d never gotten over the urge to punch him for being so handsome.

“Morning. How do I look?”

Shinza gestured at herself. She wore the traditional airbender clothes the temple had sent over by courier: brown pants, the hems of which were tucked into knee-high, fur-trimmed boots; a turmeric-colored band of fabric wound around her chest, and an orange sash draped diagonally over one shoulder, held in place at the waist by a leather cord. Shinza happened to know that each piece of the outfit derived from animals had been painstakingly and reverently garnered from the bodies of already deceased creatures. Noting the fine stitching when she’d first received the clothes, she’d gushed for half an hour at the craftsmanship. The clothing suited her long, lean form, accentuating her musculature and her gentle curves.

Amrit gave her a once-over, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe she was real. “Incredible. Like an airbender.”

He approached her, furrowing his thick brows as his eyes narrowed at the crown of her head. “Did you grow?”

She grinned. “I think I’m just standing a little straighter these days. I can see the top of your head. Oh! I have something for you.”

Shinza shrugged off her backpack, untying the knot at the top and gingerly removing what looked to be a piece of wood from it. She turned it around and presented it to Amrit: it was a woodburning, displaying him in a full-body pose - the way she remembered seeing him the day of her test in all his regalia - and a three-quarter profile of him at the bottom right, donning his famous dazzling smile. The fine detail was impossibly intricate, and its likeness to him was astonishing.

“Shinza,” he breathed. “You did this?”

“With firebending. Yes. I wanted to make you something to show my appreciation.”

“This…” he hugged the piece against his chest, careful not to warp the wood. His eyes glimmered with the suggestion of tears. “This is my favorite thing in the whole world. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Amrit,” she replied. “You helped me find my flame, and you stuck with me all the way through. Even on the very first day, when you didn’t even know me yet, you showed me more kindness and patience than I even knew was possible. I’ll always be grateful to you.”

Amrit looked at her, biting the inside of his cheek, and then stared for a few more seconds at the piece before bringing it close to his heart again. “I have something for you too,” he said. “It’s a parting gift, but also kind of an early birthday present.”

Shinza’s brow twitched as she realized how much time had passed, and that she would be twenty-eight in a few months. “Okay.”

He stuck his thumb and forefinger in his mouth, emitting a long, loud, high-pitched whistle into the sky. A few moments passed, and nothing happened. “Come on…”

Just as Shinza started to speak, a dragon came ribboning out from the clouds, small and far away at first, but rapidly gaining immense size as it approached. Speechless, she leapt back as the enormous creature finally came to land on the clifftop. If the sheer size of it was difficult to comprehend, its beauty was impossible. It locked onto Shinza immediately, pacing several feet with its snake-like body. Its talons gouged the rock beneath them with each step. Shinza could see her whole face, awe-stricken, in the reflection of the dragon’s golden eyes.

“Hi, beautiful,” she breathed. Even the small action of the beast’s breathing was startlingly loud. The air around them rippled with heat. It inched closer, slowly enough not to scare Shinza, who, after a moment, realized it was asking to be touched.

She carefully outstretched her hand, planting her palm between the dragon’s eyes. On a whim, she knew, it could exhale a devastating blaze of fire. The creature blinked slowly.

Shinza turned carefully to Amrit. “You got me a dragon?”

“Well, she’s not a pet,” he answered. “More like a friend. I’ve been working with her since she hatched, so she’s tame. She’ll take you wherever you need to go. Just know that dragons move on their own time.”

“What’s her name?” Shinza murmured, entranced by the iridescent scarlet scales that adorned the dragon’s skin.

“I don’t know,” Amrit replied. “She hasn’t told me. Why don’t you try asking her?”

She did. The dragon inched even closer, placing one prehensile whisker in the center of Shinza’s forehead. Immediately, she understood the beast’s name and felt a sense of warmth and love.

“Xia,” Shinza translated breathlessly. “Her name is Xia. Because she loves the pink clouds of sunrise.”

Xia encircled the two of them and constricted herself so that Amrit and Shinza were forced to stand closer to each other.

“I hope she reminds you of your heritage,” he said. “And the origin of firebending.” And I hope she reminds you of me, he thought.

Shinza slid her arms around him in a fierce embrace, finding herself ensnared in his own strong grip. Each time she squeezed him tighter, he squeezed back all the more fervently.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Are you crying?”

“Yeah, fuck off,” he sniffed.

Shinza pulled away just enough to wipe the tears off his cinnamon skin. “I miss you already. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“We’ll see each other again,” he promised. Then he released her with reluctance. “Good luck. And be careful.”

Xia nudged Shinza’s shoulder with her snout. She climbed onto Xia’s back, hooking her feet just below the elegant, fleshy spikes that shrouded the dragon’s ears. Her heart raced as she suddenly realized she’d be bulleting through the air, gripping Xia for her life, in a matter of seconds. “Be gentle,” she implored her new friend, who seemed to understand perfectly. The dragon took a couple easy steps back and then started at a smooth, loping gait before hurtling off the cliff, catching the wind and making one generous loop back around for momentum before rocketing off toward the sun.

Shinza closed her eyes until the movement evened out, too stricken by exhilaration to even scream. Then she chanced a careful glance behind her, finding Amrit was bowing to them as they disappeared into the clouds.

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