#that possessiveness after her abduction. and her laying her whole body on him at the end of demons. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

almostatomicperfection · 2 years ago

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Coast

Here's a little short story I wrote after watching the movie, I hope I gain enough inspiration here to write many more *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Haiti.

The sky was always unbroken above Shuri's head here, the air dense and nourishing.

It would have felt something treason to articulate this thought out loud, but Wakanda started to affect her the opposite way. Her homeland started to suffocate her until she felt like a foreign body that was ejected and spit out on this remote island.

It did not matter that her people were waiting for her return, that Oyoke was sending messages nonstop. This was bigger than all of them, a wrongness of the universe that impaired her. With the passing weeks, the thought of returning home felt more and more unbearable, the work that awaited her there, for the first time, felt what it maybe always should have felt; a burden.

She did not make a point of avoiding water. She was living on an island, after all; it would have been an absurd objective. But she couldn't take comfort in it either as she used to. The ocean's murmuring seeped through the walls, gently rustling her little house situated deep into the island, the smell of salt so clean and crisp that it made her head hurt.

Then she grew used to it.

It must have been around the twelfth week of her stay when something woke her up in the middle of the night. She was laying with eyes wide open for a few seconds, trying to get rid of the vivid, painful colors of her dreams. She dreamed so intensely these days that her dreams did not feel like dreams anymore, but the continuation of an alternative reality, infested with the unsought visits of N'Jadaka, sitting on her throne, eyes closed, head dropped between his shoulders, silent.

He took reign and peace in her tortured mind, abducting her dreams.

Shuri never for a minute assumed that someone like the Killmonger would find peace in the afterlife, but his unwavering attachment to her also felt uncalled for. With a shudder, she threw her blanket off and stepped outside into the twilight, a ticking anticipation building up in the back of her mind without realizing it.

It was the water.

The thought emerged and dipped under in her mind like a tumbling message in a bottle and froze her whole body, awareness prickling her skin.

Him.

Despite the keen sense of fear that tightened her muscles, she smiled.

She could feel this smile sitting on her lips, dark, expectant, hungry. Her arms lifted and she touched her skin, gripping her own arm for a sense of comfort. This was deeply unsettling, how her own body reacted in a way she had no control over. She should probably go back to the house.

But this thought already found her at the edge of the water and crouching down she slowly held her palm out above the silky surface.

"Are you trying to summon me?"

She sharply jerked her head to the side from where the mocking voice came from.

"I do not travel like that. Although I might not mind it, if I were able to," Namor brushed his wet hair back with imperial impatience and with that specific self-containment that only gods possessed.

"I am sure you would feel really comfortable being tied to my words," Shuri locked eyes with him, unable to take her gaze off of him. It was probably wise that she did not.

"Not comfortable, but maybe pleasantly constrained."

"I do not particularly feel like laying a claim to you, K'uk'ulkan," Shuri broke their eye contact, sinking back to her earlier melancholy.

"You do not feel like laying a claim to many things these days, are you, Shuri."

The sound of his heavy steps followed his words and Shuri consciously had to still her body when he lowered himself next to her. She did not like him this close to her, his physical proximity brought something out of her that was just as much attraction as resentment.

He took up so much space, his measurements scaled to fit a species different from the rest of the Earth's population.

"If you came to discuss governance, with anything political you should seek out M'Baku. I heard he is the one currently parading as the king of Wakanda."

"So you know," Namor nodded to himself. "I was not sure you even bothered to listen."

"Why are you here, Namor?"

"Because I would rather talk with you."

"Why?" she frowned, watching him from the corner of her eyes.

He did not answer right away, but stretched out his body on the sand, staring up at the night sky.

"It is hard to put it into words. You bring clarity to me. It is the most peculiar thing. I see my goals and my aspirations with a sharper focus. I am less divided when I am around you."

His accent grew heavier with the drawled-out words, to the point of barely being understandable.

"I have been none of those things you've just described, for months," Shuri murmured, the intimacy of his confession breathing some warmth into her lungs. It came from the most inconvenient place but she couldn't help basking in it for a couple of minutes.

"No clarity. No focus or aspirations."

"I know," Namor tilted his head in her direction, his profile emerging sharp against the sand. His beauty always took Shuri aback; it was so unexpected, so compelling.

"That's also a reason why I came here. You need help."

"I really don't. And if I did, I have all the help in hand's reach I could possibly want."

"And it's clearly not coming from the right source, otherwise you've reached for it a long time ago," Namor shook off his languidity abruptly, making Shuri flinch, his responding smile biting in the dark. "You exiled your own self, and now you're decomposing here, slowly dissolving into sand."

"Your metaphors are a little too strong for me to stomach," Shuri sneered at him and he moved closer, his hands hovering above her face before fleetingly touching her cheekbone.

"That is good. You need to be rattled," his hand dropped to his side. " I want to see you on Wakanda's throne, Shuri. Next time I visit this island it shall be deserted by you."

"Do you have some authority over Haiti I am not aware of?" she arched a brow.

"You're surrounded by water, babe."

"I will give it a thought," she shrugged, consciously ignoring the pet name, and now it was her turn to stretch out on the sand, arms linked behind her head. She felt lighter as if Namor's appearance helped things shift into focus. She would never admit this to him though, ever.

"Aren't you supposed to slide back into the water now and mysteriously disappear?" she squinted at him in confusion when he joined her, his body thrumming with life so close to hers.

"Slide? That somehow sounds derogative."

"It was intended to do so," Shuri said contentedly and the ocean carried her laughter as he got up with an irritated, growling sound and a wave rose for him, swallowing his body.

"One day, I will stand up again and become Shuri, Queen of Wakanda. But for now, I need to rest," she murmured to herself and fell asleep on the beach, feeling comforted and safe for reasons she would've rather left undiscussed.

#namuri #mcu namor #shuri #wakanda forever #fanfic #NamorXShuri #nashuri

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inevitably-johnlocked · 4 years ago

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hi steph, I hope you enjoyed your break and are looking after yourself! if you’re back and feeling up to it, I was wondering if you knew of any affectionate sherlock fics or ones where john calls him pet names? just that lovey dovey vibe w a cuddly sherlock :) again, thank you for everything you do ❤️

HI LOVELY!!!

AHHHH You are in luck!!! I actually have a Pt Two list that I’ve been just WAITING for someone to ask for, LOL. I hope you enjoy what I have for you today!!!! And as always, add your own fics, my lovelies!! <3

PET NAMES Pt. 2

See also: Pet Names Pt 1

“My / His John” / “My / His Doctor”

New World, Old Words by thedeafwriter (G, 641 w., 1 Ch. || Deaf Sherlock, Sherlock Whump, Pining Sherlock, Marriage Proposal, Fluff, Always John) – It was disconcerting to experience. One second, he was laying on the table, breathing in the gas that would make him sleep, the next, he was dragging his eyes open to look around the bright room, trying to wake up.

Possessive by Fang323 (T, 850 w., 1 Ch. || John Whump, Hospitalization, Possessive / Protective Sherlock, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort) – His John did not belong. Not here. Not in this blasted hospital. It simply was not logical.

Concussions And Good Old Fashioned Awkwardness by Belldere (K+, 894 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Hospitals, Mild John Whump, Misunderstandings, Platonic Relationship, Concussions, Not-Gay John, Possessive Sherlock) – When John lands himself in hospital... again, all he wants is to just get out of there as soon as possible, too bad his doctor has other ideas about where John may be getting his injuries. Good thing concussions make everything strangely funnier.

Burn Burn by Jenn1984 (K+, 925 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG, Angst, Worried / Panicked / Possessive Sherlock) – A week after the events of "The Great Game", Sherlock returns to 221B Baker Street to find it empty.

Loved. by inevitably_johnlocked (G, 1,231 w., 1 Ch. || First Sherlock POV, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Nose Kisses, Morning After, Love Confessions, Morning Cuddles, Emotional Sherlock, Sentiment, Bed Sharing) – Sherlock reflects on his relationship with John. Part 5 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Lost and Found by jaradel (G, 1,750 w., 1 Ch. || Post-HLV, John Whump, Est. Rel., Hurt/Comfort) – He's honestly not sure what's worse, right now - being where he is, the beaten kidnap victim, or being where Sherlock is, trying to rescue him before it's too late. Unwillingly his mind offers up the image of Sherlock in a video message, tied to a chair, bruised and bloodied. John squeezes his eyes shut to hold back tears. No, he decides. That would be so much worse.

The Video Footage by bitchinblackframedglasses (K, 1,894 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Friendship, Fluff, ASiB Missing Scene) – What exactly DID Lestrade film Sherlock doing in A Scandal in Belgravia? Sherlock wants to know, and John tells him.

Husband by jinglebell (E, 2,003 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., PWP, Anal, Multiple Orgasms, Fluff) – Sherlock orgasms when John refers to him as 'husband'.

Sherlock Holmes and the Mysterious Piercing by Lorelei_Lee (E, 4,130 w., 1 Ch. || Travelling, Sherlock is Loud, Secrets, Genital Piercing, First Time, Licking, Coming Nearly Untouched) – John discovers by chance that Sherlock has a piercing. To his surprise John can't stop thinking about it...

The Oolong Disaster by unicornpoe (T, 4,151 w., 1 Ch. || John’s Beard, Fluff, Humour, Frustrated Sherlock, John Takes Care of Sherlock, Case Fic-ish, Pining Sherlock, First Kiss, Possessive Sherlock) – John has a beard. Sherlock has a panic attack.

The Haunting of 221B Baker Street by earlgreytea68 (M, 10,388 w., 2 Ch. || Post TRF, Halloween / Ghosts, Pining Sherlock, Ghost Sherlock, Stroppy Sherlock, Sherlock POV, First Kiss/Time, Angry Sex, Ghost Sex, Love Confessions, Open / Ambiguous Ending) – In which Sherlock Holmes is a ghost.

To be loved by Strange_johnlock (E, 12,436 w., 8 Ch. || Post S3, Established Relationship, First Person POV Sherlock, Pet Names, Soft Sherlock, Mild ADHD, Protective John, Captain Watson, Body Appreciation, Bottomlock, Rough Sex, Travelling for Holidays, Introspection, Sherlock Loves John So Much It Hurts) – John is so deeply integrated into the work, both as my conductor of light, and as a great shot with a vicious right hook who tackles men -and women- no matter their size all in my defense. He protects me with all he can without question, and this loyalty is surely more than I deserve. Or: Sherlock is counting his blessings.

The Palmyra Atoll by elwinglyre (E, 16,609 w., 3 Ch. || TSo3 Divergence / Episode Fix-It, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapped John Watson, John Whump, Evil Mary, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Toplock, Limited 3rd John POV) – As John's preparing for the wedding, Sherlock is preparing to have his heart broken, and Mary is prepared to do the unthinkable. Intervention required. Enter Sherlock. Set before Sign of Three with a far different outcome. John is drugged, kidnapped, and left on an island, but not just any old island.

A Home for Us by sussexbound (M, 30,581 w., 12 Ch. || Scars, Bedsharing, Grief, Doctor John, Hurt/Comfort, Post-TRF, Implied/Referenced Torture, Sherlock POV, Pining Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation, Heavy Emotions, Clingy Sherlock, Hallucinations, Disassociation, Emotional Turmoil) – He has been on the road for two years, and he is exhausted. He’s almost accepted that he will never see London (John) again—almost. But then there are nights like tonight, where he is weak, and all he can think of is the warmth of the flat they once shared, the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the teasing smile playing at the corner of John’s lips, the boxes of half-eaten Chinese takeaway balanced precariously in their laps. He aches at the memory of it, at the realisation that it is something he may never experience again.

Turn Left at the Park by Glenmore (NR (E), 37,409 w., 28 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting / ASiP Divergence, Case Fic, Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Loneliness, No Mary, Possessive Sherlock, Fluff & Angst, Nightmares/PTSD, Sherlock Saves John, Sherlock Whump-ish, Doctor John) – So what would have happened if John hadn't walked through the park and met Stamford?What if, instead, he walked around the park and just went home?

Guidelines by WithLoweredVoices (M, 43,018 w., 15 Ch. || Winglock || Angels, Fantasy, Angst, BAMF! John, War, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Jealous John, Falling in Various Ways, Needy Sherlock, Wings) – The Good Soldier, one of the oldest and strongest of the fallen, is offered a bargain: to live as John Watson and to Guide a fledgling archangel so that he will stay on the path of good. Of course, Sherlock Holmes has different ideas about his destiny. Fantasy AU. Warnings for violence, occasional gore, and a whole load of hurt and angst.

Repairing the Broken Things by BakerTumblings (M, 75,252 w., 15 Ch. || S4 Compliant, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Hospitals, Big Brother Mycroft, Misunderstandings, Realizations, Severe Accident, John Whump, Pneumonia, Medical Procedures, Bed Sharing, First Time, Healing, Happy Ending) – "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."

The Thing Is by TSylvestris (E, 56,743 w., 21 Ch. || Case Fic, Dev. Rel., Anal/Oral, Blow Jobs, Meddling Mycroft, Drama, Romance, Humour, Casual Encounters, Pining Idiots, Possessive Sherlock, Orgasm Delay, Rough / Alley Sex, Public Sex, John Whump, Drugged John, Emotional Love Making, Awkward Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Switchlock) – The problem with living with Sherlock, John thought, was that you never, never, ever knew the significance of anything. Like your flatmate's nose buried in your hair. Whilst you're in bed. Part 1 of Nitroglycerine

One Little Change by jadztone (E, 58,312 w., 12 Ch. || ASiB Divergence, Fake Relationship, Bed Sharing, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bi John / Gay Demisexual Sherlock, Switchlock, Alternating POV, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Case Fic, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Love Making, Butt Plugs, Cuddles) – Our story begins right after John and Sherlock's first meeting with Irene Adler in September. It splits off into an AU that imagines them taking a case where they act as bait to hook a killer targeting closeted gays in secret relationships. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, many things happen that have our boys wondering if maybe they have a chance with each other. Then Irene fakes her death on Christmas Eve, and things get a lot more complicated - especially since they still have a killer to catch.

Gold Rush by ShirleyCarlton (E, 71,783 w., 17 Ch. || Post S3 / No Mary, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse, First Kiss, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Alternating POV, Switchlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Marriage Proposal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abduction, Anxious/Insecure Sherlock, Miscommunication, Emotional Lovemaking) – John has divorced Mary and pops round to 221B one evening to find Sherlock in the middle of a case. As Sherlock tries to find the identity of a young woman’s stalker, John realises he can no longer deny his feelings for Sherlock – which then, to their befuddlement, turn out to be mutual. Shy kisses and tentative embraces ensue. But will Sherlock be able to cast off a shadow from his past that he thinks might prevent John from wanting to stay?

The Adventure of the Silver Scars by tangledblue (NR [M], 142,458 w., 41 Ch. || S3 Fix-It, Post-HLV/ Post-TAB / Canon Compliant, Case Fic, No Baby, Angst, Humour, UST, Slow Burn, Angry John, Reconciliation, Not Nice Mary / Leaving Mary, Dependent Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Caretaker John, Fist Fights, It’s An Experiment, Virgin Sherlock, Dancing, Drugging, John Whump, Pet Names, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Scars) – It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (E, 151,714 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Hiatus Fic, POV First Person Sherlock, Present Tense, First Kiss/Time, Big Brother Mycroft, Escaping from Capture, Soft Sherlock, Toplock, Insecurity, Infidelity, Travelling, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Depression, Fantasies, Yearning for the Past, PTSD Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation) – Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns.

“Love” / “My Sherlock”

I Knew You Loved Me by inevitably_johnlocked (T, 743 w., 1 Ch. || Morning Cuddles, Fluff, Clingy Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slice of Life, Morning After, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Declarations of Love, Pet Name, Bed Sharing, Snuggles) – John and Sherlock share a lie-in the morning after their first time. So fluffy and gross your teeth will fall out. Part 4 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Hell or High water by bluefire301175 (E, 2,250 w. || PWP, Frottage, Alley Sex, First Person POV John, Case-ish Fic, Mutual Pining, Bed Sharing) – John wants. Sherlock wants. Plain and simple.

A Study in Lace by KarlyAnne (E, 2,320 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Crafty Sherlock, Tiny Lace Panties / Lingerie, Domestics, Experiments, Oral, Masturbation) – “Why do you suppose he was doing that?” “Why do I suppose who was doing what?” “The room. The lace. The secrecy. He was playing with fire in everything he did, and didn’t care one bit. But he had a secret chamber, carefully concealed, solely for the purpose of making lace lingerie. Obviously for personal use. Why?" Part 1 of The Unintentional Crafts of Sherlock Holmes

Tell Me a Secret, Sherlock Holmes. by DaringlyDomestic (NR, 3,880 w., 2 Ch. || Love Confessions, Truth or Dare, Smut, Gentle Explicit Love, Microscopic Angst) – John's voice is low and seductive, sending a shiver of want crackling through his stomach. Sherlock's heart beats frantically against his ribcage, and his breathing grows fast as he feels John's lips flutter against the sensitive skin of his neck. The kiss, if it could really be called that, is so quick and so light that Sherlock is almost convinced he had imagined it. Part 9 of Tumblr Drabble Challenge

Applied Linguistics by what_alchemy (M, 4,837 w., 1 Ch. || Possessive / Anxious Sherlock, Introspection, Bed Sharing, Past John Whump, Est. Rel., Marriage Proposal, Sherlock Loves John So Much, Word Play) – “He wants to shake John by the shoulders, wants to open his mouth and swallow John whole. Wants to marry him.” Sherlock searches for the right words.

My First, My Only, and My Forever by vintagelilacs (E, 6,220 w., 1 Ch. || Post-ASiB, Virgin Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock’s Bum, John’s Scar, Sherlock POV, Body Worship, Fingering, Bottomlock, Promise of Forever / Proposals, Misunderstanding, First Kiss/Time, Loss of Virginity, Virginity Kink, Seduction) – Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was missing a vital piece of data, he was sure. John had been looking at him oddly ever since they left Buckingham Palace, and the ensuing incident with Irene Adler had only exacerbated his erratic behaviour. What was it? Why would he care that Sherlock was a virgin? There was nothing reminiscent of mockery or pity in his gaze. And then it hit him. John Watson was aroused.

Talk by illwick (E, 6,364 w., 1 Ch. || Dirty Talk, John’s Giant Junk, PWP, Light BDSM, Size Kink, Oral / Anal, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Rel., John Calls Sherlock Love) – Sherlock was never much for dirty talk... until an unexpected visit yields unexpected results. Part 20 of Unwind

Survival Instinct by shirleyholmes (T, 7,162 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF, First Kiss, Schmoop, Nightmares, Fluff & Angst, Grief, Idiots in Love) – After Sherlock's "comeback" John starts obsessing with constantly making sure he's alive (checking his heartbeat etc.)

Of Razors, Pipes, Red Notebooks and Rugby Jerseys, Or: Sherlock Doesn't Like His Doctors Clean Shaven by allonsys_girl (E, 7,313 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., PWP / Porn With Feelings, John’s Beard / Beard Kink, Roleplay, Love Declarations, Banter, Rimming, Anal, Domestic Fluff / Bliss, Idiots in Love, Emotional Lovemaking, Pet Names, Obsessive Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Bottomlock, Cranky Sherlock) – John grows a beard. Sherlock really likes it. Part 1 of Consulting Husbands

The Invocation of Saint Margaret by Ewebie (E, 15,831 w., 1 Ch. || POV John, Crossing Timelines, Light Angst, Fluff, Series 3 John / Series 1 Sherlock, The Matchbox, Mushy Romance, First Time, Bisexual John, Pining John, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Sensuality, Emotional Love Making, Snippets of Time) – When Sherlock Holmes opens the matchbox from The Sign of Three and John finds himself years in the past, back to that first dinner at Angelo's with a much younger Sherlock Holmes. Is he dreaming?

The Burning of the Leaves by blueink3 (M, 15,915 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Angst, Reichenbach, Parentlock, Past Jolto, Idiot John, Sherlock’s a Mess, Puppies, Fluff, Possessive / Jealous Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Matchmaker Sholto, Melancholic Feelings, Emotional Sherlock, Domesticity, Love Confessions in the Rain, Kissing in the Rain, Pet Names, Panic Attack) – After the events of series 4, Major Sholto invites John and Sherlock to lunch one day. It nearly proves to be too much for their tenuous relationship as the past haunts the present, putting the future that Sherlock so desperately wants at risk.

26 Pieces by Lanning (E, 28,236 w., 1 Ch. || H/C, Torture, First Time, Happy Ending, Schmoop) – Mycroft gives Sherlock the apparently simple task of solving a puzzle box containing a stolen microchip. It isn't simple.

The Winter Garden by Callie4180 (T, 31,213 w., 13 Ch. || Post-S4, Retirement, Christmas, Slow Burn, Grown-Up Rosie, Parenthood, Rosie’s Cat, Angst with Happy Ending, Holidays, Beekeeping, Magical Realism, Sherlock POV, Sherlock’s Violin, Future Fic, Sussex, Honey, Magical Healing Honey, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Scar, First Kiss, Touching) – As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he's given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing. Almost...magical.

Anchor Point by trickybonmot (E, 49,856 w., 80 Ch. || Truman Show AU || Psychological Drama, Suspense, Slow Burn, Dark Characters / Fic, Alternating First/Third Person, Protective John, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Tender Moments, Love Confessions, Hand/Blow Jobs, Cuddling, Jealous John, First Kiss/Time) – The world tunes in nightly for Sherlock, the ultimate in reality TV: Sherlock Holmes, a real person with a legendary name, unknowingly lives out his life in a staged setting contrived by his brother. Things get complicated when a retired army doctor joins the show to play the part of Sherlock's closest friend. This fic borrows its concept from the 1998 film, the Truman Show. However, you don't need to have any knowledge of the movie to enjoy this story.

The Summer Boy by khorazir (T, 94,706 w., 6 Ch. || Post S3/Post TAB/Alternate S4, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Sussex, Bullying, 1980′s Kid Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock, Grief/Mourning, Pining Sherlock, Background Case Fic) – About half a year after the fateful events at Appledore, Sherlock and John embark on a private case in Sussex. For Sherlock, it’s a journey into his past, bringing up memories both happy and sad that he has locked away for almost thirty years. For John, it means coming to terms with the present – and a potential future with Sherlock. Part 1 of the The Summer Boy series

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU || BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

The Wedding Garments by cwb (E, 105,390 w., 36 Ch. || Alternate Future AU || , Alternate First Meeting, Dating / Arranged Marriages, Romance, First Kiss/Time, Heavy Petting, Cuddles, POV Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn / Falling in Love / Dev. Rel., Nervous/Anxious Sherlock, Jealous/Cranky, Hiking, Vacation Homes / Honeymoon, Sherlock’s Family, Horny John/Sherlock, Patient John, Massages, Hand Jobs, Assassination Plots, Hand Jobs / Oral Sex) – This is the story of a young consulting detective who wants nothing to do with marriage and an army doctor who wants to find true love. It's 2020 post-Brexit England and the British government is encouraging arranged marriages. Candidates meet through state-run agencies and date in hopes of finding love (and tax benefits). Sherlock doesn't need or want a spouse, at least not until John Watson shows up. Hesitant to give in to his more carnal urges because of the way they derail his mind, how will Sherlock progress toward the more intimate aspects of a relationship? The answer lies in a very special wedding gift.

The Bang and the Clatter by earlgreytea68 (M, 137,049 w., 37 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Baseball AU || Slow Burn / Dev. Rel., Possessive/Obsessive Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Body Appreciation, Depression, Closeted Sexuality, Family, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Ogling Each Other, Anxious Sherlock, Panic Attack, Drunkenness, Talk of Forever, Big Feelings™) – Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU. Part 1 of Baseball

OTHER PET NAMES

A Christmas Holiday by consultinggalpals (sansa_undergrind) (G, 1,076 w., 1 Ch. || Tooth Rotting Fluff, Christmas, Honeymoon) – "Come on, Sherlock. Just take the picture already.”

Unquantifiable by 221b_hound (M, 2,799 w. 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Sherlock/Sally Friendship, Grumpy John, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Pet Names, Texting, Sweet Sherlock, Princess Bride References) – John remains a terrible and foul-tempered patient, but he does try to make up for it with pet names and text message silliness. In the meantime, Sally Donovan visits Baker Street for a hint about the Milverton case, and has to deal with a Sherlock Holmes who can't find words big enough to thank her for saving John's life at the warehouse. For afters, there's a viewing of The Princess Bride. Part 33 of the Unkissed series

Pillow Talk by scullyseviltwin (M, 5,183 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S3, Angsty Fluff, PIllow Talk, Bed Sharing, Worried John, First Time Morning After, Soft Sherlock, Sexuality Discussion, Love Confessions, Kisses and Cuddles) – John has been looking at Sherlock for ages, it feels like.

A Study in Winning by Jupiter_Ash (E, 106,658 w., 11 Ch. || Tennis AU || John POV, Dirty Talk, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Happy Ending, Sherlock Speaks French, Switchlock, Wimbledon) – John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything? Part 1 of Tennis

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #pet names #my fic recs #my john #effortlesslie #long post #e-rated fics

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johnkrrasinski · 5 years ago

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ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔚𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔰

Chapter 4: False God

full masterlist // series masterlist

Pairings: dark!Steve Rogers x female!reader

Word count: 3,117

Warnings: smut, kidnapping, stalking, slight bondage, dub-con, non-con. (MUST BE 18+)

Summary: after the death of your mother, you decided that you were going to do something new to honor her. You chose a perfect camping spot somewhere down South. You thought it was going to be the life-changing vacation that you never had in your life, until Steve Rogers, a man existed in roughness and control all his life, found you.

a/n: finally finished chapter 4 folks! i wanted their relationship to move forward not only sexually and physically but also, emotionally. steve shows that he doesn’t see her as only a sex object, despite wanting to take full control of her but rather, he will actually care for her as a good dom should. hope you enjoy! please leave a like and comment.

After the steamy session you encountered with Steve, he decided to give you a little break. Amid your post-coital bliss, Steve went upstairs to bring you a glass of water to calm your raging nerves. The experience sent you jolts of pleasure, bewilderment, and pain. You had never felt such extreme pleasure before, it awakens every nerve inside your body, striking a flash of lightning down your spine.

On the other brain, your brain is terrorizing you; you had lost control of your body and you had allowed a man to trespass your most personal territory. A man that your mother had warned you about. A man who was perilous enough to abduct you, strip you out of your rights and rob away your will.

The sickening feeling in your stomach resurfaced, to remind you that threat was imminent, and you can't protect yourself from it. You searched for ways of how to repel him enough to let you go. Would it even be possible for you to manipulate him? You've watched enough movies to draw a plan, on how you learn his weakness and then maybe enervate him so you could make an escape. The stake is high, and there's a probability that his sturdy legs might outrun you, and he might make you suffer the consequences.

If you were going to risk your life, you'd rather die trying than serve him as a sex slave for the rest of your life. Would you even know the road back to where you parked your car? Which made you wonder, what happened to your belongings? Did Steve take those too? Or did he just leave it there in the woods? If he had done the latter, there's a high chance that someone might try to find you, the foresters might try to find out whom they belong to.

Or other campers who might make a visit at the woods, they might wish to get rid of the belongings and that would coerce them into trying to figure out who had camped here before. They might search for clues by checking your phone, driver's license... Hold on, your phone, your driver's license, etc... Could they possibly still be in the woods? Or did Steve take them too? From less than 24 hours of observing him, it doesn't seem like Steve would be reckless enough to leave traces behind now, would he?

Your jumbled questions were quickly disrupted by his entrance through the door. Stepping down the staircase, with a glass of water in his hand. He walked towards you and sat on the bed, he put the glass on the bedside table and untied you. Then he lifted the glass to your lips carefully not to let it spill all over the corners of your mouth.

"Here, cool yourself down."

You took a big gulp and drank down the full glass. The water felt icy washing over your tongue. After the perspiring activity that left you flaring up, you needed something to ground you.

"Enough?"

"Yes, sir."

He put the glass back on the bedside table as he stripped himself out of the sweatpants he wore. "Good girl. Now lay back down."

The sight before you left you agape. His member that had been extricated, sprung free before you, leaking with pre-cum, as it wobbled with each slight movement. What left you jarred, wasn't what it was drenched in; but rather the length and the girth. He really was sculpted by the Gods themselves.

You were subdued by the thought of him being inside you. How was he going to fit? You had never seen a man's shaft up-close. It trembled you knowing what he was likely going to do to you shortly.

He kneeled on his knees between your restrained legs, as he bent down to unleash them. He instantly lifted them and placed them on his shoulders. He paused for a moment to brush his thumb over your lower lip and shoved it inside your mouth. Your frightened eyes pleasured him even more.

"Suck it." You began sucking like a baby and its pacifier. He dragged it in and out as it got wetter each time it retreats out of your lips. Once he felt satisfied enough, he lifted his cock and inserted himself inside you, passing through the thin skin that covers your entrance.

You screamed in pain, not a single hint of pleasure emitting out of you. You tried to stop by pulling down your legs but he was too quick to keep you in place.

"Stop, please. It hurts."

"Shh, it's okay. I know it does, but it will feel better once we get past it."

"No, no, no, please just pull out."

"You don't get to make that wish here."

He didn't hesitate in pushing inside of you even farther until he reached his limit. He sighs as he was fully seated. On the other hand, you were shrieking in pain, the tears in your eyes were flowing uncontrollably, as you tried to block out the view by contorting your place to the side.

He began thrusting at a slow pace, letting you adapt to his size. He knew that one way or another, you were going to have to get past this to experience a whole 'nother level of pleasure and he would gladly take you there. But first, you must give into him as he takes care of the inception of your training.

"Fuck, little girl, you are so tight."

You squealed as you tried to push him off by kicking his face, but he grabbed your ankles and stopped his invasion.

"Hey, hey!" He warned you. He slightly bent down to grab your jaw and made you look into his eyes. It was full of ultimatum. "Remember what happens if you continue to misbehave. I will not tolerate it any longer."

You were breathing harshly, as the tears obscured your visions and the feeling of his size still clogging you full caused you discomfort at a great expanse.

"I- I can't... Please."

"No. You are going to keep your mouth shut and submit to me. The more you fight, the more it's going to be painful for you."

You could only continue to cry, hoping that he'd yield at your tears. But no, softness wasn't a trait this man possessed.

"Now, are you going to behave?"

You hesitated for a second, knowing the only answer he demanded contradicted your wish. But you didn't want to face much worse than what was already happening. You didn't wanna face the consequences of your futile resistance. So with a heavy heart, you opened your mouth; "yes, sir." Your voice was meek.

"Good girl."

He thrust harder than before, as he poured his disappointment on your body. He made you feel each puncture as he drew out pleasure out of your misery. At first, it felt horrible, like you had been shot at your most vulnerable part, but as he kept going, you started to feel good; unspeakable and mystifying.

Eventually, the fight in your body slowly departed as you welcomed this newfound bliss. You moaned as he hit the sensitive spot you were never aware of its existence before. You closed your eyes and let his hips to work over your body.

He stared down at you from above, knowing that once again, he had broken down your wall. He knew you began to allow the pain to introduce you to the pleasure you had never known before. He thrust faster and the bed squeaked from the pace. You moaned harder as your breasts jiggled with his vigorous movement.

He kept going until your climax hits you. You spilled your cum all over his hard-rock member that was still moving in and out of you, prolonging your release. It outpoured of you and merged with pre-orgasm wetness. You gave in to the euphoria, as you laid there, presenting your body to be used to get him off.

Shortly, he reached his own climax and he threw his head back as he growled due to the bliss. He spilled his cum inside of you as he stayed a little longer to make sure every drop was kept within.

He pulled out of you as he saw a droplet of blood mixed with the flowing juices your body produced. He neglected it so t wouldn't scare you. You were frightened enough already, he wasn't going to ruin the moment.

He leaned down and pressed a passionate kiss on your lips. He panted into your mouth and pressed his forehead on yours. "You're mine. All mine."

And you were... Not like you had a say in it anyway.

You dozed off after the post-release euphoria took over your body. It had drained your energy and you couldn't resist the urge of closing your eyes. Steve left you after your first session to let you take a break. He took a dampen cloth from your tiny lavatory and cleaned off the remnants of your release dribbling all over your thighs.

He tenderly wiped your skin, trying not to wake you up. He was aware of how in shock your mind and your body must've been. He then took the used cloth with him and went upstairs. He tossed it in the dirty laundry basket then cleaned himself off.

The day was still young so he decided to break a few sweats. Steve works as a wildland firefighter and a part-time photographer. He doesn't always have to be at the local fire department. He works 4 days a week and gets 4 days off. Usually, during his time off, he would wander around the woods to photograph some scenery himself. But for the past couple of days, he's been a little occupied.

Steve went to his backyard to lift some weights. His thoughts couldn't stop reminiscing the last 24 hours. The first time he saw her exposed body, the way she tasted and the sound of her whimpers... It sent current straight to his cock. It had barely been an hour since he fucked her but he was starting to get hard already. He couldn't get enough of her.

Steve drew the scenarios in his head of tonight's training. He made up his mind and it made him impatient to wake her up. He had to endure it though, he vowed that he was going to be patient with her and he was going to keep his words. He smirked as the bead of sweats ran past his forehead to his body. The fire in him fueled his hunger for her and his zeal to pull a muscle. He groaned as he reached his ideal count and put down the weight.

God knows how many hours later, you woke up in a cold sweat. You just had another nightmare. In your dreams, you were imprisoned in a cage, the steel bars that were keeping you a hostage felt cold under your palms.

Your vision was hazy and your mind was foggy, it's like you had just crashed yourself onto the fence and went comatose. The walls confining you in this insufficient penitentiary were murky grey, only a shed of light coming through a narrow window up above. You called for help but no one answered.

And then, suddenly, the lockup was on fire. The flame was getting close and closer, and you tried to rattle the bars. And before the fire caught up to you, you woke up in a fizzy daze only to realize that a part of your dream wasn't entirely, merely a nightmare. You were still locked up in another confinement, unable to escape.

You moved your hand to rub your forehead as you realized that your hands were no longer tied. Your excitement was soon repealed as you sat up only to see that your feet were still bound. At least the gag in your mouth wasn't holding you back anymore now too.

You could call for him in case you need anything, but you pondered, what did you need, really? He certainly wasn't going to set you free and nothing he could give to enhance your mood. Your contemplation was soon cleared out by the sound of the opened door and footsteps following it. To say you weren't scared anymore would be a hastened overstatement, but you no longer felt the shivers ran down your spine or the irrational fears overclouding your brain.

He brought a tray with him, with a pot roast and a glass of wine on it. The smell was tantalizing. He greeted you with a warm smile, a rare one that you hardly got to see. He put down the tray and sat beside you.

"How are you feeling?"

You paused for a moment before you answered. Him worrying about how you feel was strange. All this time, he had taken you as a captive, never once did he ever selflessly care for your being. "As best as I could, I guess..."

"You did really well today, you trusted me to take care of you and you gotta keep it up. We can go to the next lesson, once you've got the hang of it."

"I'm not sure how much more I can take..." You hugged your knees as if you were trying to shield yourself from this beast. You softly shook your head and averted his piercing gaze.

"I'll take you there. We'll take it as slow as you need, but I need you to be able to keep up. I promised not to hurt you, didn't I?" His hand reached your face, and cupped your cheek, directing your eyes onto his.

The deep blue eyes that were usually sharp and lust-blown, were now warm and... assuring. Like he meant every word he said, every forgotten promise that he made amid fiery moments.

You shrugged off his question. "Can I eat? I'm a little hungry."

He removed his hand from your cheek and answered, "of course. You need some fuel before we start anyway."

You knew that should've jarred you, but slowly, you felt yourself giving into his control, letting him take the wheel. Just for now, you were going to let him have the upper hand, you'll find a way to utilize your submissiveness later when you know the time is right.

You dined with your brain swirling with questions, a lot of them. If he swore that he wasn't going to hurt you, surely it wouldn't hurt to ask for some explanation, would it? You gathered all the bits of bravery inside you... The ones that were left anyway, and paused your chewing.

"I have a question..."

"Go on."

"Why am I here... Really?" He contorted at that. He sighed as if he was dreading this circumstance.

"I know you promised not to hurt me and I trust you, but... I can't trust you fully if you keep me in the dark." You paused, the look on his face and the shift in his body were warning you to turn back around.

"I wanna be able to work through whatever this is we are doing, based on mutual trust. And that means I wanna trust you not only in not hurting me but also, knowing that I'll be able to prepare myself for whatever plans you have for me next."

He exhaled once more and this time, he turned his face back to you. "You are here because I wanted something to keep to myself. We, men, have needs and sometimes those needs must be fulfilled immediately."

You didn't know how to respond to that. You stayed quiet and let him carry on. You hugged your knees tighter than before and drooped.

"Tell me, were you happy?" That made you lift your head and glared. What did he mean by that?

"What...?"

"Before this, were you happy with your life?"

"I don't... I don't understand..."

He inched his face closer to you. "I looked through your phone, and from what I learned, you came all the way here from New York to run away for something, didn't you? What was it? Was it your mother?"

And just like that, one trigger word alarmed all the cells in your body; your anxiety spiraled, tightening your chest, your breathing became labored, and the perpetual agony the death of your mother had left you with, came rushing back, flooding your lungs like you were drowning in the middle of Pacific ocean.

"How do you know about that?"

"I looked through your phone, and I saw pictures of her on a hospital gown and your recent texts indicated that you were mourning."

You stared at him in disbelief, how could he do that to you? Not only did he take you against your will and violated your body without your consent, but also invaded your privacy without asking for your permission.

You closed your eyes and bowed your head down, suddenly feeling like you were on the edge of having a meltdown, "stop. Just stop." You blocked your ears from listening to him any longer.

"What? Baby, what's wrong?"

"Stop talking about her, please." You had never felt so cramped before. The pain from missing your mother, the anxiety of being kidnapped, and the void feeling of not knowing what the future holds for you are piling up.

"Okay, then I won't talk about it anymore. But I need you to know that, as your caregiver, I'm not only here to guide you through sexual activities, but you can count me to be a shoulder to cry on." He paused. "You told me not to keep you in the dark, and I won't. But trust works both ways, sweetheart."

You averted the ambush to get any further by making something up, "Can I get a rest tonight? It's been a really long day."

Steve stayed silent for a moment, uncertain of your bold request, but he was a man of his words, if he pushed you any further, exceeding your limits, he might end up hurting you, so he learned to cut you some slacks and granted you the rest you needed tonight.

"Alright, we can move our next training tomorrow. Get some sleep." He got out of the bed and lifted the tray with your unfinished meal, due to your loss of appetite.

"Goodnight." He pecked a kiss on your forehead and exited the room. He switched off the lights and left you in the dark, the gloom once again guards you.

You queried; when did the monster under your bed had chosen to walk in plain sight and spook you even under the broad daylight...

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emmy-writes-sometimes · 5 years ago

Text

Running Up That Hill

You were kidnapped for two months before your dad, Andy, finds you.

You had been missing for approximately two months when you were found. It was like every other missing girl story; you’d just disappeared, the only traces of you your phone and your open car with the key in the ignition. Your family was heartbroken, especially your father. He often said that he loved you more than anything, and when the police stopped searching, declaring you a lost cause, he fell off the rails. He changed into a completely different man, citing your disappearance, and every day he went looking for you still.

He was conducting a raid when it happened. This guy was absolutely sick – he’d already been charged with kidnapping but gotten out three years ago on a loophole, he was a registered sex offender, and he’d been charged with possession of child pornography twice. He was a terrible man. Andy couldn’t lie – as he sat in the car, waiting, he thought about you. He knew there was a possibility that this guy could have been responsible for multiple kidnappings like yours, but never did he think you were just inside the house.

“This guy is fuckin’ sick,” his co-worker said, shining a flashlight into the house.

“Yeah,” Andy said absentmindedly. “I’ll go look for anything that might be violating parole. You just check over the house and make sure our guy’s not hiding before we send more units out to look. The last thing we want to do is spook him into running again.” His co-worker nodded, taking the three police officers that had broken down the door with her. Andy proceeded down to the man’s makeshift office, starting to look through papers for anything that might lead to a conviction. He must have been there for five or ten minutes before he got the call from his co-worker.

“Andy, we need you to come down to the basement.” Andy cringed, hanging up the phone. He prepared himself to see a body, maybe more than one. He walked to the kitchen and down the stairs to where the flashlights were focused on something specific. You. Alive. It was obvious that it was you; you were his spitting image, right down to the pleading blue eyes. You were tied up on a cot by the far wall, your knees forced up to your chest and your arms tied around them. There was a cloth laying beside you and one in your mouth, keeping you from talking. Your voice was too hoarse to do anything anyway. Andy saw you and his heart started beating faster than it ever had before. He ran forward, pulling the cloth off of your mouth, and he kneeled in front of you. Your wrists were raw from being held together, blood covering the cloths you were tied up with.

“Oh my God, Y/n, baby,” he said, touching the side of your face. You were so pale. You were so skinny, you always were, but your shirt that wasn’t yours hung off your chest. You barely reacted at first. Maybe you were dreaming. But when your dad started un-doing the ties that bound you, you started to realize. You were free. This was your dad that was here, and the cops, and people who couldn’t hurt you. Your dad brushed your greasy hair behind your ear and you could feel that he got the ties away from your wrists. You could move. You reached out toward his neck and even though you were too weak to hold on, he picked you up.

“Dad,” you tried to say. You couldn’t speak. You could feel him say something about an ambulance as he carried you up the stairs. The open front door was the first sunlight you’d seen in two months. It hurt a little, but the heat felt good. You were so cold. Your father’s massive hand pulled your hair back and off of your face as he held you. He was still then, until more sirens rang in the air. You tried to grab onto him and hold him, but he did all of the work for you. You couldn’t imagine how you looked – a sixteen year-old girl being carried by your father because you couldn’t walk yourself. Or could you – you didn’t know. You didn’t know what you could do. You only knew that you were too weak to be considered human.

“Hey, baby, they’re just gonna take you and check you over, alright? I’m gonna call Mom and Jake, let them know where we are, alright?” You nodded. “Okay. I won’t be far.” He wrestled his jacket from his arms and placed it around your shoulders, big enough to be a blanket on you, and he sat you down in the back of an open ambulance. He kept looking behind him even though he walked away, calling Laurie.

“Andy? What’s up?” She asked him. She could hear that something was wrong.

“I found her. In the raid. Y/n. She’s alive,” he said. “She’s alive.”

“Oh, my God, is she okay?”

“They’re checking her out right now. I don’t think I’ll be able to take her home right away, the police are gonna wanna talk to her before then. But she’s okay. I’m not leaving her.”

“Okay. Tell her I love her.”

“I will.” Andy hung up the phone and called Jacob, who answered right away, too. That was right – he had a free lunch period. “Jake. I need to tell you something, but you can’t tell anyone yet, I don’t want news getting out yet.”

“What?” Jacob asked.

“I found your sister. She’s alive. I don’t know how bad she is yet but she’s alive.” Jacob didn’t know how to respond at first. He didn’t know what to say or think or do.

“Will she be okay?”

“Maybe not now, but she will be. I don’t want you to tell anybody, just, um, when you get home can you change her sheets for me? And put a load of her laundry in?”

“Yeah, anything.”

“Alright. I love you, Jake.”

“I love you too, Dad.” Jacob hung up and Andy immediately turned back to you. The EMT’s were looking at your arms and your legs. That was the worst – the cuts because of the way you were tied up. There were no other signs of external torture except how tired you were, but when they asked if you’d been touched you nodded yes. Your dad walked back over to you, watching them.

“I’m her father, how does she look?” He said. One of the EMT’s, a woman in her twenties or so, stood up and took him aside.

“She looks alright on the outside. But she’s definitely malnourished, we’ll need to get her on some fluids in an IV. We found some signs of sexual assault that we want to check out at the hospital.”

“Can I take her home tonight? She needs to be home, with her family.”

“I think you should be able to. She could use some family right now. But who am I?” The woman left him to go to the front of the ambulance as they started to carry you onto the stretcher. Andy sent a text to his co-worker, explaining that he was going to be with you. He was Assistant District Attorney, but he was your father first. Especially now. He climbed into the ambulance right before they pulled away and shut the doors.

“They’re just gonna give you an IV right now, okay?” Andy said when he saw that you were looking around, your eyes unable to focus on anything. He grabbed onto your violently shaking hand, steadying it. One of the people in the ambulance started giving you an IV, but you were so lethargic you didn’t even notice. You just curled up next to your father and let them prick your arm until they found a vein. You almost fell asleep, but not quite. When they got you to the hospital the IV was done and you could feel it taking effect. You felt better, your cheeks were returning to their normal color, and you felt like you had at least a little energy. You let them do whatever to you – you let them inspect you, head to toe, and you wore some clothes that had been donated so the police could take your clothes for evidence. You were good. And finally they told your dad he could take you home.

“Are you hungry?” You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Your dad took that as a yes and got you some food, sitting in the parking lot so you could eat all you wanted, and after a full meal you were done. You felt like you were going to throw up because it was the fullest you’d been in two months, but you didn’t care. You were grateful for the food. And you were grateful for the way that your dad held your hand the whole drive home. You tried not to fall asleep – you wanted to see your mom, your brother, and you wanted to remember what it was like to exist.

“We’re home, honey,” your dad said softly. “You think you can walk? You could a little earlier.” You nodded and swung your legs out of the door, your feet on the solid ground of the driveway for a minute. The house didn’t look different, but it felt different. Everything felt different. Your mom’s hug when she greeted you at the door felt different. Your little brother’s hug felt different. You wanted to accept it, but you felt the food swimming in your stomach and ran to the downstairs bathroom.

You were fine, you insisted your mother as she walked into the door and rubbed your back. You were just overwhelmed, and even though you couldn’t say it, she saw it in your eyes. She helped you get up the stairs to your room, where Jacob had done your laundry so you had clean clothes and changed your sheets and un-made your bed for you. His room was right across the hall, your parents’ room right next door, and you felt safe enough there.

“Do you want to sleep now? Or take a shower first?” You couldn’t really answer her, so you nodded your head at the latter. She brushed her hand through your hair before telling you everything was the way it had been before. Before. Before the absolute hell your life had become. Before you were abducted from a parking lot because it was the one time you left your car unlocked. Before you had died on the inside just to stay alive on the outside.

“There’s my girl,” your dad said later as you walked down the stairs, dressed in an old t-shirt and your favorite sleep shorts, your hair so wet that it was dripping onto the hardwood floors. It was something they normally would have yelled at you for, but right now they didn’t care. You walked into the living room behind your dad to see that there were two cops and two men in suits, and you knew what they wanted to hear.

“No,” you said. That was the first time you’d been able to speak, and you grabbed onto your dad’s hand and shook your head. You didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to talk about anything. You just wanted to exist.

“I know, honey, but you need to. They need a statement. The sooner it is the better, alright?” He didn’t push you into the room, but you knew that he wouldn’t have let them in if he thought it could wait. So you sat down in the same armchair as your dad, leaning on him for support, and you started talking. You told the room full of men everything. Everything – even when you felt your dad shift uncomfortably. Even when you realized there was a video camera in there, recording everything that you’d been saying. You thought for a minute that Jacob and your mom were listening, but they were gone. You could tell because her car was gone from the driveway. It was getting dark outside, too, by the time you got up to the point where your dad had found you.

“I’m sure she’s exhausted. So if you could save any questions for another time, that would be great,” your dad said to them when he saw your eyelids drooping. He was right – you were so tired. At least before you’d had a little bit of adrenaline inside of you. Now you had nothing. You were warm and safe in your home.

Your dad eventually got the men to go away and leave you alone as long as you promised to come by the police station the next time you woke up. You slept for almost two full days, only waking up to go to the bathroom, take sips of water, or throw up. Someone was always with you, sitting in the armchair in the corner of your room or watching you from across the hall, so that you were never alone. Half the time they just couldn’t believe that you were back home. And they knew it was you, you knew it was you, but you also knew that you were different. You’d seen things and been through things that Andy had literal nightmares about.

They used everything – the video of you at home talking, your clothes, the marks on your skin, the evidence they’d collected around you, to prove that this guy was a monster. He already was a monster, but that he’d kidnapped you from your car and intended to keep you. Your dad was on the case, on your side, doing everything in his power to make sure this guy never saw the light of day again. And then the day came that you were supposed to testify on the stand, just to get it to go to trial. You were one of three girls he’d kidnapped in the past, and your dad had them testify, too. But they were the hardest on you.

Your dad had given you his pendant that morning, he one he always wore. Always. It was St. Christopher. You knew he was raised Catholic, but you’d never thought of it beyond that. But when you pulled it over your neck, you felt protected. Even through all of the questions that would haunt you for years and years to come.

“How would you say your relationship was with your family before you left?” The other guy’s lawyer, a known shark, asked. You hated his choice of words.

“I didn’t leave willingly.”

“Answer the question, Miss Barber,” the judge said to you. You looked up at her and then back over at your dad, who was nodding.

“Happy. But strained. My dad and I were really close. My brother and I fought sometimes and got along other times. But my mom and I almost never saw eye to eye, on anything.”

“There are multiple records from fellow students at Archer of nights when you would engage in risky behavior at parties. Would you say that the relationship with your family led to your behavior on those nights?”

“I’m bipolar,” you responded. “I wasn’t on the right medication and sometimes I just did stupid things.” You hated saying it out loud, but your dad had told you that you had to tell everything, answer all of their questions, and there was no possible way you could lose.

“Your medical records show that you were on multiple controlled substances for your bipolar disorder, all of which you had taken on the day you disappeared.”

“Yeah.”

“The same ones that influenced your behavior on those nights. You were on that specific set of medication for six months.”

“Are you saying that you think my medicine and my relationship with my family made me voluntarily go with that man?” You asked. You could tell that was what the lawyer was getting at, even if he wasn’t saying it directly.

“Why, was that a possibility?”

“No. I got in my car that I’d left unlocked and some guy grabbed me out of it. If I went voluntarily, I wouldn’t have left my car and my phone like that.”

“Miss Barber, we’re not asking you to explain the evidence. This is a question for you to answer.” You looked at your dad when the judge spoke.

“No. I didn’t want to leave my family. My medicine wouldn’t make me do that.” Your eyes teared up just at that statement. They kept asking questions, some of which were to your advantage. But they were making it seem like you wanted to leave and eventually that was what broke you down. You shook your head, drying tears as you looked around the room and saw almost nobody on your side.

“We’ll reconvene in half an hour,” the judge finally said when you were fully crying. You stood up and your dad walked over to you, pulling you into a hug, as the rest of your family walked over to you.

“Come on,” your dad said. He led you into the room you’d been in earlier, a meeting room, where your lawyer was standing.

“Why are they trying to make it look like I left?” You asked. “Why are they trying to make it seem like it’s my fault?”

“Sweetie, that’s just their angle,” your dad explained. “It’s the only thing that they could dig up. They’re just trying to deflect.”

“They’re making me look crazy. You told me to tell them everything,” you told him, crossing your arms over your chest. Your brother was holding a bottle of water and handed it to you, looking over at you.

“You don’t look crazy,” he said quietly. “You look like someone hurt you.”

“Thank you,” you said.

“They’re going to put your family on the stand, most likely. And then this will all go away when they confirm that you aren’t crazy,” the lawyer said. You sat down in one of the big chairs, pulling your feet up to your chest, and tried to calm down.

“I didn’t run away,” you insisted to your father as he sat down beside you. “I wouldn’t. I told them that.”

“Everything’s gonna be okay, babe. I promise. If they try to fight with us, we’ll just fight back twice as hard. I need you to believe me when I say that this guy is going to go away. Whether it’s because of what he did to you or someone else, he’s going away. And he’s never gonna be able to hurt you again.” You nodded, doing your best to believe him.

“We got your back,” Jacob put in.

“If I could trade places with you, I would. In an instant. But I can’t. And I need you to be the strong girl I know you are.” You looked at your dad again, seeing nothing but pride on his face. Your mom just smiled at you – you’d been getting along so much better now that you were having to talk things through.

You went back out there, sitting up tall, and answered every question they asked you. They tried to fight you, but you didn’t back down. You weren’t going to. And the jury decided to indict the guy who did it. The trial was set for six months ahead, and even though it was a long time, there wasn’t a day your dad wasn’t trying to figure out how to make sure this guy pay for what he did.

A/N: This has to be one of my favorite requests yet! I loved writing this so I hope you like it too!

#andy barber imagine #andy barber x daughter!reader #andy barber fluff #andy barber angst #defending jacob imagine

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darkpoisonouslove · 4 years ago

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“New Warmth to Weave in Your Garden of Shine”

Summary: New year is coming hand in hand with the cold of the season and the responsibilities even a celebration brings for a king and queen. Amidst the chaos and strict decorum it's Erendor and Samara's concern to find the time to welcome each other in their shared future.

I had to write one last fic to send off the year and since this one was the only one that cooperated, you get New Year on Eraklyon. I like the way this turned out as I feel like it is a peaceful (while sufficiently dramatic) ending to a very frantic year and also incorporated some of my wishes for a better next year. Here's to hoping!

Samara's body begrudgingly stumbled after him in his misstep slipping into an unnatural disruption of her graceful and calculated movements. Losing balance not his own would have dragged him down and left him splayed out on the floor if not for her dignified posture becoming the spine holding him above the stream of panicked shame spilling out of him under the pokes of the crown everyone's gazes drove in him like a sheaf of spears. A weakness was only fully fledged if you let it take root. Much like a weed, it was something to pluck out on sight.

"Erendor," Samara's voice emptied the ballroom in his mind to leave them twirling to the sound of her words, "tomorrow morning is already buried under unfavorable circumstances to stack too many glasses on top of it as well." She was ready to eradicate the perceived environment spawning the weeds in her garden even if her grip didn't change in gentleness. It was her teeth that always broke his ego like she were a tiny dragon his gear couldn't protect him from when she was already on the inside. She was the only one who'd witnessed him fighting the battles there was no armor for.

"I've only drunk enough to hold my warmth against the chill that wrapped my bones like vines today." Indulgence had long relented to duty but it had been tradition that had stranded him out in the cold for the better half of the day. Even his attire hadn't saved him from the bite of the weather outside the impenetrable walls of the palace that would fail to protect him too now that the damage was done and the endless heat of her proximity.

"Dancing ought to have taken over that function," Samara leaned closer – for his benefit or for the words' unclear but her hot breath hit his neck in a wave so pleasant it flooded his body with shivers inappropriate for the current venue. "Nobody says we have to put an end to the activity outside the ballroom." It was her own benefit she was after but that had no negative bearing on him without space between them.

"I would love to take this to the bedroom," a murmur had the strength to reach her even over the lively music that could have resonated through the whole kingdom if not for the vicious howl of the winds roaming the land outside like it was their own, "but the celebrations will carry well into the night regardless of the impending countdown." It was the last dance before the minutes left for his voice to segue the end of the year into the booming display of fireworks luring into colorful visions of the upcoming days. "Even a new year only brings the same old issues." They could dance to fill the hours stolen from their night but breakfast wouldn't move down the line because of the demand on their time or the sleep tugging at his body so harshly in contrast to her mellow touch.

"We'll have a whole new year to catch up on what we miss tonight and tomorrow," Samara looked at him as if to hold his gaze off the touch of a smirk to her lips that was almost shy in its presence. Almost probing enough to shoot down his spine a shiver from the cold metal covering her fingers like armor.

"Could I hope it would take you less time to relinquish your dominion over the covers?" She always cocooned herself in the heavy blankets like she wanted to hibernate outside the body heat next to her that wouldn't be there the following night. Coupled with her knack for transforming him into a careful heart within a paralyzed body when she'd wake up from a shift in his breathing, it left him sleeping with a whimsical force like the nature stone and glass strove to keep outside. "Say, once dancing isn't an option for preserving body temperature anymore?" The only difference was that Samara was much more terrifying in the dead silence she could turn her presence into unlike the wailing of the winds banging against the shut-off palace. Yet, she was the one he welcomed willingly by his side to shield him from the void of cold she filled effortlessly.

The smile widened on her lips to welcome her voice into the cool air of publicness around them and him inside the sound soaking his mind to the core. "Just keep your hands on me at all times and you should be fine." She adjusted her hand in his to ground him in the lightness of her softened grip now that she didn't need the gold on her head or fingers to hold her in his arms.

"I wouldn't argue with that but I have to make a toast in the near future. One I hope you will honor with me?" he didn't drop her gaze even for a moment as he dipped her in an end to their dance. The last few minutes of the old year were slipping between their fingers, the last few touches, the last few words they'd get to exchange before responsibility possessed their lives. It could be nothing but bad luck to shatter that by misdirecting his attention to the slap in the face she could deliver with his hands full of her instead of his own protection.

"I will," Samara's answer glided over the puff rushing out of her to reach him as he brought her back up into the proximity of their faces. "You already indulged me."

His gaze slid to the necklace outlining her delicate throat in the lack of her usual high collar and the silky gown that hugged the curve of her breasts tightly only to leave a generous amount of cleavage for the jewelry to contrast with, and, of course, the crown radiating light upon her head to make her the center of attention despite the companion piece he was wearing. It was the gift she'd given him that played in his mind, however.

Gravity pulled on the jewelry box in his pocket with every step as if to weigh him down and slow him on top of the time he'd already lost on changing out of his parade uniform and into his royal attire and stopping by the safe to get her gift. The echo of his hurried step drilled into his mind with the undeniable anxiety he couldn't pin on one easy to dismiss thing. His only chance was to hide behind the shine of the brilliance in his pocket until he could anchor himself in Samara's presence in the queen's chamber and avoid getting carried away by the memories rocking his being.

The history of the monarchy and his own family had been stained with a kidnapping that had cost the kingdom much more than his carefulness with Samara ever could. His mother had been abducted from the palace during his own birthday to leave an imprint on every future celebration. He had never forgiven his father for the helplessness he'd associated their family with in the eyes of the public and his own heart. It had been so easy to take the queen–a living woman and mother of children–let alone the crown meant to lay on his head and poking their affection away.

Every step was like the prickle of the needles he hadn't witnessed starting an embroidery that afternoon that he'd have to recapture in the next mosaic from the Path of Eraklyon. He'd doubled the guard like any other time they were all swallowed in the distractions of an official event but tradition still hadn't been in his favor. Samara had been left with her ladies-in-waiting while he'd been out on the obligatory gemstone hunt.

His dragon only hadn't thrown him off its back due to the long years of training it had undergone while it had been Samara's face in front of his eyes instead of the dragon's reactions to lead him to the largest diamond he could find without infringing on Isis' territorial claim to bring back to her.

She'd endured the ceremony of "capturing" the wild dragons that would be tamed into joining the palace's resources–they had been captured already a couple weeks ago and put through basic training to ensure safety during the official event–even though it prickled her the same way worry did him. Her knuckles had turned white from gripping the railing of the royal balcony so hard it had been visible from the arena below but to anyone without inside information it would have looked like concern for him and the soldiers attending to the dragons. His confidence in his skills and the performative nature of the ceremony left the truth shining from underneath the mask of rouge concealing the burn in her blood.

Taming was a word her dictionary was extremely unreceptive of and the sweet scent of the flowers blooming all over the reins the dragons attempted to melt off could have had bile rising in her throat if it could have reached as high up as the smoke did while the animals thrashed in dramatic attempts to breathe fire through the vegetation suffocating them with every new flare of heat. It was an ancient tradition and one she found quite distasteful as she watched the blossoms that were already doomed to withering away–they'd been plucked and fashioned into elaborate harnesses of winter turned spring by the smallest of sparks–being forced into their most beautiful. The hunt for jewels would have been more her speed but her schedule had been occupied with embroidery of the event he'd picked to mark the year they'd just left in Eraklyon's history. He'd had to leave her to it, alone in the palace with nothing but his planned defense against unexpected events to keep her safe while he was in pursuit of fulfilling a tradition as valuable as the gemstones he found would be without her waiting to receive them.

The wood of her door was hard and cold under his knuckles. It was like knocking on a block of ice, except it wasn't transparent and it left his pulse hammering in his ears to shatter the heavy, tense silence ready to bury him right there outside her bedchamber.

"Enter," Samara's voice was like warm water that unstuck him from the floor and had the frost crunching under his fingers as he pushed the handle and cracked the door open.

The sight streaming through the passage in her chamber he'd opened stopped him dead in his tracks in the doorway as if to plate him like a painting in a golden frame despite the fact that he'd returned to the palace with a ruby bigger than his fist. The bed was strewn with her jewelry, displayed for her to choose from. He'd expected a different chaos in the face of her maids catering to her high standards for her personal appearance and the glimmer of reflected sunset rays coming from her orchard of precious gemstones almost blinded him.

"Harvest time is over." He didn't bother elaborating what she was perfectly capable of deciphering when a diamond wouldn't be able to cut through her mind. Instead, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other and closing the door behind his back to settle in the self-created illusion that he was welcome in this shimmering kingdom obeying her will rather than nature's.

"I'm choosing the plant for next year," Samara confirmed his standing, not employing her energy into a warning glare that he was on thin ice. He was on solid ground and could breathe freely without fear of white crystals bursting his veins to pieces from the inside.

She reached into the sea of sharp splendor in front of her to pluck out a ring and slip it on her finger. The one with the two sapphires–a shade darker and more lasting than the evergreens poking the horizon outside to make space for them–he'd given her on their first anniversary was already on her hand. It was an exception for her not to wear it but it was always good to see it where it belonged. Even if the solid gold drew his attention to the prick in her delicate flesh above the ring's imperviousness.

The wound was so small that it would have disappeared in the expanse of skin around like a missing feather on a peacock but instead, it stood out like a gunshot in the intense red of blood on white marble. She must have pricked herself on a needle while creating the basis of an embroidery, depicting a success history would remember as his even if she had more claim over it than he did. It was her duty to draft on fabric the image he would later have immortalized in stone regardless of how skilled she was at it.

Her mother hadn't bothered to teach her what every girl in the kingdom could do in too common a craft to be considered a talent worthy of a beauty queen. Yet, the queen of Eraklyon was bound to it in tradition and she'd had to learn in the few months before her coronation. He'd watched her unravel as she'd failed to master it as if to use her own threads and make it easier for herself by manipulating her own matter to sew into the fabric. She'd bleed out if all the times she'd prickled herself and had yet to do it again were put together.

"I would've thought that is something you would have taken care of already?" Combining patterns was a second nature unlike creating them and jewelry was a passion she carried around with herself at all times. It was unthinkable that something as simple as a few drops of blood drawn from her could make it slip through her fingers.

"Normally, I would have but this is a little tradition of mine I keep to on the last day of the year," Samara pried his jaws open with strength that had slipped his notice to keep him from eating his own mind and put hers between them instead. It could be another diversion born out of the blood she'd smelled as well.

"What kind of tradition?" He hadn't had the chance to learn the previous years when the privacy of his bedchamber had provided her frame and her honesty but not the environment in which she thrived, hidden in the shade from his gaze.

"I lay out all my jewelry and pick to wear the most valuable pieces the year has provided." He'd seen her put a lot of work in admiring her ever growing collection so that wasn't hard to believe. It didn't much help to comprehend it, though.

"How can you tell which are the most valuable ones?" He'd grown up with both crowns in sight if not straining his sensibilities with their weight and he still couldn't tell their worth upon just looking. The dragons wouldn't be able to pick out the more precious stone between two just by sight. Maybe there truly was something more than just natural beauty to her.

"That was easy back in the day," Samara slipped away from him, diving after the sun that had set the sky on fire. If her life had been a day, he would have never seen a sunset caught in her irises, much less a sunrise. He would have met her in the dark hours preceding midnight to witness her beauty only in unnatural light or under the weak glow of the stars on a dusty sky at most. That was if the clouds hadn't swallowed her whole like she was made of fractured light unable to pierce its way out of their intangible mass. "I just had to remember how unbearable an experience had followed receiving each one of them."

"I don't follow." Not just because he'd drifted off into the void she'd outlined as her past. She'd practically tied her words to the strings of his mind as if she'd been born to do that. Maybe he could rewrite tradition to replace embroidery with tapestry to spare her from ever prickling herself again on anything that wasn't his crown. And that he could always take off himself to remove the last thorn in her way.

"The harder a role you need to play, the more intricate the mask you need to wear. And the more intricate the mask is, the more it demands – both in its making and its usage," Samara's voice was deceptively light as she glided on the surface of whatever depths she avoided broaching in her mind to keep them both dry in the freezing cold of the settling night. "The brightest jewelry I always got at the threat of the mask cracking right when it needed to be as impenetrable as possible." What had her mother put her up against on all of those stages she'd pushed her?

"Why would you need more reminders of that?" It had already gripped his mind, too, from where it had taken root in hers as she'd talked without being there with him. She'd spoken from the distance where she kept her gaze as well to not paint pictures of the past over the present regardless of them still haunting every image her eyes captured.

"I didn't. It was a statement of worth to others not to forget just because the reminders I already had were embedded where no one could see." Considering all the wealth they'd redistributed once she'd stripped her family of it, she'd failed. Her mother hadn't made it worth her troubles with everything she'd still had hoarded. But she didn't need the cold bucket of water on her nerves any more than he did. "It was also an invitation for the next year to bring something better," her hand balled into a fist as she grasped at the chance to run her thumb over the two sapphire beads adorning her finger before her palms slid over the skirt of her gown littered with dark blue gems that could have been cut from the lit sky above the palace as if they couldn't shred her fragile skin. Just scrub off the remains of her maiden name from her being. "But that is no more. Now I have no idea which ones are the most valuable. There are no masks attached to the gems, just pure sentiment." Her voice picked up to keep up with the speed of her gaze running over the precious display on her bed. "It disrupts my process almost to the point of resentment."

He'd need something to steady himself as well if she kept the words crashing into him like waves of rich honey. Only, he wasn't certain he'd make it all the steps to where she'd just clutched at the bedpost before bending over for a closer inspection. He'd fall over and at the foot of the bed if she pulled him a little closer with another almost in a covert confession.

"What do you think?" Her eyes on him snapped his attention back to the material world he'd bought for her but all he could see was the invitation in her insistent gaze to be a part of her future. "Which ones should I wear?" It wasn't something he could normally help with but this time he had an answer. As long as she'd take it.

"Can I ask you to break tradition?" He pulled out the red velvet box under the anticipation in her stance to have her leaving the bed where all her old jewelry rested to come within reach now that he was giving away the weight that had kept him in place.

A whole garden of diamonds was in his hands to hang on her neck and live for as long as she wanted it to, as long as she welcomed it on her skin. The jewels were whiter than the clouds of breath forming in the harsh temperatures outside and small like the grains the kingdom fed on and she didn't eat but still shined like mirrors bathed in the light of her smile.

Samara turned around, urging him silently to clasp it around her neck in a hold even the crown didn't have on her as it could slip off at any moment. Her hand was running over it before he'd even fastened it in place, the motion sending him off balance as it shook him with relief amidst the quietness of her admiration. He had to rest his palms on her shoulders to find his way through the rhythm the day was spinning to.

Samara covered his hand with hers to pull it off and allow herself to face him instead of the mirror. "I wouldn't mind breaking an old tradition for the new year but since you fit right in, there's no need for such drastic measures. It could use some reshaping, though."

He was still stuck on processing the meaning of her words when she leaned in and pressed her lips against his. Just a quick peck that ran through his body like fire as fast as she was out of his reach and settling in front of her vanity. It was just the softness of her naked lips against his and the still palpable warmth of her fingers where she'd held his hand that lingered behind like a gem for him to stash in the depths of his mind where no weight–physical or not–would be able to leave it in angry shards blazing with fire.

"Didn't you switch to a new lipstick just a couple of weeks ago?" he asked once she was already applying the burgundy over her lips, his brain taking longer to react while collecting the memories she was weaving the last day of the year into.

Samara paused to return the effort he'd put in paying her the due attention even though it had only been natural to note the different shade of the marks her kisses left behind. "Yes, I did. But I always open a new make-up kit on New Year's Eve." And she'd already applied all the rest of her beauty products before he'd arrived. Almost as if she'd been waiting for his visit or at least hoping for it. Either that, or she'd just wanted to keep the lipstick as fresh as possible before heading to the ballroom for the long night ahead. Yet, there was no trace of the silence she used to distance herself in contrast to the quiet life of a kiss between them.

"Another tradition?" That was clear but he needed an excuse for her lips to breathe more color into their conversation.

"Don't you have some?" she shot back at him but her intonation wasn't sharp enough to point to exasperation, even if she was too quick for his scattered attention that was in more pieces than there were on her bed.

Did he?

"I pick gifts for my wife."

Another pause as Samara's lips parted to a frozen moment–she must have caught herself from licking off the lipstick–before she spoke. "That is not a New Year's Eve tradition if you do it throughout the rest of the year as well."

"Then I suppose I'm boring." He was lucky to have come up with an answer at all while transfixed with the shimmer of her eyes not warped even in reflection. It'd be a crime not to give her jewels to put next to it for them to pale in comparison with the real beauty she'd grown in the dark.

"Consistent, I would say." Her gaze slid over the room in the mirror and he followed it, unable to turn to the real one if it meant letting her out of his sight. It was still clear as day where her mind treaded even in the shadows creeping around the room with each second they remained too preoccupied with each other to get the lights.

All the leftover illumination from the day and the shine of the space bodies just coming into view was captured by the jewelry he'd given her to turn each piece into a lighthouse of its own in the waves of silk on her bed. He'd gifted her quite a high number in the couple of years they'd been married but they still weren't enough to replace electricity or even the glow of fire.

It was him that was doing the impossible – counting jewelry instead of coins when the monarchy was as stable as Samara's taste for precious gemstones and noble metals. Nothing was shaking under his feet or threatening to crumble on his head in the quietness of her bedchamber. Not even the weight of the earrings dangling from his palm could throw him off balance as he brought the long stemmed calla lilies to her attention and she let him add their tender white and gold to her look.

The music ended just as Erendor found his footing in the dance with exhaustion. He didn't let go of Samara's waist for another couple of seconds until he could steady himself outside the rhythm of her body swaying with his. There were just minutes still from the year they were leaving behind their backs and he had to let go of her on the precipice and risk separation in the name of an obligatory speech and toast. It was so trivial it would have brought out tears if he allowed it but she was queen because he was king and his only choice was to obey the law that had brought them together.

He held her hand until the armrest of his throne was within reach to numb the emptiness of letting go. His reluctant fingers almost retreated from the coolness of the glass with champagne when he would much prefer her company over that of the alcohol sloshing around in its confinement without grace. Especially when the smooth coldness of the glass reminded him of his chase of hard gems outside in the freezing weather and made him feel like the first idiot but the diamonds shining on her neck and the metal warmed up by her skin that had been pressed in his fingers not long ago burned the thought away. They brought the speech to his lips when it had been her touch weaving it in his mind all year in a way that he'd never been able to before. In a way she'd never been able to before with the heavy jewelry dragging her heart and hands into the depths to drown her grace in the spillage of her own blood.

There was nothing but her own decision holding her tongue now to free her from the image of the dragons harnessed for someone else's purposes. And he could tell the story of their monarchy now that they'd pried it free from everyone else's control. It was theirs so there was nothing stopping him from leaning towards her during the cheer of the guests and the thumping of his own heart in unheard applause for her kept promise to meet the new year together with him.

"What a shame to see such waste of lipstick on your glass." She'd barely sipped enough to leave the shape of her lips on the glass and his mind rendering him incapable of noticing anything else.

"I have plenty of lipstick left to spare, remember?" Her tradition made a lot more sense now. "And there is not a force in this kingdom greater than us that could take away our first kiss of the year." He could count on her promise regardless of how long it would take them to keep it.

"Happy New Year," he took her hand again to feel a warmth even the dragons didn't have to offer.

"Happy New Year." She smiled again to blind him to anything the world could serve them next – even the sun crashing on their heads.

The fireworks exploded outside the windows to change the pattern of the light streaming through but even in the lack of consistency, his brain recognized one heat signature like it was the center of the universe.

#winx club #winx erendor #winx samara #erendor x samara #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing

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lalainajanes · 6 years ago

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KC + 5. “I’m stuck in the Mars colony, and you came to rescue me. Oops, I just kissed you, but it’s totally because I’m grateful, not because I love you and thought I’d never see you again… Ha… Ha… Maybe a little.” AU

Floating In A Most Peculiar Way

Her cell is bare, made of a plain grey stone that she can’t identify. It smells musty and she thinks she’s underground, the walls rough and curved. It holds nothing but a cot and toilet. A tray of food sits just inside the door.

Caroline’s stomach growls, hungry enough that even the unappetizing lump of lab grown protein she’d been given seems like a mouth-watering meal. She can hear nothing from beyond the thick metal door she’s locked behind, has no idea what time it is. She doesn’t even know what planet she’s on or who abducted her.

She’s seriously regretting leaving Othea.

If only she’d never found the picture.

She’d been making breakfast, had been delighted to find the tiny, cramped kitchen in Klaus’ rented quarters well stocked. He’d had real fruit, actual bacon. She’d rummaged through his kitchen to orient herself, then gone searching for something to tie back her hair.

A faded photograph, creased and seemingly forgotten in a drawer, had obliterated her good mood.

The Klaus in the picture had been younger, clean shaven and dressed in finery that was a far cry from the heavy boots and body armor she was used to seeing him in. She’d recognized two other faces. Front and center, sneering and superior, had been Mikael, the wealthiest and most ruthless merchant in the galaxy. He’d had his arm around Finn, his son and favorite minion.

Mikael had killed her father, had her mother tossed into a prison Caroline’s never been granted permission to visit. Her step-dad and his daughter had been to a harsh belt of mining planets. He’d ruined her life and Caroline had spent her entire adult life working to return the favor.

Seeing Klaus with him, in what looked very much like a family photo, had left her chest tight and her eyes stinging.

She’d told herself it was anger. At him, for being so persistent, for teasing and taunting and for seeming like he cared. He brought her gifts – pretty things, practical ones. A bracelet of pale blue stones, a tiny laser cutter that was just as powerful as something ten times larger. She’d tried to refuse them, of course, but he’d somehow always manage to slip them onto her person. She’d find them days later, in the bottom of her bag or tucked into a pocket when she went to wash her clothes.

She’d written him off the first time he’d walked into the bar she worked at. Bounty hunters were always, in Caroline’s experience, unbearably cocky. She smiled and flirted with them, for the tips and in hopes she could glean information or an opportunity from their drunken loose lips.

Klaus had turned out to be different.

He’d been a little more polished, well spoken, distractingly handsome. He’d kept coming back. Until bantering with him between customers was one of her favorite things. He’d made a point to let her know when he’d be off planet. She’d worried when he didn’t turn up after a job.

When he’d strolled in to the bar, three days after she’d been expecting him, with a black eye and a bit of a limp, she’d leaned across the bar and yanked his mouth to hers before he’d managed a greeting.

She’d closed up early that night.

They hadn’t slept much but she’d woken up with a smile, half buried under Klaus’ lean frame, pleasantly sore and sated.

Her contentment hadn’t even lasted the hour.

Hesitations led to injuries, sometimes death in Caroline’s more clandestine line of work and so she’d acted, slipped back into Klaus’ room and retrieved her boots and pants. Had been out the door and sending Kat an SOS before he’d even stirred.

She tosses another disgusted look at the lumpy grey substance that’s supposed to be food, deeply regretting that she hadn’t taken breakfast to go. Even if she wanted to eat it she can’t risk being drugged into docility.

The list of people who’d kidnap her, or pay to have her kidnapped, is shorter than it used be. Several of her enemies are dead (or worse) but she’s got more than her fair share.

She needs to keep a clear head.

Caroline paces, learns the parameters of the cell. She has no weapons, no means of calling for help. She’s been snatched from a transport ship, and no one will know she’s missing until she fails to turn up at Katherine’s. She hadn’t been due to arrive until next week.

The odds aren’t in her favor but that’s never stopped her from eking out a win before.

She feels the ground move before she hears the rumbling.

The floor shakes, seems to roll, and Caroline’s tossed into a wall as muffled crashes rock her cell. An attack, a vicious one, she’d guess, steadily moving closer.

She’d retrieves the cutlery she’d been provided with. The set’s made of flimsy metal but, alone underground in enemy territory, under attack, she’ll take any weapon she can lay her hands on. She tucks herself into a corner, and fervently hopes she won’t be forgotten.

She’d heard her guards muttering while she’d come up from sleep. They’d been paid handsomely - two warships, and weapons enough to outfit half a dozen more - to transport Caroline across the galaxy. Surely her captor would not allow her to die alone and waste such a hefty investment.

The lights in her cell flicker, then go out, and her cell is rocked again. The explosions feel like they’re just outside the walls that trap her, their impact more extreme. The stone against her back vibrates hard enough to jar her. Caroline clenches her teeth against a shout when she’s showered with debris.

She’s lurching across her cell, planning on squeezing herself under the meagre protection of her cot, when everything goes still. She pauses, squints in a futile attempt to see in the pitch blackness of her cell. She changes course, darts as quickly as she can towards the door and yanks at it.

Somehow, it’s still solidly sitting in its frame.

“Come on!” Caroline yells, putting all her weight into jiggling the handle. When it won’t budge she rests her ear to it, straining to make out any sounds on the other side.

Nothing. No footsteps or any sign of a captor coming to check on her. She resists the urge to kick the door – she’s woken up stripped of her boots, jacket, and anything useful that might have been in her pockets – and instead runs her fingers over it, searching for an edge.

Hopefully, the blunt knife they gave her is up to the task of taking apart the hinges.

Her fingers ache, have become slick with sweat and blood from the nails she’s ripped in her efforts. She’s ignoring the crumbling of the roof, refusing to look when she hears bigger and bigger chunks fall behind her.

Caroline flat out refuses to die alone in a cell, the victim of a cave in. She’s got too much left to do. Starting with ruining whoever had decided kidnapping her was a good idea.

The scrape of metal startles her and she straightens, backs away from the door warily. The turning of the lock is loud and she changes her grip on the knife, preparing to fight.

She cries out and has to turn away when it opens, the bright blue light her visitor carries hurts her eyes after hours in the dark.

She hears curse, then the light is lowered and a pair of hands, familiar though she’d only had one night to get acquainted with them, briskly run over her, checking for injury. Klaus seems satisfied that she’s whole, sinking a hand into her hair and covering her mouth with his.

It’s a possessive storm of a kiss. He angles her head with a tug of her hair, groans roughly at the first hot glide of his tongue. He’s frantic, sucking her lower lip harshly and tasting her deeply. Caroline doesn’t even think about discouraging him. She’d been thinking she’d never see him again and, with her fate looking dire, she’d acknowledged that she wanted to. She parts her lips and pressing up onto her toes, just as eager, plastering her body to his and relishing the need between them.

He’s warm and solid, his stubble scraping against her skin. The sting convinces her he’s real and not just a comforting figment of her imagination.

A loud, exaggerated cough startles Caroline and she shoves Klaus away. She wipes at her mouth, reality a harsh intruder. “What are you doing here?” she snarls.

He blinks, like he’s confused by her harshness. And maybe that’s reasonable considering she’d just had his tongue in her mouth.

“Rescuing you,” he offers, like it’s a question.

“I find that hard to believe.” Caroline shoves passed him, stops short when she spies two more men in the doorway. One’s wearing the same uniform as the guards who’d snatched her, the other isn’t, has a gun pressed to the guard’s head, but there’s something familiar about him.

He bows at the waist, “Kol Mikaelson, at your service. Rescuing damsels is not my specialty but if they’re all as tasty as you, darling, I might have to reconsider my line of work.”

“Shut it, Kol,” Klaus snaps. He grabs Caroline’s hand, sets a pack into it. Positions his body between her and Kol, who she suspects is his brother. “Your things. Get your boots on, we’re going to have to climb our way out.”

She takes it, because she’s not an idiot, and backs away. “Tell me why I should trust Mikael’s sons.”

Klaus’ eyes narrow, “How do you know Mikael?”

She laughs at the ridiculousness of that question but it’s high pitched and derisive. “I’ve never met him but I’ve been planning on killing him since I was about 15.”

She expects Klaus to be angry, or maybe incredulous, to accuse her of being insane. Instead he smiles grimly, “Me too.”

“What?”

She hears a grunt, then a clatter, looks passed Klaus to see that Kol’s standing alone now, the guard crumpled at his feet. “Nonsense, Nik,” he drawls. “Your patricidal tendencies started years earlier.”

“It’s not patricide. He’s not my father.”

“Lucky you.”

It’s Caroline’s turn to be confused, she’s got at least a half a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue. Klaus shakes his head, reaches for her again. He cups the back of her neck, presses his forehead to hers. “Later. I’ll tell you anything you want. But we have to go now. The building’s heavily damaged.”

Caroline knows he’s right, “Okay.” She drops to one knee and digs into the bag Klaus had given her. “You’ve got a way off planet?”

“And a safe house. They’ll be looking for us.”

“God I hope the walls are thick,” Kol mutters. “I need my beauty sleep and I don’t want to hear you too rolling around and moaning all night.”

The withering glare Caroline shoots him is probably lost in the darkness. Klaus sighs from above her, the huff of air conveying a wealth of aggravation.

It kind of makes her want to mess with him.

“Who says I’m sharing a room with him?” she asks, fingers flying over her laces. “I ditched him before breakfast a couple days ago.”

She hears a laugh, a thump that sounds suspiciously like a fist hitting a stomach, and then a wheeze. “I’m a bit puzzled about that, love. I thought I was quite hospitable.”

“I found a picture.” That, she now realizes, is where she recognizes Kol from. He’s been in it too, tie askew and clearly inebriated. “A family picture.”

“You couldn’t have asked me about it?”

Maybe she should apologize for snooping but, since she hadn’t actually meant to invade his privacy, Caroline’s not going to. She strives to seem casual because she’d rather he not know how much it had hurt to leave him. “When a girl finds out the guy she’d spent the night with is closely connected to pure evil gut instinct takes over. I figured it was safer to run.”

Klaus turns, stalks towards the door, the set of his shoulders stiff. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that he’s pissed.

She stands slowly, just in time to catch the light stick Kol tosses her way. “Just so you know, no one hates Mikael more than Nik.” He’s friendly enough and when she glances his way she finds he’s watching her with a great deal of interest.

“Mikael killed my father.”

“Another thing you and Nik have in common.”

Kol leaves while she’s still trying to process that and Caroline scrambles to follow, shouldering her bag and carefully picking her way over the debris that litters the floor. Klaus is just outside the door. He jerks his head to the left, “This way. Be careful.”

Kol goes first and then Klaus waits for Caroline to follow. He stays close as they work their way down the corridor. She stumbles once and his hands are there, saving her from going down. He doesn’t touch her otherwise and Caroline finds she’s a little disappointed.

Kol’s last remark has quadrupled the questions she has.

Maybe it’s only practical to share a room.

#klaroline #klaroline drabbles #not as space-y as I intended???#ooops #cupcakemolotov

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 6 years ago

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Michael After Midnight: Hereditary/The Tall Man

Modern horror movies have a lot of problems. Any horror fan will tell you this; things just aren’t the same as they were in the 70s, 80s, even the 90s, and the 90s was really where the major decline started to set in as everyone tried ripping off of scream. But in the decades after, horror films started relying far too much on jump scares, cheap CGI, and just a lack of care to the point where the genre was something of a joke.

Thankfully, things have started to look up. Films like Get Out, A Quiet Place, Don’t Breathe, these sorts of acclaimed, well-liked horror films are getting a lot of attention. And one of the most interesting of the lot is probably Hereditary, a contender for the best horror film of the decade… it just has one glaring problem, a problem that ALSO has begun cropping up lately: overexplanation.

It seems a lot of the time nowadays horror directors feel the need to beat us over the head with a logical explanation for the horrors before us, and oftentimes it sucks us right out of the experience. Perhaps the film that was hit worst with this was Jordan Peele’s Us which, while still a good film, loses something towards the end when the movie lays out everything. And while this trend seems to be cropping up a lot recently, I think the shining example of how bad it can get occurred earlier in the 2010s with the awful horror thriller The Tall Man, which features an ending that overexplains and does in the compelling elements for a tacky, tasteless reveal.

I bring it up because I’ve been thinking about how it compares to Hereditary, and how the two films have a very similar problem and similar flaws. Hereditary is a film that builds up an incredibly compelling drama that blurs the line between the supernatural and the mental trauma derived from a crumbling family, delivering an intense and uncomfortable narrative that ends up clumsily dismantled in the third act for a big demonic reveal. The Tall Man sets up a chilling supernatural force that stalks people and whisks away children, never to be seen again, only to reveal the titular Tall Man is a fabrication for a secret underground society of child traffickers who kidnap kids from poor families to give to rich families in a sort of screwed up reverse Robin Hood situation.

But where The Tall Man falls flat on its face, Hereditary still stands tall. Why is that?

I think it mostly has to do with the execution. Let’s look at Hereditary, as it is by far the better film. Hereditary spends the vast majority of its runtime with most of the supernatural elements in the background, or at least less of a focus than the mental anguish of this family in the face of the ultimate tragedy: the death of a child. The movie turns its lens to the uncomfortable atmosphere created between the mother and her son as she has to cope with his culpability in her daughter’s, his sister’s, death, eventually leading her to latch on to seances and lash out at her remaining child, her poor husband acting as a beleaguered referee.

I think the movie mostly remains consistent until the final act, when hints of a demon-worshiping witch cult begin popping up, but things don’t really jump the shark until the father is immolated in a nonsensical violation of the established rules, seemingly just to torment the wife further. After that, the movie turns into every other demonic posession movie ever for a bit before ending with the son being possessed by the demon king Paimon in a scene that is highly evocative of the final scene of Rosemary’s Baby.

Now, I already hate Rosemary’s Baby, so this scene was never going to fly with me, and it comes off as silly and ridiculous, the gnarly Paimon statue that utilizes the bug-eaten corpse head of the guy’s little sister notwithstanding. But despite that, the movie still has more of a leg to stand on than Rosemary’s Baby, or The Tall Man for that matter. The reason why is because even if it stumbled in the finale, it has an incredibly strong foundation. Think of the ending as a very ugly roof on an otherwise sturdy and perfectly fine house; yes, it’s unpleasant, but you’ve still got a great house here.

The Tall Man, on the other hand, constructs a decent foundation and then starts whacking at it with hammers as soon as that foundation is built up. As soon as we get to the twist that our protagonist who we have been following is actually a kidnapper who has abducted a child from an impoverished woman who is now desperately seeking her child back, this house is starting to shake at the foundations. And once we get to the end, well, the house just falls in on itself. You see, the issue isn’t even that they squandered a really interesting supernatural concept; the idea of a child-kidnapping boogeyman is not exactly new or anything. The problem is that even after the twist we are expected to see the kidnapper as a sympathetic martyr, and her organization as a bunch of people who have to make the tough choices to do the right thing.

But Thanos this organization is not. They are not noble, or kind, or sympathetic in the slightest. Their modus operandi is to kidnap children from impoverished families and hand them over to rich people who will give that child whatever they want and, as far as the organization is concerned, a better life. When the main character is caught, she straight up tells the grieving mother who spent the film chasing her down that her child is dead, and she will never find the body. Her child, who is very much alive and now being cared for by some wealthy family, was taken from this poor woman just because our main character felt she couldn’t provide for him. I really don’t think I need to tell you that this entire film is just disgustingly classist, and the fact that the movie to the end tries to garner sympathy for these reprehensible human traffickers is bogus.

You’d think, maybe, if they had this massive secret organization, they could try and utilize their power to help the impoverished reach levels where they could adequately take care of their children, like actually help these families instead of kidnapping and dealing in human trafficking because they believe in some sort of eugenics-esque bullcrap about how the poor are unfit to raise children and only the rich deserve the right to rear offspring. This message was deplorable back in 2012, and it certainly hasn’t gotten better with age. And see, this is where the film truly fails: it did not build up a solid foundation where something this stupid could be acceptable – not that any foundation could make this acceptable, mind you – as the whole “child-stealing boogeyman” would have at best made an entirely passable, mostly forgettable horror film that might have developed a cult following but otherwise been ignored. Instead, it veers off into the most wildly offensive territory possible, delivering a wholly unsatisfying and downright offensive experience that just boggles the mind as to how anyone ever thought this was a good direction to take the film.

Two horror films with similar structures building up in one way, but one still manages to be good in spite of itself while one manages to be one of the most repulsive films I have ever seen… frankly, this is one of the reasons why I love the horror genre, because you can find movies with all kinds of extremes like this. Hereditary is a film I heartily recommend to anyone looking for a good horror film, because it is undoubtedly fantastic even if I don’t much care for the ending. The Tall Man? Leave it. It’s not worth your time, and I don’t want anyone to be subjected to such repugnant morals. If you really want to see it, don’t pay for it; don’t give the hacks who made it any money. The only value I can see being gleaned from that film is to see just how ass-backwards and callous a filmmaker can be.

#Michael After Midnight #review #movie review #Hereditary #The Tall Man #Horror Movies #horror

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calendarofanxiety · 7 years ago

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November 9, 1888 KELLY Mary Jane Kelly also known as Marie Jeanette Kelly, Fair Emma, Ginger and Black Mary is widely believed to be the final victim of the notorious unidentified serial killer Jack the Ripper who killed and mutilated several women in the Whitechapel area of London from late August to early November 1888. She was about 25 years old and living in poverty at the time of her death. Barnett (the man she had most recently lived with prior to her murder) visited Kelly for the last time between 7:00 and 8:00 PM on 8 November. He found her in the company of Maria Harvey (a friend of hers). Harvey and Barnett left at about the same time. Barnett returned to his lodging house where he played cards with other residents until falling asleep. Fellow Miller's Court resident and prostitute Mary Ann Cox who described herself as "a widow and unfortunate" reported seeing Kelly returning home drunk in the company of a stout ginger-haired man wearing a bowler hat and carrying a can of beer at about 11:45 PM. Cox and Kelly wished each other goodnight. Kelly went into her room with the man and then started singing the song "A Violet I Plucked from Mother's Grave When a Boy." She was still singing when Cox went out at midnight and when she returned an hour later at 1:00. Elizabeth Prater had the room above Kelly's and when she went to bed at 1:30 the singing had stopped. Labourer George Hutchinson who knew Kelly reported that she met him at about 2:00 AM and asked him for a loan of sixpence. He claimed that as Kelly went on her way she was approached by a man of "Jewish appearance". Hutchinson later gave the police an extremely detailed description of the man right down to the colour of his eyelashes despite it being the middle of a dark winter night. He reported that he overheard them talking in the street opposite the court where Kelly was living. Kelly complained of losing her handkerchief and the man gave her a red one of his own. Hutchinson claimed that Kelly and the man headed for her room that he followed them and that he saw neither one of them again laying off his watch at about 2:45. Hutchinson's statement appears to be partly corroborated by laundress Sarah Lewis who reported seeing a man watching the entrance to Miller's Court as she passed into it at about 2:30 to spend the night with some friends. Hutchinson claimed that he was suspicious of the man because although Kelly seemed to know him his opulent appearance made him seem very unusual in that neighbourhood but only reported this to the police after the inquest on Kelly had been hastily concluded. Abberline (the detective in charge of the investigation) thought Hutchinson's information was important and sent him out with officers to see if he could see the man again. Hutchinson's name doesn't appear again in the existing police records and so it's not possible to say with certainty whether his evidence was ultimately dismissed, disproven or corroborated. Some modern scholars have suggested that Hutchinson was the Ripper himself trying to confuse the police with a false description but others suggest he may have just been an attention seeker who made up a story he hoped to sell to the press. Cox returned home again at about 3:00. She reported hearing no sound and seeing no light from Kelly's room. Elizabeth Prater who was woken by a kitten and Sarah Lewis both reported hearing a faint cry of "Murder!" at about 4:00 AM but didn't react because they reported that it was common to hear such cries in the East End. She claimed not to have slept and to have heard people moving in and out of the court throughout the night. She thought she heard someone leaving the residence at about 5:45 AM. Prater did leave at 5:30 AM to go to The Ten Bells public house for a drink of rum and saw nothing suspicious. On the morning of 9 November 1888 (the day of the annual Lord Mayor's Day celebrations) Kelly's landlord John McCarthy sent his assistant ex-soldier Thomas Bowyer to collect the rent. Kelly was 6 weeks behind on her payment owing 29 shillings. Shortly after 10:45 AM Bowyer knocked on her door but received no response. He reached through the crack in the window pushed aside a coat being used as a curtain and peered inside discovering Kelly's horribly mutilated corpse lying on the bed. The mutilation of Kelly's corpse was by far the most extensive of any of the Whitechapel murders probably because the murderer had more time to commit his atrocities in a private room rather than in the street. Dr Thomas Bond and Dr George Bagster Phillips examined the body. Phillips and Bond timed her death to about 12 hours before the examination. Phillips suggested that the extensive mutilations would have taken 2 hours to perform and Bond noted that rigor mortis set in as they were examining the body indicating that death occurred between 2:00 and 8:00 AM. Bond's notes read "The body was lying naked in the middle of the bed, the shoulders flat but the axis of the body inclined to the left side of the bed. The head was turned on the left cheek. The left arm was close to the body with the forearm flexed at a right angle and lying across the abdomen. The right arm was slightly abducted from the body and rested on the mattress. The elbow was bent, the forearm supine with the fingers clenched. The legs were wide apart, the left thigh at right angles to the trunk and the right forming an obtuse angle with the pubis. The whole of the surface of the abdomen and thighs was removed and the abdominal cavity emptied of its viscera. The breasts were cut off, the arms mutilated by several jagged wounds and the face hacked beyond recognition of the features. The tissues of the neck were severed all round down to the bone. The viscera were found in various parts viz: the uterus and kidneys with one breast under the head, the other breast by the right foot, the liver between the feet, the intestines by the right side and the spleen by the left side of the body. The flaps removed from the abdomen and thighs were on a table. The bed clothing at the right corner was saturated with blood, and on the floor beneath was a pool of blood covering about two feet square. The wall by the right side of the bed and in a line with the neck was marked by blood which had struck it in several places. The face was gashed in all directions, the nose, cheeks, eyebrows, and ears being partly removed. The lips were blanched and cut by several incisions running obliquely down to the chin. There were also numerous cuts extending irregularly across all the features. The neck was cut through the skin and other tissues right down to the vertebrae, the fifth and sixth being deeply notched. The skin cuts in the front of the neck showed distinct ecchymosis. The air passage was cut at the lower part of the larynx through the cricoid cartilage. Both breasts were more or less removed by circular incisions, the muscle down to the ribs being attached to the breasts. The intercostals between the fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs were cut through and the contents of the thorax visible through the openings. The skin and tissues of the abdomen from the costal arch to the pubes were removed in three large flaps. The right thigh was denuded in front to the bone, the flap of skin, including the external organs of generation, and part of the right buttock. The left thigh was stripped of skin fascia, and muscles as far as the knee. The left calf showed a long gash through skin and tissues to the deep muscles and reaching from the knee to five inches above the ankle. Both arms and forearms had extensive jagged wounds. The right thumb showed a small superficial incision about one inch long, with extravasation of blood in the skin, and there were several abrasions on the back of the hand moreover showing the same condition. On opening the thorax it was found that the right lung was minimally adherent by old firm adhesions. The lower part of the lung was broken and torn away. The left lung was intact. It was adherent at the apex and there were a few adhesions over the side. In the substances of the lung there were several nodules of consolidation. The pericardium was open below and the heart absent. In the abdominal cavity there was some partly digested food of fish and potatoes, and similar food was found in the remains of the stomach attached to the intestines". Phillips believed that Kelly was killed by a slash to the throat and the mutilations performed afterwards. Bond stated in a report that the knife used was about 25 mm wide and at least 150 mm long but didn't believe that the murderer had any medical training or knowledge. He wrote "In each case the mutilation was inflicted by a person who had no scientific nor anatomical knowledge. In my opinion he does not even possess the technical knowledge of a butcher or horse slaughterer or a person accustomed to cut up dead animals". Kelly was buried in the Roman Catholic Cemetery at Leytonstone on 19 November 1888. Her obituary ran as follows "The funeral of the murdered woman Kelly has once more been postponed. Deceased was a Catholic, and the man Barnett, with whom she lived, and her landlord, Mr. M. Carthy, desired to see her remains interred with the ritual of her Church. The funeral will, therefore, take place tomorrow [19 Nov] in the Roman Catholic Cemetery at Leytonstone. The hearse will leave the Shoreditch mortuary at half-past twelve. The remains of Mary Janet [sic] Kelly, who was murdered on Nov. 9 in Miller's-court, Dorset-street, Spitalfields, were brought yesterday morning from Shoreditch mortuary to the cemetery at Leytonstone, where they were interred. No family member could be found to attend the funeral".

#mary kelly #whitechapel #london

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kog0ruhn · 8 years ago

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The End Pt. VI - Sixth House

The Sixth House had a bad reputation.

It was understandable, he supposed, but in all of his experiences with them it seemed completely unfounded. Every time Mange ventured into their lair, they were far more welcoming than their neighbors and hospitable to a fault. They carried themselves with dignity and poise, honored the etiquette of the old world, and were quite generous with their help. Of course, that was all on top of their rather bizarre behavior in private, settled in an abandoned mine with claustrophobic, black walls that reflected the bright red glow of the thousands of crimson candles that lined every passage, sat upon every outcropping, and adorned every rock. Ragged tapestries emblazoned with a jagged beetle emblem billowed in the cold winds that whipped through the winding corridors. The sound of bells, haunting and deep, made the very ground vibrate.

Red Mountain was the most average of the lot, a stocky Snapper glowing with liquid fire that evaporated as soon as it hit the ground. That one oddity made him a useful guide as he hobbled ahead of Mange, rocks and crystal crunching beneath his feet as he meandered this way and that in the labyrinthine passages. From the darkest corners of the lair, he could hear singing, a beautiful hymn that rang out like an angel choir. Snippets were spoken in a dark, dead language. The bits he understood narrated his arrival right down to every time he stumbled.

“Everyone else safe?” Red Mountain called over his shoulder. Mange snapped back to reality, answering with a dull, “Huh?”

“I asked if everyone else was safe. You said that Goetia’s lair is compromised. Is Bifrons okay? Ophie?”

“Y-yeah. Bifrons is fine. Ophelia’s fine. I hope, at least. When things went south, I sent Shatter to the council hall to deliver the news. Claws crossed that our esteemed high priest has enough common sense to know not to run into a demon’s den.”

“He doesn’t seem dimwitted. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

The further they walked, the warmer it became. Beneath clumps of bloody fur and his thick mane, Mange could feel his skin struggling to breathe, his tongue lolling out of his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep himself cool. The singing grew louder, Red Mountain twisted in what seemed to be a circle, and a soft orange glow bubbled from somewhere in the distance, brighter than any candle. Dancing on the walls, he could see the shadows of long, graceful dragons with massive, torn wings. He heard a flirtatious, girly laugh and knew what lay ahead.

“Lord Dagoth, we have a visitor.”

Red Mountain’s voice was calm, but the silence that followed was eerie. As the narrow tunnel widened into a large, lavishly decorated room covered in bone and silks, Mange felt what seemed like a hundred eyes fall on him. The hymn was now silent, everyone still, Mange trapped in a circle of towering Imperials. He stared at his feet and realized the rock beneath him was covered in vandalistic scrawling, messages of madmen and monsters and sigils he’d never seen.

When he worked up the nerve to look at his audience, he saw Red Mountain shuffling into the middle of their lot. Dagoth was nearly lost in a dark corner, gembond gleaming as bright as his red eyes in the flickering glow of an oozing pool of magma at the center of the room. Beside him, perched on what seemed to be a massive altar and surrounded by troughs of offerings, was his favorite wife, Kogoruhn. Her scales, once brilliant and gold, had begun to fade into sickening, pale colors. Her wings were alive with dozens of ruby red eyes.

She tilted her head and smiled, the least of Dagoth’s wives barely sparing him a glance as she worked to groom her “sister.” Another wife, seemingly drunk off of the bloodwine gripped in her talons, looked up from where she was flopped at their feet.

“Mange of Goetia, here to talk to you about a pressing matter,” Red Mountain continued. “He--”

“The demon.”

Kogoruhn’s voice was strangely even, perfectly calm. She turned to Dagoth and flashed a winning grin.

“The shadow of the priest, she stirs in the darkest night. From Arcanist’s mistake, weaving a tapestry of poison. Sing loud, Lord Dagoth, for she whispers our names on toxic lips. The un-dragon sees beyond sight and moves beyond boundaries.”

Mange blinked. He almost understood that. Judging from the look on Dagoth’s face--satisfied, curious, and smug--the Imperial knew good and well what it meant.

“As long as we’re all on the same page?” Mange offered with a weak smile. “I think?”

“Come for help,” Kogoruhn continued, craning her head down as the dragon grooming her reached for the tufts on her cheek. “Dark against dark, the black-red versus the consuming void. Come as a friend, for which we are honored. Are we not, my lord?”

Dagoth smiled wanly. Mange was still confused.

“Do I get to talk, or does she talk for everyone?” he asked, confused. Kogoruhn chuckled as Dagoth stepped forward.

“My apologies. Most of The Abandoned do not invite themselves into our lair.”

“Er, I-I’m sorry, it’s just--”

“No. No need for apologies. We are not angry. Kogoruhn is true. We are honored by your presence.” With a shake of his head, he nodded the least wife away. “Telasero, drinks for our visitor. If what your sister says is true, then we have a problem most pressing.”

Immediately, she dropped her comb with a clatter and scampered away. Kogoruhn nudged it toward her drunken sister with her tail, though she seemed less than thrilled about the idea of doing anything more than taking a nap. With a flick of her claws, she sent it sailing into the lava. A breathy laugh huffed out of her nose as she settled her head on the ground and shut her eyes.

“Kogoruhn will be quiet now. You’ve come to us as a friend, and friends of the Sixth House will know our mercy and power. What do you need?”

There was no hostility in Dagoth’s voice, but Mange found himself choked.

After Bifrons had left Goetia’s lair, he had heard Flauros as clear as day. She spoke in a language Grimoire had taught him, celebrating her freedom, taunting him that he was alone. Then, she listed the evils she had committed, every painful detail of the abductions, the murders, the possessions. The blasted creature even tried to explain her nature, but it was well beyond his ken. All he could translate is that she was bad, the whole situation extremely bad.

And the rest of Goetia? Gods, the mess. Bifrons and his mate were away and safe--fortunate, to be sure--but the only dragon he could save at the lair was Shatter. The Guardian had always hated Flauros, too dim to understand what exactly she was, so to see she had resisted her temptations was no surprise. Corruption and Azimuth, however? He had always had his suspicions about them, and now everything he feared was confirmed.

Flauros was to be Goetia’s undoing, but wasn’t that their problem? Standing in front of a patient, smiling Dagoth, he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly would come of asking for help. They had been the first ones he had thought of, saturated as they were in dark and forbidden arts. He became convinced mid-stride while fleeing that they, of all dragons, would know how to set things right.

But if he involved them, if they did decide to help, then Flauros...

“Fears unmaking, tongue tied by doubt. A heart of light whispering of branches growing from time, spreading outward toward sun and ash.”

“Huh?” Mange muttered as a bowl of wine was placed at his feet. Telasero bowed deeply before offering her husband a sip of her own.

“Kogoruhn’s calling you out for stalling,” the drunken Imperial on the ground groaned, rolling onto her back. “You’ve got yourself in deep and you’re having second thoughts about asking for help.”

“I, uh...”

“Because you’re concerned,” Dagoth finished, taking a lap of drink. “You’re thinking of how many paths our interference could take, and you worry we’ll be dead by the end of it.”

“Well, it’s about Flauros and--”

“Half-pint ghost dragon with an attitude problem. Yeah, we know her.”

The drunk dragon again. Dagoth scowled, glaring daggers at her as she lounged, snarling, “Falasmaryon, that is enough.”

“I’m just saying. We could take her.”

“No, you can’t,” Mange snapped, and his sudden brashness certainly caught everyone’s attention. “You think you can because every time you’ve seen her, she’s been contained in some way. Bifrons did it before me, and I have her chained with every ounce of magical know-how I have at my disposal. Or at least I did.”

“Did?” Dagoth echoed. Mange’s body tensed.

“Somehow, she’s... free. I-I don’t know how. I was asking Bifrons about it this afternoon, I sent for Grimoire this morning, and by the time dinner rolls around I’m hearing voices in my head and Goetia’s ripped in two. She can disconnect from her body now. She told me what she did. She--”

“Daughter of the warrior,” Kogoruhn began to sing. “Daughter of the matriarch. Gone, gone. Lover of the daughter. Gone. The tender of the gardens. Gone with his savior, erased from the annals of time. Gone is the gatherer, mourning is his wife. Far-traveler, flung from grace and haunted by ghosts, mad with purpose. Flown away, to darkness. Children, children, children. Gone.”

Suddenly, everything seemed uncomfortable. Falasmaryon raised her head, Telasero clasping her paws over her face in horror. Kogoruhn’s eyes looked moist, as though she threatened to cry. The expression on Dagoth’s face was stern, but otherwise unreadable.

“Who else?” he demanded of his wife. She choked and shook her head.

“Who else?”

“Many to come, two and seven by end. Twice dead, master yearning to be free. The one at the end of the one-three-and-three. Cliff-walker, far-seer, the one who draws with light. The one who met her once before, and fire bursting. The air, the energy, the one who gives it life. Oh, sister! Sister, no!”

She broke into sobs and collapsed, hands clasped over her ears. Mange was shaking. Dagoth was silent. Telasero and Falasmaryon eyed each other curiously, worriedly.

“This... is bad,” Telasero offered, her first words of the evening.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Mange replied. “I’m sorry. We should handle our own problems and--”

“From the sounds of it, she’s everyone’s problem now,” Falasymaryon quipped. Dagoth turned his attention to Mange and growled.

“How long?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long has she been awake?”

“A-an afternoon. Why? I didn’t catch a word of what that girl just said, and--”

“You have our aid.”

Mange blinked, Dagoth approaching him with a tentative but brotherly pat on the shoulder. The dragon’s hand was as big as his own head, and he swore he heard his shoulder pop, regardless of how gentle he was trying to be. Searching for some sort of answer, his eyes darted around the room before coming to rest on Red Mountain. The Snapper, equally clueless, only shrugged. What help he was.

“What did she say?” Mange demanded, glancing up at Dagoth and then at the sobbing Kogoruhn.

“That we should help.”

“I... I don’t think that’s what she said. What did she say?”

“That you need to leave,” Falasmaryon barked.

“I find that hard to believe. What did she say?”

“What does it matter? You have our aid,” Dagoth continued.

“But what did she say?”

“Go, Mange,” Telasero offered with a soft, comforting smile. “The Followers are charitable and their den is much more comfortable than our caves. Go to them, but do not go home. Worry not. We have you.”

Falasmaryon nodded.

“Until our dying breath.”

#fr lore #fr #flight rising #the end

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