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sunny-sings-sooth · 4 years ago

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Daphne

Words: 4.5k

TW: Sexual assault, abuse

Here's my retelling of the myth of Apollo and Daphne! Highly experimental, as I usually write in first person and not so poetically. Hope you enjoy, and if anything doesn't make sense lemme know and I will add some context here. (Also FYI some of the dialogues are pulled directly from Homer's narration)

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Phoebus Apollonas had been alive too long.

He was young by god standards, barely over a millenia old, and still one of the youngest Olympians. And yet he had grown exhausted. He’d been suffering the curse of life long enough to see the boy he used to be -- Phoebus -- die. The demise of the boy began when, in attempt to protect his sister Artemis, he had committed his first murder and thereby lost her forever. The boy decayed further when he’d held the corpses of his sons in his arms. And he’d finally killed the boy with his own hands when he turned his grief-fueled wrath on mortals. Phoebus, the bright, the innocent, the golden prince of Olympus, was dead. All that remained was Apollonas, the destroyer, the terror, the monstrous god of plague.

Except he no longer wished to be Apollonas. Apollonas was addicted to alcohol, drowning himself in it so that he wouldn’t have to face the memories that had murdered Phoebus. Apollonas had struck his younger brother Hermes, the only friend he had left, in drunken rage. Apollonas was despicable and deserved death. He could never be Phoebus again; that he knew and had accepted. But perhaps he could rid himself of Apollonas and become just Apollo. That did not mean erasing Apollonas; he had too many crimes to pay for, and running away would be a dishonor to all those who had suffered at his hands. He would repent for everything he had done as Apollonas, and thereby recreate himself as Apollo.

The first thing he needed to do was to break alcohol’s hold on him, which meant distancing himself from Dionysus. He didn’t want to abandon his youngest brother, but the temptation to drink was too strong in his presence. He hoped Dionysus would understand, and that he would one day be strong enough to bridge the gap of his creation.

He had been clean for three whole days. It didn’t seem like much -- blink of an eye in the lengthy lives of gods -- but that alone had taken him all his willpower. In the absence of the gallons of drink he had been consuming daily, not only was he plagued by memories and sheer self-hatred, he suddenly became highly attuned to the gossip that trailed him. Every moment on Olympus, hundreds of eyes were trained on him, and the whispers never escaped his sharp ears. It wasn’t that he was not used to being the center of attention, but rather the harsh truth of their statements. Phoebus Apollonas is a murderer. He flayed Marsyas alive for daring to challenge him. He curses anyone who questions his authority. He has killed thousands with his plague arrows. He is a monster. He knew these were all true and that he deserved to be pierced by such words, but the anxiousness caused by his withdrawal made them unbearable, and he had to escape to the woods. Here he found solace. Here he could work to slowly put himself together again until he was strong enough to face those who he wronged.

If he hadn’t been so lost in thought, then perhaps he would’ve heard the flap of wings before Eros was standing before him. He nearly dropped the silver bow that he’d been restringing and looked up to meet the other god’s gaze. Eros was the only man Apollonas considered a possible competitor in terms of beauty; his fair skin was smooth as a pearl, his wings the color of one, his features the aspiration of every artist’s portrait. And yet there was something unnerving about the other god. Perhaps it was his hair that, while comparable to a young maiden’s blush, was also the same shade as blood. Perhaps it was the deep red hue of his eyes, made of crushed hearts and rubies. And perhaps it wasn’t his appearance at all, but the mystique that surrounded him; he was the fourth being to come into existence and was old as time itself, and that was one of the only two things Apollonas knew about him.

“Phoebus Apollona,” Eros stated in greeting, and Apollonas hated how wrong it sounded, though he couldn’t tell if it was the names themselves or simply the one who spoke them.

“What do you want?” He couldn’t hide his irritation. The other thing he knew about Eros was that he was the god of love, and love had only ever caused Apollonas pain. He had no reason to like the god nor felt the need to veil his displeasure. All he wanted was the solitude necessary to rework himself.

“I was simply admiring your bow, oh He Who Shoots From Afar.” There was no missing the mockery in Eros’s voice, and his eyes gleamed as he gazed at the weapon. “Why, your skill is almost comparable to my own! Perhaps with some effort, you can become the greatest archer in the land.”

“Are you implying that you are the greatest archer?” Eros nodded, and one glance at the winged god’s slim arms and the modest bow slung across his back sent Apollonas into a fit of laughter. It was many moments before he could calm himself enough to speak. “What have you to do with the arms of men, you feeble thing?”

“I am merely suggesting I may be god of archery as you are god of plague.” Apollonas’s head snapped up at the idea, and his hands curled into fists as he stood, towering over the shorter god. If Eros was a painter’s fantasy, then Apollonas was a sculptor’s. His toned body was the epitome of perfection, the ideal balance between strength and beauty. He was well aware of this fact, and though he rarely preferred to use his appearance for intimidation purposes, Eros’s insult necessitated such action.

“Do not lay claim to my honors,” he hissed, his sky blue eyes glinting with divine power. Archery was the one constant he could always rely on. With his bow and arrows, he could protect and punish, wound and save. It was the one part of him that stayed no matter if he was Phoebus or Apollonas or whoever, and he’d be damned if he allowed this worthless winged wretch to even suggest taking that from him.

“Let us put it to test, then,” Eros declared, unfazed by the archer’s anger. What would the ancient deity have to fear from the youth? He was well aware of his capability, and little did Apollonas know he was falling into another trap, his emotions and naivety deceiving him once more. He was but a pawn in Eros’s game. “What say you to a battle of skill?”

Apollonas did not grace the other with an answer, lifting his weapon and drawing an arrow from his golden quiver in response. The toned muscles of his back flexed as he pulled back the string and released, and the arrow had barely gone forth an inch before he sent forward another, and then yet another. His arms were but a blur as arrow after arrow went flying, striking the most minuscule of targets: the pupil of a fly’s eye, the thread of a spider’s web, the stem of a single olive. Apollonas did not stop until his quiver lay empty, and he took in the perfect shots before him that seemed almost artistic by his hand. No matter how low he may have descended in these past years, there was no denying the masterpiece he created from the most basic of weapons. This was his domain. He couldn’t keep his lips from curling in conceit as he turned to Eros.

“That gear becomes my shoulders best,” he declared, setting his bow back beside his quiver to draw emphasis to the weapons that had adorned him for centuries. “I wound my enemies; I wound wild beasts. My countless arrows slew the bloated Python, whose vast coils across so many acres spread their blight. You and your loves!” Apollonas couldn’t hold back his scoff at the mention of Eros’s inferior work. “You have your torch to light them. Let that content you. Never claim my fame!”

“Your bow, Phoebus Apollona, may vanquish all, but mine shall vanquish you. As every creature yields to power divine, shall your glory yield to mine.” At Eros’s threat, an enraged response was making its way up Apollonas’s throat, but before it could spill off his tongue, the love god drew his own golden-tipped arrow. In the blink of an eye, he shot it forth right into the other god’s heart before taking flight.

Apollonas stumbled back, a gasp more of shock than pain escaping him as he clasped his hands over his chest, fingers fumbling for the arrow. However, it had already dissolved into him, its magic making its home in his body. He felt something ooze into his heart and bloodstream, shoot up his spine, ensnare his mind. He turned his attention inward, trying to identify the invader, but he could not locate it, nor could he compare it to anything he had ever felt before. What had Eros done? He lifted his head, searching for the god, but instead his gaze fell upon another figure altogether.

There, a few feet away, stood the sweet river nymph Daphne. He knew her -- he knew the names of many of the nymphs that resided in these woods -- but beyond a passing glance and a murmured greeting, she had never caught his attention. But now… he couldn’t seem to look away, his lips parting in awe as he stared at her, dumbfounded. Had she always been so breathtaking? How could he have missed such a beauty? Her dark locks flowed down like a waterfall of ink. What it would be to hold that silky hair between his fingers, to braid it and adorn it with flowers and beads! Her eyes were a startling shade of not blue, not green, but something between the two, and he could spend hours drowning in their depths. Her figure had the slightest curve to it, the outline of a river, and he imagined that her body had been crafted to fit against his perfectly. He saw her, loved her, wanted her.

“Daphne.” Apollonas whispered her name, marvelling at the nectar-like flavor that coated his tongue. If just her name was so sweet, then how must her lips taste? Looking was not enough. The urge to find out was unbearable, the earlier argument stolen from his mind entirely as he found himself tossing aside his bow and quiver. What did archery matter when he could master the bow of her lips instead? He would claim it, make it and the rest of her his and his alone. He took a step forth, a giddy smile alighting his features.

“St-stay back,” the nymph stammered, icy fear coiling in the depths of her stomach. She could read his intentions clearly on his face, from the crazed look in his eyes to the wolfish grin he wore to the way his hands reached towards her. Daphne knew all too well what this man planned to do with her, and that should she fall into his grasp, she would not be able to stop him from having his way. So when he took another step forward, she turned and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Apollonas gaped only a moment before rushing after her, an arrow released from its bow.

“Daphne, please wait! I am no foe! You don’t need to fear me!” he cried out after her. Daphne did not answer him, her thoughts only on escaping. Thorns and brambles tore at the bare skin of her calves, yet she refused to slow down. “You run as if I am a wolf and you a lamb, but that is not so! It is love that spurs me! Don’t fly so fast, lest you fall and wound yourself!”

“Leave me be, you horrid man!” she shrieked, not stopping even as her dress got caught on the surrounding plants and began to tear, revealing her to him little by little. Apollonas’s brows furrowed in worry at the sight of bloodied cuts on her legs. From within him a voice called out: What are you doing, Apollona? Why are you tormenting this poor girl? Leave her be! You will not have your way with her! But before the voice could say more, he caught a glimpse of the bare skin of her thigh, and everything left his mind. His conscience was once more bound and gagged by Eros’s power, forced to watch it all in horror. Speaking of the god of love, he also watched, flying unnoticed above them, yet he felt only amusement from the sight. The sheer terror that had contorted Daphne’s face and drawn panicked tears from her eyes made him smirk, and Apollonas’s frantic yelling drew out peals of laughter. They had both bent to his will so easily, and he was eager to see how this played out.

“You run because you do not know. I am no peasant, no shepherd!” Apollonas called out to her again. She was only afraid because he didn’t know who he was. He knew the moment she realized his true identity, she would stop and turn to him with a blessed smile. “I am the son of Zeus, prince of Olympus, lord of Delphi. By me things future, past and present are revealed. I shape the harmony of songs and strings. You will be happy as my bride, dear Daphne! I will see that your every wish is granted and that no desire goes unfulfilled. Please stay!”

“No! My only desire is to escape you!” Yet this would not be granted, as her body was beginning to fail her. Try as she might, she could not outrun Apollonas; he was strong from years of training and battle, and though she was swift and sure-footed, she had used up all her limited mortal strength. Her legs trembled with every step, her lungs two pits of fire in her chest. And so her traitorous body came to a stop as she gasped for breath, and Apollonas finally had her. He held her hip tightly, freezing her in place. Had he been in his senses and had control over his own body, he’d never have done this, and his conscience screamed within him. But he was deaf to it, the lust coursing through him silencing all else. His eyes soaked in her bare skin when he would’ve shielded them, his hands pulled her closer when he would’ve let her go, and he was ready to claim her when he would’ve done anything but this crime.

“My love.” His warm breath brushed against her ear as he leaned down, pressing his lips against the pale column of her neck. Daphne gasped and tried to pull herself away, but his grip was too strong, utterly unbreakable. How could she escape a god? She was helpless and frail, trapped and alone. There was no one to aid her, no one to stop Apollonas from running his hands down her body and forcing himself against her. And then he was turning her around, wishing to taste her lips, and a final plea escaped her.

“Help me, Peneus!” she screamed for her father. She knew her father could do nothing against an Olympian, but perhaps he could do something to her, and she would accept any escape from this fate. “Open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, which has brought me into this danger! Let me be free of this man from this moment forward!”

Daphne’s prayer was answered, and she was changing.

A stiffness had taken over her body, the swiftness that had protected her for so long sacrificed to escape Apollonas. Her arms lifted of their own accord, her fingers elongating up and her feet rooting into the ground. The dark waterfall split into a hundred streams that lightened to a soft green. Her curved figure fell away as her body thinned into a single arc, her legs fusing and her hands reaching higher and higher. Bark was creeping up from her extremities, down what were now branches and up what had transformed into a trunk. It conquered her shoulders, her chest, her neck. A soft sigh, her last breath, escaped her just as her lips were encased.

Apollonas’s lips met rough bark that cut at his soft skin. With a small gasp, his eyes flew open and he looked straight into Daphne’s piercing eyes. The waves in them had finally calmed, as the storm that had tormented them could no longer ripple its waters. He stared into those beautiful orbs, breathing her name, and watched as they shut forever.

Apollonas couldn’t tear his gaze away, his mind still unable to process the transformation that had unfolded before him. His hand trembled as he raised it, placing flat against the trunk of the tree. A steady pulse graced his fingertips -- a heartbeat. Daphne’s heartbeat. She was this tree, this sorrowful laurel tree, lost from him forever. His legs gave out beneath him as he wept, wrapping his arms around her and leaning his head against her bark. And yet the lust hadn’t left him, and he was kissing the wood over and over, whispering her name and an endless string of apologies as the skin of his lips tore and blood dripped down his chin.

“Oh, Daphne. My Daphne,” he cried, yearning what could’ve been. He thought the image of her smiling sweetly at him, kissing his cheek and calling him ‘husband’, was a vision, a prophecy promising that he could be the source of her happiness until the end of time. But he was wrong. It had been a fantasy, a dream that had slipped out of his grasp. And now she was gone. His sobs doubled in intensity as grief wracked him, and he didn’t notice Eros approaching until he spoke.

“Isn’t this a beautiful sight?” the god of love asked, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Phoebus Apollonas, broken and filthy inside and out. A slave to his desires. Do you accept defeat, oh lustful one?”

Apollonas turned to the other god, and the grief in him sharpened to rage. His beautiful Daphne, the love of his life, had been stolen from him, snatched right out of his hands, and the cause of it all was simply standing there, taking amusement in his loss. He reached for his bow only to find it missing, and so he lunged forth and tackled Eros to the ground, wrapping his hands around the smaller man’s thin neck.

“You monster,” Apollonas growled, his sky blue eyes glowing with divine power. This horrid creature had taken his Daphne from him and deserved nothing less than death. Apollonas would deliver him to the gates of Tartarus himself if necessary. The man must pay for his crimes. He increased the pressure, causing the other god to choke under his iron grip. “You did this!”

“Oh no, Apollona. I merely gave you a nudge. The rest was all you,” Eros gasped out, managing to laugh even as his windpipe threatened to collapse altogether. The sun god’s brows furrowed at the statement, and Eros subtly waved his hand, calming the effects of his magic. “And who knows what you’ll do next if I keep nudging you forth? You’ll be giving your father quite the competition, won’t you?”

The spell finally broke, and Apollonas’s grip slackened as the lust drained out of him and the truth became clear. He had chased Daphne. He had chased Daphne with the intention to force himself on her. He had tried to kiss her and claim her as his own with no care for her terror. He pushed her so far that she thought it better to lose her humanity than to be his. Oh Fates, what had he done? You are the most wicked person to live, Phoebus Apollona. You are no better than your father. You did this to that poor girl. You ruined her.

“N-no,” he whispered, backing away from Eros and clamping his hands over his ears, but it was in vain. The voice came not from outside but from within, where his conscience was finally free to reclaim its owner. And so Apollonas relived the incident that had just taken place. He saw himself chase after her just as Python had chased him and his family, heard his plans to ruin her just as he believed Orion had intended with Artemis, felt himself force himself upon her just as Zeus did to his mother Leto. Never in his life had something been so achingly clear to him as this truth: while he had spent his whole life painting others as wicked, he had been the most terrible monster all along. Apollonas doubled over, spilling his insides onto the earth as though he could purge the maliciousness from his body. But alas, he could not; he was born the destroyer, and he had truly lived up to his name. He could not tell if his scream remained in his soul or ripped out of him. He didn’t know if it was tears or fire spilling from his eyes. All he knew was the terrible truth that he has been blind to all his life.

“You are weak, boy. But I can make you strong,” Eros declared, towering over the hysterical god. He wondered how Olympus would react to seeing their golden heir broken on the ground, sobbing like a spoiled child. He could only imagine they’d be just as entertained as he. Still, the time for games was over. Making sure to avoid the pool of vomit, he crouched down and placed a thin finger under Apollonas’s chin, forcing the young god to meet his gaze. “Here is my offer to you: vow to me on the river Styx that you will follow my every command, and I will save you from further humiliation and heartbreak.”

“What, so I can spend my life blind and deaf, a mindless slave to a heartless man?” A dry, humorless laugh slipped out of Apollonas’s lips. He had seen and tasted truth, and he would not give that up to become Eros’s puppet. He scowled and spat at the love god’s feet, glaring into those blood-red eyes. “That is what I think of your offer.”

“I expected the god of intellect to be wiser than this, but I now see the difference between you and Athena.” Eros sneered, wrinkling his nose at the sorry display. “Do not be hasty, godling, and ponder my words carefully. I am offering you invulnerability. I will harden your heart to stone so that none may hurt you. Without your greatest weakness, you will be unstoppable. You will never have to feel such pain again.”

Apollonas paused for a moment, considering Eros’s claim. To never feel this soul-tearing agony again? To be free of the organ that rebelled against his mind at every moment? Now that he contemplated it, the offer was quite tempting. Without his heart, he would only have to rely on his body and mind, both of which were immaculate. He would indeed be unstoppable, finally the golden heir of Olympus he was expected to be. And yet… his gaze moved to the laurel tree, and a single leaf drifted down before him. Apollonas caught it in the palm of his hand, carefully tracing its pale green veins. If he were to remove his heart, to lose his ability to feel, would that not be a dishonor to Daphne? After all he had put her through, did she not deserve to be mourned and remembered? And what about all the others, every mortal that had suffered at his hand? He would be spitting on their graves by choosing to run away from the pain that, in the face of what torment they had lived through, was nothing. And so Apollonas rose to his feet, stretching to full height and then kneeling down so that his face was merely inches from the love god’s. “Rot. In. Tartarus.”

“You really should have chosen the easy path,” Eros muttered, the smirk sliding off his face as he grit his teeth. Apollonas wanted to regret? Then he’d give him reason to regret. His hands flew to Apollonas’s temples, freezing the younger god in place. Eros’s eyes glowed, twin pits of lava, and his voice boomed as he invoked his ancient power. “I curse you, Phoebus Apollona. May love be your enemy and your heart a traitor. May you be powerless to control the whims of your desire, and may you be the cause of pain to those you love, over and over until the end of time itself.”

Apollonas fell to the ground once more, struggling as the curse rooted itself deep in his soul, at the very essence of his being. By the time his throat had grown too raw for him to continue screaming, Eros had already flown away, leaving behind nothing but punishment. He found himself crawling back to the laurel tree, to Daphne, leaning his forehead against her trunk as he wept. He wept for her, for those before her, and for those after her.

“I’m sorry, Daphne,” he whispered, holding on so tightly the bark dug into his skin and realizing how powerless he really was. “I’d change you back if I could, sweet nymph, but I cannot. Instead, I swear by the river Styx, I won’t let you be forgotten. I bless you so that your leaves are never shed and instead will be woven in wreaths that will become a symbol of honor, the very thing I tried to steal from you. Let mankind see me to be the monster I am if that means your memory will live on. And even if your name no longer forms on the lips of men, they will live on eternally upon my own. This I vow to you.”

With this, he lay one last touch upon the tree before turning away, trudging his leaden feet back to Olympus. He heard the whispers as he arrived in the city, but he paid them no mind and made way to his house. Barely moments after he entered, his fingers scurried over the wall until they found the loose brick that he yanked out and tossed aside. His hands trembled in a moment of hesitation before reaching in. He grasped the bottle of his poison, his secret, his solace. Apollonas lifted it to his lips, tears running down his face, and drank his worries away.

#Apollo #apollon #apollo deity #greek mythology #greek gods #greek myth #daphne

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foilfreak · 4 years ago

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Beauty and Her Beast: Chapter 3

Warning: This fic is rated NSFW and contains graphic depictions of things some people may find disturbing or alarming, including, but not limited to: violence, gore, unhealthy family relationships, Oedipus complexes, gratuitous amount of pornographic literature, ableist language, physical, mental, and emotional abuse, etc. If you are someone who does not enjoy fiction with these elements in them, then I suggest you refrain from reading this, because this fic will have all that, and probably a lot more. So, this is your first and final warning to turn around and go somewhere else if stuff like this just isn't your vibe, because from this point forward, your emotional wellbeing is in your own hands, and I will not be accepting blame if you disregarded my warnings and ended up reading something you didn't like. Idk why I feel compelled to write one of these despite this being Resident Evil fanfic, but I figured I'd cover my ass just in case.

(Link to ao3 version in comments below)

“Going off the information I have listed here, it appears as though you’ll be receiving subject N-45, today. She’s a healthy 22 year old female. Her short, but muscular body weighs 95lbs with a childish height of 4’10” tall. She possesses primarily Romanian and Filipino ancestry, with some Dutch or Finnish or... whatever, thrown in there as well. And according to the various items we found on her person when she was first brought in, she’s apparently a graduate student at the University of Bucharest, or, at least she was, before she drove her car into a tree while driving up the mountain and was recovered by Heisenberg” Miranda explains robotically, reading aloud from a piece of paper held inside a thick manila envelope. “Of the 4 remaining test subjects, N-45 is easily the most violent and difficult one to work with, having to be either anesthetized or restrained every time I wanted to so much as take her vitals or stabilize her condition. When given smaller doses of sedatives she-”

For the first time in his entire life, Salvatore completely ignores whatever unimportant nonsense Mother Miranda is going on about, continuing to take in and analyze the strikingly unique appearance of the young woman before him.

Upon first inspection, N-45 appeared to resemble that of a normal woman in just about every way possible. Her hair was scruffy and very short, barely long enough to reach her eyes, and a deep black color that looked so soft and luxurious that Salvatore ached to run his fingers through it. Her face was slightly round, giving the young woman a very youthful appearance, with her sharp jawline and prominent cheekbones being some of the only things keeping Salvatore from mistaking her for a child. And lastly, her... figure, if Salvatore had to put such an embarrassing idea into words, was similar to that of Mother Miranda, only shorter, more compact even. It reminded the hooded man of those small packets of candy Duke occasionally gifted him that said “fun sized” on the label, in reference to them being much smaller than the standard sized candy bars and yet somehow being… better, despite technically giving you less candy.

She was already perfect as she was, but it was not just N-45’s beautiful human features that pulled Salvatore in and refused to let him escape the stupefaction he’d been placed under, but also her mutations.

A soft royal blue coated her from head to toe, giving way only to a large patch of solid white located on her chest and stomach. Her skin catches the light in a way that reveals areas of tiny overlapping scales, glimmering like stars in the midnight sky, or freshly polished armor, perhaps, along the bony ridges and tender curves of her figure.

Small white dots distributed like paint splatters across the colored sections of her flesh give a similar visual effect as freckles, starting from her hairline and extending all the way down to the very tips of her toes. These galaxies of white were invisible only on the white patch along the front of her torso, as well as on the lighter blue hue taken on by both the palms and webbings of her hands and feet.

Long Fin-like extensions grew along both her forearms and lower back. The former extended outward and inward like a windshield wiper, likely used to decrease water resistance. The latter, however, perhaps used to increase fine motor maneuverability while swimming at greater speeds or in tighter spaces, grew straight downwards from her lower back in an overlapping fan configuration that marginally covered her rear end, though not by very much. The fins looked like a soft, delicate material that was probably very flexible but very durable, if Salvatore had to guess just from looking.

And to top everything off, N-45 even appeared to even have gills, 2 different sets by the looks of it. The first set of 3 breathing slits was located horizontally along both sides of her neck, while the second set could be found on both sides of her torso, following the downward angle of her ribs but stopping just underneath her soft, plump-looking breasts.

Salvatore feels a sudden wave of heat cascade over his body and he turns his face away in shameful embarrassment as he suddenly realizes that N-45, much like every test subject undergoing cadou treatment, was still very, very nude at the present moment.

“I can’t make any promises regarding her disposition, but physically speaking, she’s ready to be released to you whenever you’d like. I’ll have some of the villagers transport and release her into the reservoir later this week” Mother Miranda says, pressing a button to close the pod now that Salvatore was no longer staring at her.

“W-wait just a m-moment” Salvatore calls out, prompting Mother Miranda to halt the closing of the pod.

“Yes? What is it?” The woman asks curtly, clearly not wanting to stand here and watch Salvatore any longer than she has to.

Wringing his hands together nervously, Salvatore meekly asks, “C-could… could y-you wake h-her up… s-so that I can s-speak with her… j-just for a m-moment?”

Mother Miranda remains silent for a moment, blank face staring directly at Salvatore as she contemplates what to do.

“No, Moreau,” she says finally. “I’ve had a very busy day today and I'm quite tired. N-45 is a menace that I struggle to deal with even on my best days. The last thing I need is something going wrong and her getting out and causing all sorts of chaos.”

Salvatore’s shoulders slump in disappointment, but he makes no further attempts to argue.

Mother Miranda rolls her eyes at the incredibly childish display, walking over to place a gentle hand on Salvatore’s head. “Would it make you feel better if I agreed to have N-45 be the first of the subjects to be dropped off? It’ll be more difficult than my original plan, but I suppose it was a bit unfair that you were the only one who didn’t get to “pick” their gift.”

“Yes, M-Mother Miranda… I-I’d like th-that very… very m-much” Salvatore says, leaning into the touch as Mother Miranda begins guiding him back toward the hallway leading to the exit door.

It wasn’t until after Miranda had exited the lab and begun walking down the long hallway toward the exit that Salvatore dared cast another glance back at the pod that contained N-45, wistfully thinking of how amazing her hand had felt in his, and how much he wanted to speak to her.

Just as the disfigured man was about to turn back and follow Miranda out of the laboratory, a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, prompting Salvatore to tense and snap toward the 4 pods, frantically trying to figure out what it was he saw. A few seconds of stillness pass before Salvatore sees movement again, not freely moving about the room like he originally expected, but from within one of the 4 pods, his pod to be exact.

His curiosity momentarily outweighing his nerves, Salvatore slowly approaches the metal capsule, trying to get a look through the small pane of glass that allows visual access into the holding pod.

Another flash of movement has Salvatore flinching, jumping back as though he’d been advanced upon. After several seconds of stillness, however, the hooded man regains his confidence and once again inches his way toward the capsule, moving his head up and down to try and get one more glimpse at N-45 before he has to leave. One last look before she lays eyes upon his vile and disgusting body for the first time, screaming and calling him a monster as she runs away, leaving him alone and without anyone to call his own. Just like always.

“ Hello ?”

Salvatore froze dead in his tracks, his heart pounding and his lungs refusing to take in air, as a soft, muffled, questioning voice reaches the deformed man’s ears, followed by two golden orbs with narrow black slits running vertically through the center, that slowly peek into view from the bottom of the glass window. Salvatore’s eyes widen in shock as he quickly realizes that the orbs of gold are not, in fact, just spheres of color, but rather a pair of eyes, staring intently at him from inside the pod.

“Uuuuuh… u-u-uuum… I-i… I w-was just…” the disfigured man stuttered as he struggled to move his body, seemingly paralyzed by the bewitching gaze currently locked onto him, looking at him with an intensity that makes Salvatore wonder if this is what it feels like to be a cell put under a microscope.

It isn’t until Salvatore notices the golden orbs moving and shifting from one corner of the window pane to the other that the hooded man realizes, to his immediate horror, that he might not be the only one trying to get a better look at the figure located on the other side of the pod door. Panic and fear immediately fill Salvatore from deep within, growing strong enough to allow him to finally overcome his temporary paralysis and skitter away from view. Pulling his hood even further over his petrifyingly grotesque face in shame of himself, Salvatore flees the laboratory as quickly as his hobbled limp would allow.

His heart pounds to the beat of the soft, but desperate pleas of protest coming from N-45’s pod in response to Salvatore’s rapidly retreating form, yet the hooded man cannot bring himself to believe what he hears as true. Perhaps believing that the siren-like voice he hears echoing off the metal laboratory walls to be nothing more than a trick of his sick and lonely mind, Salvatore does not stop, nor does he turn back around until he’s met up with Mother Miranda at the exit to the surface, lungs burning and legs aching from running for so far and long.

“Oh, there you are, Moreau,” Mother Miranda says suddenly, stopping just before they are about to exit the laboratory. “I’m glad you chose this time to finally catch up, because I just realized a second ago that I’d forgotten to give you N-45’s previous name. You can name her something else if you’d prefer, of course, but I offered the information to your siblings so I suppose I should offer it to you as well. Would you still like to know N-45’s name, or would you rather abandon her given name for one of your own choosing?”

After a few seconds of silent contemplation, Salvatore lifts his head, “I… I-i would like to k-know… her n-name… please...” the mutant man says softly.

Mother Miranda briefly raises a questioning eyebrow at Salvatore’s nervous body language, but ultimately rolls her eyes and shrugs her shoulders, all but tossing the Manila envelope containing N-45’s information at the hooded man before disappearing out the large metal door.

“If you’re going to read that now, feel free, but return to the meeting room once you're done. And be sure to lock the door to my laboratory behind you” Miranda commands, her voice having grown echoey due to how far away she now was.

“Yes, M-Mother” Salvatore calls after her as he scrambles to catch the thrown file and prevent any loose papers from falling out. Once he’s got a solid handle on the thick envelope, he opens it, casting a quick glance back in the direction of the pod room, where Nadine and the other 3 gifts were being held for the time being.

Returning to the file, Salvatore frantically flips through every page, trying to find the one that held N-45’s personal background information.

After several minutes of desperate flipping back and forth, Salvatore finally focuses on one particular piece of paper that looked to have been in the file for the longest. Pulling out the particular page he’d found, the disfigured man drops the rest of the folder onto the ground and begins rapidly skimming through the information printed on the page, his hungry eyes refusing to stop until they finally zeroed in on the information he’d been looking for.

Project: E.V.A. Resurrection

Subject: N-45

Parasite Administered: Cadou (Series- N; Strain- 45)

Family Name: Bogdan

Given Name: Nadine

“N… Nadine” Salvatore said slowly, feeling slightly lightheaded and out of breath as each individual letter of the young woman’s name rolled off his tongue like Camembert cheese; smooth, creamy, decedent, and likely to keep him up all night with an upset stomach and a racing heartbeat.

Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine.

The name quickly became a broken loop played over and over and over again inside Salvatore’s head, his mind unable, or rather unwilling, to think of anything else as he read, reread, and then re-reread Nadine’s name at least 100 times, before finally setting the piece of paper down.

“Nadine...” Salvatore breathes the name once again, his voice carrying a wistful tone. “E-even your n-name is wonderful...”

An already beautiful woman, made even more perfect through the power of science and Mother Miranda’s grace, only for all that potential to end up wasted in the hands of a desperately lonely and horrifically mangled fish mutant, who was more likely to accidentally dissolve her in stomach acid than woo her like some kind of aquatic Prince Charming.

“Y-ya right... e-e-even with a-another mutant… I’m s-still so disgusting a-an… and horrifying in comparison… n-not even my o-own kind can b-bring thems-themselves to love me f-for who I a-am… not th-that there’s much of m-me that’s worth l-loving to begin w-with” Moreau laments to himself, wondering if it was even worth holding out hope that things with Nadine could go his way. As if one look at his monstrous form wouldn’t be enough to ruin everything Salvatore already has an agonizingly low chance of ever having with that magnificent specimen of a woman.

Even with Nadine’s own external mutations making it clear that she was no longer fully human, her form had still retained such a beautifully strong, yet womanly shape to it, and her face still looked so young and innocent despite everything that she’s been through. Someone as beautiful as her was far too good and pure to be tainted by his filthy hands.

‘Maybe I should just kill her when the villagers arrive with her at the gate? At least then... I could say I put her out of her misery before she had to experience it for herself…’ Salvatore sulks mentally.

However, despite the self degrading thoughts running through his mind, the memory of the curious look Nadine’s shockingly bright and mesmerizing golden eyes held when trying to look at Salvatore through the pod window made the hooded man shiver, having never been looked upon in such an innocently curious manner before. Most people who got that close to Salvatore didn’t even need to see his face in order to start screaming and running away in terror. However, if the deformed man allowed himself a brief moment to believe that it was indeed her who’d been calling him to come back and show himself, then from the tone and rushed quality of her voice, it would seem as though Nadine was unsatisfied with the fact that she hadn’t seen all of Salvatore’s face and body, not terrified.

How strange...

How very strange indeed…

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teenyweenynightghost · 4 years ago

Text

A Breath of Fresh Air - Chapter 3

Warnings: language, kinda spicy

I woke up to the buzzing noise of my alarm, beeping over and over again until I managed to stop it. The light shone from the window, blinding my eyes. I groaned and and turned around furiously in my bed. One of my feet was dangling over the edge, goosebumps all over it, thanks to the cold room. This place had terrible insulation. I missed the warmth that slowly woke me up in the morning back in Greece. Sadly, I wasn't there, and I couldn't miss my first day of school.

Pushing myself off the bed, I recoiled when my feet met the cold ground, sending shivers up my spine. Checking my phone, I noticed It had taken me 20 minutes to get up, which meant i only had 40 left. Barely enough. Running to the bathroom, I took off my clothes in a hurry and jumped in the shower. The freezing water hit my skin like a million wasps, making me cringe at the sudden temperature change. Despite how unsatisfied I was with it's lack of heat, my eyes were more open now and less puffy, as was the rest of my face. Being more aware of my surroundings, I realised I had forgotten my towel on the bed frame. I beat myself up internally and prayed Victoria wasn't awake.

Opening the door and peeking a little, I noticed my roommate's still body, evenly breathing. Thank god! I tip-toed quickly to my bed and just as I was about to cover myself up, I heard a husky voice. "Well, a good morning to you, puppy" Covering myself up with the speed of light, I turned around and almost fell down. Stumbling backwards, I hit a cupboard and yelped. In response, I heard Vic chuckle lightly. I slowly opened my eyes and looked at her, suddenly feeling self-conscious and embarrassed. "Aw, you have no reason to get so red cucciola, you have the body of a goddess" With that, my mouth fell wide open and, If I had thought I hit my peak redness before, I must have invented a new color now. "Ready for school?" After this little mishap, I was definitely not, but I had no other choice. I nodded softly and picked up my clothes, retreating to the privacy of the bathroom. As I was about to close the door, I heard Vic mutter "Good girl."

Luckily for me, the rest of the day went better than the morning. We had breakfast in an immense dining hall, filled with torches and old paintings. Vic showed me each classroom and introduced to every teacher, as well as many other students.

By the time I had gotten back to my room, I was exhausted. I needed something to soothe me down, and no matter how much I tried to listen to music or study some new plants, I couldn't get the peace of mind I yearned.

Irritated, I slammed the encyclopedia shut and started pacing around the room. Lost in my own thoughts, I didn't hear Victoria entering the room. She watched me for a few moments, eyes filled with understanding, until she spoke up. "Aurora" I quickly turned to face her, my gaze softening. "Yes?" "You look stressed. And exhausted." she had a pitiful expression on her face, which only worsened my mood. "I don't need your pity." "Then accept my initiative of distracting you." I looked back at her, wondering what was gong on in her head. Noticing my weary glare, she headed towards my dresser, and searched for a few moments, until she tossed a swimsuit in my hands. "If I had it my way, you wouldn't need that, but after your reaction this morning I didn't want to push you further." I appreciated her respecting my boundaries. The event from earlier this morning had certainly been embarrassing for me, but there was something about her hungry gaze that made me want more. Pushing that thought away, I headed to the bathroom and put the swimsuit on, covering it up with the clothes I was wearing only a few moments earlier. I stepped out just in time to see Victoria pulling on a shirt, having a swimsuit underneath her clothes as well.

"Well, what's the plan now?"

"Now, cara mia, we wait." she answered with a grin, which only made me more weary of what was about to happen."

A few hours had passed and I was back to my notebook, sketching a few different types of leaves. Suddenly, Vic jumped off her bead and grabbed my arm, leading me out of our room. Before I could say anything, she covered my mouth with her hand, gesturing for me to be quiet. She pulled away and beckoned me to follow her. I did as I was told, a small blush creeping its way on my face.

We had made our way out, reaching a metal gate at the edge of the campus. “Vic, where the hell are we going?” It was midnight, barely enough light for us to see. The cold wind covered my body in goosebumps as Vic quickly jumped over the gate. I let out a sigh and did my best to follow her.

After a few more minutes of walking, Bic came behind me and covered my eyes, her cold hands making my body jolt.“What the hell! It’s not like I can see a thing anyway!”

“I just want it to be a surprise puppy”. The damned nickname. My face started heating up and I was praying she couldn’t feel it, as she guided me further into the woods

We finally came to a stop. “Are you ready? Vic asked full of excitement. I nodded eagerly and she quickly dropped her hands. Before me was a glowing lake, surrounded by millions and millions of flowers, each brighter and more colorful than the other. I gasped at the view and started giggling and bouncing. At that, Vic started laughing as she put a hand over my shoulder. “I knew you’d like it.”

I ran to the shore, almost tripping along the way, and dipped my hand in the water. It was slightly cold, but considering that I would be half naked around Vic, anything that could cool me down was welcome.

Before I could ask where we would leave our clothes, Vic walked past me, already in her swimsuit, and jumped in the water. She swam below the surface for a few moments before resurfacing, a wide grin spreading on her face. At that, I realized I was staring at her, intensely.

“Are you coming, puppy, or are you gonna keep staring at me?” I sighed and mumbled that i would not mind the latter. I turned around and slowly took of my clothes. I could feel her hungry gaze burning through my back. By the time I faced her again I was a flustered mess. She looked at me the same way she had this morning, only perhaps a new emotion in her eyes. One that I couldn’t figure out.

I stepped towards the lake and closed my eyes, jumping in it. My skin tightened from the cold water and I swam up, breathing heavily. In the blink of an eye, she was next to me, grinning. “How does it feel?”

“Cold.” She scoffed. “Want me to show you the caves?” “There are caves here!?” I looked around, trying to find the formation Vic was talking about, but without success. Following my gaze and smirking, she reached out her hand and placed it under my chin, moving my head towards a dark denture in the cliff. “Right there, puppy.” The combination of her delicate hand on my face and her words were almost too much to bear so I swam quickly towards where she pointed.

The tall cliff was now towering over me, pebbles falling in the moon lit water from time to time. “Right this way” purred Vic in my ear as she grabbed my hand and led me into the cave.

We swam through the darkness until I felt a wall in front of me. “It’s a dead end” As I was about to turn around, she dragged me underwater and swam us through a hole. My heart was beating fast and I was running out of breath, until she finally guided me to the surface.

“A warning wouldn’t have hurt.” I gasped, my lungs filling with oxygen.

“Too much thinking.” She started moving again, but I just closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down. We were in a whole other place now. The large rock walls extended up into the air, stopping right before they curved inward. This wasn’t as much of a cave anymore, since there was nothing above us. Only the night sky, filled with stars and numerous constellations. Unlike my first time here, it was clear, and I could spot a few formations here and there.

“AURORA” i heard Vic’s scream as she tried to bring me back to this world. She succeeded. I saw her perched up on a rock, the moonlight shining on her body, giving her an iridescent glow. Entranced by her, I started moving towards where she was sat, with each step examining another one of her features. Her light blonde hair, going from a dark brunette to the color of sand, her stormy blue eyes, always vivid and alive. The tip of her nose, beautifully decorated by a thin gold hoop.

Before I knew it, I was right below her. The boulder gave her enough extra height for her to tower me. Cupping my chin, she lifted my head up in order to lock my eyes in a seductive gaze “See something you like puppy?” Before I could think it through, I nodded carelessly, not taking my eyes off of her. This time, I noticed her belly piercing. I couldn’t help but think about my tongue playing with it as she would pull on my hair. Shocked by my own thoughts, I pulled away and tried turning around.

Before succeeding to do so, she suddenly jumped into the water and slammed our bodies together, her back pressed tightly against the rock.

“Oh you’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on in that beautiful head of yours, puppy.

Damn my brain. And damn her. I didn’t know why I felt like this. I never had any particular crush on anyone, least of all girls. I was getting redder and redder as I saw her dominant gaze, patiently waiting for me to speak up.

“Don’t be shy, cara mia, I would love to help you out with your thoughts” she purred in my ear, her hot breath on my neck making me shiver. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine feeling more. I unconsciously drifted even closer to her, my hand now resting dangerously low on her stomach. Thinking back to the jewelry stuck there, I hesitantly brushed a finger upwards, meeting the cold metal of the piercing. Grabbing my hair and stroking it a few times, she then squeezed my shoulder, encouraging me to explore further.

I kept circling my finger around the pendant, until I felt her shift under me. I looked up and saw her dark eyes, looking at me with a passion I had never felt or seen before. Her gaze pulled me out of my haze, as I heated up again. “Well maybe after another ten minutes you’ll tell me what you want to do with that lovely piercing of mine.” I was even redder than before, now realizing just for how long I had admired a plain piece of jewelry. As if reading my mind, she chuckled. “Maybe you like it so much because it’s on me.” I hummed , my head resting in the crook of her neck. In response she squeezed my waist and slightly tugged on my hair. I gasped at the feeing, which only turned her on more.

Slowly pulling my head back, exposing my face to her, she got close to my ear and whispered “Come on puppy, I’ll reward you if you tell me that you like it.” The heat between my legs intensified at her words, making me whimper. “ I like it.” I whispered it in her ear, barely audible, as If there was anyone around. “ Now you’re just gonna have to be a bit more specific for me, cucciola.” I thought a bit, trying to find the least possible sexual way to word it. “ I like your piercing.” She hummed. “Is that all?” I nodded, trying to seem convincing. She chuckled a bit, and then strengthened her grip on my hair. I bit my lip toughly, trying to hold in a moan. “Say you like it and I just might stop teasing you.”

“I do. I fucking love it.” She smirked at me and let go of my hair. I whined at the loss of contact and stared back at her, lust filling my eyes. She brought her face to mine, closely enough so that our nose touched me. She licked my lip where I had bit it, and left a wet kiss on the corner of my lips, and then another one on the sensitive area below my ear, earning another whimper from me. “Good girl.” She growled against my neck, and I shivered at the feeling of her lips moving.

Pulling away, she swam again to the entry in our little cave, and waited for me to catch up. I tried to get close to her again but she pulled away and grinned. “I said enough teasing for tonight, didn’t I?” At the realization of what she meant by that my face fell. She smirked again. “So fucking needy.” she breathed. We slowly made our way back to the room, my eyes being desperate to see her bare form again. We shared glances every now and then, and I would only get redder, knowing that she noticed I was staring at her.

As soon as I opened the door of our dorm, she took all her clothes off and jumped on her bed, her legs slightly spread and resting her hands on her head “Care to join, puppy?

Was she suggesting that I could sleep with her? Or more? Seeing the confusion in my eyes, she giggled and and shook her head. “Cuddle with me, baby” “Naked?” Another laugh.

“Considering how you were starting at me earlier you’d think you wouldn’t mind it.”

My mind wandered back to her belly piercing. Oh I definitely wanted to say yes. But I couldn’t. She was already teasing me enough. I knew she wouldn’t touch me without my permission, but nonetheless I was scared. My heart started racing thinking of a good excuse.

“You can say no, puppy”

I glanced back at her, thankful for her understanding. I muttered a quick thank you, and got in bed.

Before falling asleep, I thought about everything that happened that day. Our naked encounter this morning, her pulling my hair and licking my lip. I had no idea why she did this. Did she hate me? Did she want to mess with my mind?

I stopped my brain from thinking anymore, before It would ruin my whole night. I focused on my breathing, until I fell asleep.

———————————————————————-

That was it babes, hope you liked it😌

Again, I really doubt that I will be able to post for a while, but I promise I will compensate afterwards. I’m gonna pull a IWBYS on y’all.

@fuckim-so-gay @messyhairday-me

#maneskin #victoria de angelis #damiano david #ethan torchio #thomas raggi #måneskin

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bluejayblueskies · 4 years ago

Text

flour, sugar, salt

Words: 3.6k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Additional Tags: Domestic Fluff, Baking, Gentle Kissing, Light Angst, Safehouse Period, No Apocalypse, cooking and baking as love languages

Summary:

It had gone like this:

“Tell me something,” Jon said, leaning his head against the curve of Martin’s shoulder.

After a moment, Martin laced their fingers together and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’ve never had a birthday cake.”

----

Jon’s never baked before, but how much harder than cooking can it possibly be?

Things do not go well.

Read on Ao3

Or read below:

The cake is awful. There’s no getting around that, Jon thinks as he scowls at the misshapen lump of frosting in front of him, adorned with little yellow and blue candles that he’d found tucked in the meagre baking section of the village’s shop, right next to the boxed cake mix that Jon had hesitated in front of, his hand stalled halfway to the candles. Just add water! it had proclaimed cheerily, which in no way assured Jon that the resulting product would be anything close to edible. So, he’d retrieved the candles and moved on, collecting flour, sugar, baking powder, and the rest of the ingredients for the recipe. For beginners, it had said, and Jon had felt like a child, but he’d followed the steps anyway, doing everything exactly right.

Perhaps he should have just gone with the boxed mix. At least then the final product would have at least looked edible and not like something one would immediately toss into the bin, like Jon has half a mind to do. But the idea of not having a cake makes Jon’s stomach twist into knots, because he needs the cake. This whole thing is- is pointless without the cake, but the cake looks horrible, and—

And he’s completely forgotten to put the gołąbki in the oven. He does so now, trying to calm the shaking of his hands that is born more of frustration than anything. It really wouldn’t do to drop the main dish all over the lino, after all. Best not to ruin it more than he already has.

It had gone like this:

They’d been sitting on the couch, the flames of the fire licking at the brick edges of the fireplace as it eagerly consumed the new wood Martin had topped it off with just minutes earlier. The moment Martin had settled back onto the couch, Jon had resumed his position curled into his side, breathing a small sigh of satisfaction as warmth began to radiate throughout his body once again. Martin ran hot—hotter than Jon, anyway, whose fingers had a tendency to get so cold they burned when warmed between Martin’s hands—and the slight guilt at using Martin as his personal space heater had dissipated entirely at the small, contented noise Martin had made as he’d wrapped his arm around Jon’s shoulders and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head.

It had been months since the Lonely, since those first few awkward weeks in the safehouse tucked away in the Scottish highlands where Jon hadn’t been sure if loved was to be taken at face value and Martin wasn’t sure if the little touches Jon gave him were just to stave off that creeping fog that still lingered in the blue-grey of his eyes and the white-streaked curls that mirrored Jon’s own. It had been even less time since Martin had opened the front door, an excuse about needing ‘a much thicker coat, it’s bloody freezing out there’ on his tongue, to find Jon gripping a sheet of official Institute paper in a white-knuckled grip. The words calmly spilling free from his lips were silenced only once he’d slumped bonelessly in Martin’s arms, Martin’s hand still clamped firmly over his mouth and twin tear tracks streaking down both of their faces.

The statement had gone up in flames easily and without fanfare, the small strands of smoke tickling the still-blue sky that, to Jon, seemed like the second most beautiful thing in the world.

Now, there’s just this: sitting curled next to the fire, and taking long walks even as the cold of February nips at the tips of their ears, and getting to know each other through fragments of stories and brushes of pinkies and whispered confessions.

“Tell me something,” Jon said, leaning his head against the curve of Martin’s shoulder and letting his eyes fall on Martin’s hands where they gripped the edges of a notebook, curling script decorating the pages in starts and stops and marred in places with crossed-out lines. They’d established a routine after Jon had admitted one night as they lay in bed, knees curled into his chest protectively, that sometimes what Peter Lukas had said in the Lonely still played on his mind. That they barely knew each other, and that the love Jon felt so potently in his chest and his lungs and his bones was based on nothing more than a construct, something he’d tricked himself into believing was real. It had been hard to think, even harder to say; Jon had squeezed his eyes tightly shut and had held his breath.

Martin’s hand had found his and squeezed it tight. “Tell me something, then,” Martin had said, a tentative smile on his lips. And so, Jon had.

Now, Jon’s hands were relaxed as he played absently with the cuff of Martin’s jumper sleeve. It was one of his favourites, a mustard-yellow one that was slightly oversized on Martin and consumed Jon entirely every time he managed to steal it from Martin’s side of the closet. Martin hummed and closed the notebook, turning his hand over and letting Jon’s hand rest against his palm; after a moment, he laced their fingers together and gave a gentle squeeze.

“I’ve never had a birthday cake,” Martin said, sounding a bit wistful as he said it, and Jon leaned back slightly so he could see his face. Martin’s eyes were trained on the fire, and though his lips were still curled into a hint of a smile, his eyebrows folded inward in that way they did when an old wound itched just below the surface, stitched messily shut and stubbornly ignored even as it healed crooked and wrong. “At- at least not one of my own, that is, or- or that I can remember. I don’t know why I didn’t when I was younger, not really, but after Mum got sick, and my dad… well, birthdays just never really seemed all that important anymore, I guess? At least, Mum never seemed to want to celebrate.”

Martin let out a small laugh, the kind born from reflecting on a memory that was quite the opposite of humorous. “And by the time I was old enough to make one for myself, it all just seemed so… pointless, I suppose. You know, that time we went out for ice cream was the first time I’d even celebrated my birthday since I turned 21?” Under his breath, Martin said, “Though I’m not sure you could call buying myself a bottle of Moscato and drinking alone in my flat celebrating.” He drew in a shaky breath before giving Jon a small, embarrassed smile. Not too long ago, he probably would have stuttered out some sort of apology, like it was shameful for him to show the vulnerable parts of himself. Now, he simply said, “It was nice, I suppose. To have people who cared, even if it didn’t seem like it meant all that much at the time.”

Martin had that quietly sad look on his face, the one they both shared when thinking of the easy comfort of those first months in the archives, with Tim bright-eyed and smiling and telling jokes that Jon only understood half of the time and Sasha looking the way she had in the Polaroid Jon had found tucked away in the box of statements and cassette tapes Basira had delivered, clearly meant to be more salt in a wound that had been stitched closed before it had the chance to bleed. Jon squeezed Martin’s hand tighter, and when that didn’t seem enough, brought it to his lips and laid a soft kiss across the knuckles. “Yes,” Jon said softly, feeling that same sadness curling within his stomach and mingling with the beginnings of determination, a plan half-forming in his mind. “It suppose it was.”

It was going to be perfect. Martin had left some time ago to make the longer trip into Inverness to pick up the supplies they couldn’t get in the village, forehead creasing slightly at Jon’s fabricated excuse of ‘not feeling well’ and Jon’s subsequent refusal of Martin’s offer to stay behind and reschedule their trip to a time when Jon was feeling more up to it. Jon had practically pushed Martin out the front door, letting out a small breath of relief when he saw Daisy’s car—now ostensibly their car—trundle down the cratered dirt road and out of sight. He’d had all of the ingredients; he’d followed all of the instructions. It was supposed to be perfect.

At least the gołąbki turned out well, he thinks with a resigned sigh as he extracts the glass dish from the oven, setting it atop one of the electric hobs to cool. The cake sits in his periphery, almost mockingly; some of the frosting has sloughed off the top, leaving the chocolate pastry underneath starkly exposed.

It… it wouldn’t hurt to try to fix it, right? Just a little more frosting to patch up the hole.

Somehow, the middle of the cake ends up collapsing inward, taking a good portion of the candles with it. Christ, Jon can just picture his grandmother’s expression, the stern tilt of her eyebrows and the press of her mouth into a thin line that, thinking back on it, was really more amused than anything as she told him that no, five minutes was not long enough to properly cook chicken breasts in the oven, and no, he could not set the temperature to 260 degrees just to speed things along. She’d taught him how to mince garlic and to make Desi Ghee and to spice dishes without the need for measuring spoons, saying that he may as well put some of his anxious, restless energy to use and that the kitchen was as good a place as any.

The first time he’d cooked in the safehouse, a few days after they’d arrived, when Martin had sat shivering on the couch with his eyes iced over with fog, his stomach had knotted in worry that he wouldn’t remember how—that he’d neglected it for so long, subsisting off of ready meals and tea in the beginning and then mostly statements after a while, and that this knowledge was the kind of nice, wonderful thing he wouldn’t be allowed to keep. But the knife strokes had come easily, almost mindlessly, and he’d filled the kitchen with mindless chatter as he’d worked in the hopes that it would give Martin something to cling to until he could press a bowl of chicken dumpling soup into his hands and gently coax him to eat.

After that, Jon had taken to cooking most of their meals while Martin sat at the table and wrote with his tongue stuck out between his lips in concentration, or stood behind Jon and wrapped his arms around his waist and rested his chin against Jon’s shoulder as he watched him work, or formed a pile of flour and sugar and spices into a bread or a pastry or some other lovely, doughy concoction that Jon just couldn’t understand. Because Martin could cook, yes, but he’d never really liked it, he’d mumbled into his pillow one night after Jon had whispered, “Tell me something.”

“It just reminds me of my Mum,” he’d said, voice small and quiet, and Jon had understood.

But baking seemed to come so easily to Martin, lighting up his face with a radiant joy that captivated Jon to the point where he’d burned several meals just staring at Martin while he worked, transforming the same ingredients into a myriad of different desserts that all tasted light and lovely on Jon’s tongue, even though he’d never been a fan of sweets. At least, not until Martin had pressed a raspberry-filled Paczki into his hand with a tentative smile. He’d made it seem so easy, and Jon had been sure that, at the very least, he could manage a birthday cake.

Clearly, he’d been wrong.

He’s halfway to the bin, having decided that having no cake at all is distinctly better than having the monstrosity of a cake that’s currently balanced precariously in his hands, when the front door swings open, bringing with it a rush of winter air that prickles goosebumps onto Jon’s skin and sends a flush to his cheeks. Though that may be only partly due to the chill.

“Hey,” Martin says, kicking the door closed behind him. His arms are laden with canvas bags of various patterns and designs, collected from a myriad of different shops over the past months, and he’s looking at the floor as he kicks off his boots so he doesn’t see the way Jon freezes halfway to the bin, the offending cake still suspended in front of him in the way one might hold a particularly offensive-smelling bag of rubbish. His muscles lock in indecision, and his mind is a mess of do I throw it away do I hide it oh Christ what do I do he’s going to hate it I have to get rid of it, and then Martin’s looking up from the floor and saying, “Are you feeling any—?”

His eyes alight on the cake, on the stricken expression on Jon’s face, and his sentence trails off into a small, “Oh.” He takes in the kitchen, which is still in a state of disarray because Jon thought he had more time, surely Martin said he’d be out until six. He says as much, because he’s really not sure what else to do.

“It’s quarter past,” Martin says, still staring at Jon with an unreadable expression that’s sending Jon’s stomach into a chaotic mess of nervous butterflies, and Jon’s eyes flick over to the clock above the oven. It does, in fact, read 18:14, and Jon feels his cheeks heat further.

“Ah.” He’s still holding the cake awkwardly in front of him, he realizes, so he pulls it closer to his chest, almost protectively. Martin’s eyes track its movement, and on reflex, Jon says, “I- ah, I made dinner? And, er. A cake as well.”

“Oh,” Martin says again, and Jon still can’t tell what he’s feeling. Not that he’s ever been good at that, but Martin has a tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve, which usually makes it easier.

Nerves loosen his tongue, and he begins to ramble. “I- I know we hadn’t really discussed it, and I- I didn’t want you to think that I forgot about your birthday—which is, ah, tomorrow, I know, but I- I suppose I thought it would be more of a surprise today, and we did make plans for tomorrow already, and you- you said you’d never had a birthday cake of your own, and you’re always baking for me, so I- I thought it might be nice to make something for you, and you always make it seem so easy, but it, ah, it didn’t quite—”

He shrugs helplessly and nods down at the cake, which is looking significantly more pathetic now that it’s under Martin’s scrutiny. “It’s a bit ruined,” he says, trying to convey within his words the entirety of the apologetic mess that’s been tying his stomach into knots. He stares at the floor, eyes fixating on Martin’s boots and the small puddle of water accumulating beneath them as the snow caked on the sides of them melts. The hot embarrassment that’s rapidly consuming him keeps his eyes cast firmly downward.

“Oh,” Martin says once more, and it’s a soft, tender noise that makes Jon’s gaze twitch upward. His breath catches in his throat when he sees the wet shine to Martin’s eyes, the open, vulnerable look on his face where the stunned mask has finally cracked. “Oh, Jon.”

Martin sets the bags on the floor and quickly crosses the room to where Jon’s stood. He takes the cake carefully out of Jon’s hands, despite Jon’s protests, and sets it on the counter like it’s something precious instead of the worst baking monstrosity Jon’s ever laid eyes on.

“Martin, what—?”

One of Martin’s hands is on Jon’s shoulder, the other carefully cupping his face. He pauses there for a moment, like he always does, giving Jon a chance to pull back. When Jon doesn’t, Martin leans in and kisses him.

It’s more insistent than usual, both of Martin’s hands coming up to rest on Jon’s face and thumbs running soft circles over the tops of his cheeks as he presses into him, swallowing Jon’s soft gasp as he pushes him back against the kitchen counter, narrowly avoiding the cake as he kisses him soundly. Jon’s arms come up to loop around Martin’s neck loosely, his fingers brushing against the curls at the nape of Martin’s neck, and the tension he’s been holding in his body for the last hour melts away under the gentle, rhythmic motion of Martin’s thumbs against his face and the little noises Martin’s making against his mouth.

When Martin pulls back some time later, his face is flushed a lovely shade of pink, and Jon realizes with a start that there are tear tracks running down his cheeks. He brings a hand to Martin’s face and rubs gently at the tears, his stomach twisting again ever so slightly in concern. “What’s wrong?” he says quietly, still breathless from the kissing.

Martin hiccups a laugh, small and disbelieving. “Nothing’s wrong, Jon. I- Christ, I’m just so- so happy.” He brings a hand up to grasp at the one Jon has on his face, squeezing it tightly before bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the inside of Jon’s palm. “You made this for me?”

Jon blinks, once, before remembering the cake. His forehead creases in disappointment, directed entirely at himself. “Ah. Yes, that.” He glances at the cake, which looks just as appalling as it did before—possibly more so due to the fact that Jon’s elbow seems to have, at some point, jostled the cake after all, dislodging another section of frosting and quite a few candles along with it. “It was meant to look significantly more… edible.”

Martin lets out another laugh, this one with a bit more substance. “Jon, did you try it?”

Jon’s frown deepens. “I don’t follow.”

Martin disentangles himself from Jon, despite Jon’s small noise of protest, opens the cutlery drawer, and retrieves a fork. “How will we know if it’s edible or not until we try it?” he says with a smile that’s entirely too wide and excited at the prospect of eating a cake that looks like it was run over by a car.

“I really don’t think that’s—Martin!”

Martin carves off a section of cake, ignoring Jon’s protests to, “At least wait until after we eat.” He puts it in his mouth, and Jon braces himself for the inevitable disgust.

Martin hums, his eyes still crinkled with a hint of a smile even as he swallows and says, “It’s really not that bad, Jon.”

“Not that bad,” Jon echoes, glaring at the offending pastry and pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Christ, this- this was supposed to be romantic.”

Martin’s hand finds Jon’s face again, turning his head gently until Jon meets his eyes. “It is,” Martin says softly, eyes full of something so tender it makes Jon melt. “It’s- Christ, I’m going to start crying again. In a good way,” he adds quickly, at Jon’s stricken expression. “You- you just—”

Martin pinches his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes shining again with unshed tears, and he says in a small voice, “I love you so much, Jon. And I love that you did this for me. I know you hate it when people say that it’s the thought that counts, but—no, don’t give me that look, it really is. I’m not using it as an excuse to- to soften a criticism or anything, or to subtly say that I hate it. I love the cake, Jon, because I love you, and so it really doesn’t matter that it kind of looks like somebody stepped on it.”

That pulls a small giggle from Jon, entirely against his will and born mostly from the release of the knot of nerves that had reformed in the pit of his stomach. “God, it really does, doesn’t it?” He laughs again, more intentionally this time, and takes Martin’s hand in his, squeezing it tightly. “Well, I promise that the main course is significantly more palatable. It’s from that little recipe book you gave me—the one you picked up at the bookstore?”

“Oh!” Martin’s eyes brighten as they alight upon the glass dish still sitting on the hob. “You made gołąbki! Christ, I haven’t had that since I was a kid. My grandmother used to make it for holidays before she passed.” When Martin’s eyes meet Jon’s again, they’re full of such fondness that the Jon of a few months ago would have squirmed under the weight of it. Instead, he lets himself lean into it, feeling the flutter of his heart against his ribcage as Martin places another warm, achingly soft kiss against his lips. “Thank you, Jon,” he says, pulling back just enough that the words tickle against Jon’s skin. “I… just, thank you.”

Jon’s I love you is interrupted by the rumbling of Martin’s stomach, loud and insistent. Laughter splits Martin’s face into a wide smile, and he says, “I suppose we should eat, then.”

“I suppose so,” Jon says, feeling his own smile grow softer as Martin turns to the glass dish and begins to portion out the gołąbki.

Maybe they could bake together, he thinks as he sits across from Martin at the table, Martin’s foot reaching underneath and hooking around Jon’s ankle. Yes, that… that might be nice.

The cake ends up going into the bin after all. Though neither of them really seem to mind.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #the magnus archives fic #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #my fic #my writing #you know i realized that i forgot to post this on tumblr since it was anonymous for a week #better late than never i guess lol

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grim-faux · 4 years ago

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19_The Trials of Children

First

The corridor. Winding, twisting, rotating. He was running to his fullest, the horrendous pulsing pressing in on his ears; coiling around his limbs. The further his stride, the shorter the distance he managed to cover. He might as well be running in reverse, the progress was measly. Reach the door. No matter what, he had to reach that door.

Open it. It called to him, and he must abide. Have the questions answered. Understand. Learn the truth. It will come, if you reach for it. Take what is rightfully yours.

The swollen eye came into focus. Glaring. Judging. Knew him to the core of his person. It did not move, did not shift. But he could feel its dead gaze searing the fabric of his soul.

Regardless, he leapt. The humming deepened, every nerve of his being sizzled. His hands gripped the dusty handle – it was so loud, he thought he wouldn’t have the strength to grip it – without his directive, he held tight and let the swampy gravity haul his weight down. The lock clicked, within an ancient mechanism moaned. He collapsed to his knees.

The door swept inward. It was unbearable. The crackling static, his chest tightened, blood pulsed through his ratty veins. Painful. Pain. Why hurt? What there?

Mono titled his head up, each inch stabbing, reprimanding such a tedious action. His breath was hot against the paper mask. He stopped moving when the eyeholes aligned with a figure, shuffled in with the despairing murk. What? That?

Crisp intuition supplied the crucial pieces in the miasma of stewing thoughts. No. NO!

A person. An adult. Seated in a featureless, drab room – as if He had always been waiting. An the implication of everything, his journey, ripped through Mono. The most frightening aspect of this adult, was that they didn’t immediately react to the door opening. To his wheezing breath. To the very evident and nonnegotiable presence that invaded.

Adults always had a way of seeing through, of see what is actually there.

Now the adult rose, as if he had always expected the door to open. Had been waiting forever, biding his time. Knew without a doubt the curious would seek him out, yet there was not a thing Mono could do to stall this event.

The hat tipped forward as the man pushed off his knees, rising. Rising. And rising. The top of his form dissolved into the gloom above.

Move! Flee!

But Mono could not. The drumming pain was so intense, he could no longer feel his limbs. He tasted blood and sniffled, it coated his upper lip. His time to flee was far overdo, he could only cower and await his certain fate. No doubt it would be far more agonizing to do anything but breathe, and even that was taking a toll. The faintest trace of air would cause him to crumble, the agony of it all ravaged him mind.

I’ve done this.

Then he’s brashly torn from the corridor, and flown backwards through light and sound. The shrill nearly does away with his hearing in its entirety. The world and his thoughts go blank.

The Thin Man vaulted from the dream, grabbing at his knees and scuffing his heels on the floor. He gawked into empty space unseeing at first, his mind an internal projector of those events. The memory so vivid, intense, it felt like only moments ago he had been in that very corridor, dashing with pure absolution. The dust was still in his palms, his bones whirred.

It had been so… real. He thought he was there, thought he finally returned to continue the cycle. Void of full comprehension what this segment would entail, or how wrong it was meant to go. Perhaps he meant, right? He didn’t know what was correct or deviant of the cycle, he only knew that he persisted because of it.

That day, it had been raining as well. From what he understood, it was always raining. He barely stayed ahead of the tall man in the hat, only one step ahead of his long stride. Nonetheless, he was resolute in his mission to steal Her back. He wouldn’t fail.

The trolley had wheels. It could roll. If he reached the switch, he could escape. Too fast, fade from sight. He didn’t understand, that the Thin Man could follow him no matter what. For the moment, he would escape. The rain was driving, the static boiling his blood. It was the hardest set of steps he’d ever climbed, but he managed to get onto the driver seat and snag the switch. Then, stood on the floor and watched as the man in the hat observed his escape. He might and could have followed, but he only stopped. Satisfied to observe, amused maybe by this diversion.

At the same time, the Thin Man looked so… despondent. Disappointment? Why? He expected anger, irritation. The man in the hat looked so empty?

The Thin Man – his role now – rose from the chair and crossed to a lone window, beside a featureless wall of an ordinary room. He crossed his arms and leaned by the frame, staring out at the fog drenched city below.

Once upon a time, he was that boy, fighting with every fiber of his being to reach the Signal Tower. Alone. The closest friend he knew of and trusted, torn away. He faced perils, avoided traps, tricked the adults that crossed his path. The Tower had her, this he knew. He just… knew, it was the cause of all this misery.

The trolley lost control on the ruined road and tipped. He was certain this would kill him, it would crush his body and smear the pieces. However, somehow – call it divine intervention, or call it what it was, the paradox of his fate – unfortunately, he survived. Fortified, he fought. And so he fought.

He fought.

Enough was Ę̕N̢͏O̧̢UĢ͡H̕͝!

Then he was victorious. What a bitter end of it all. And what did await him, at the end of his fall?

A chair. A plane, ordinary, unassuming chunk of furniture. So he waited and waited, for all the answers to come. Waited and waited, for the end to it all. Waited. And waited. Listening to the lies, the dreams, his own inner monologue.

But Why?

Then one day he came to realize, he was the apparition which haunted his childhood dreams. He was the nightmare. He was the one waiting for the child. For the childhood of his credulity to burst in and realize, the reckless spiral that spelt out his end.

The day was going to be miserable. A false reprieve from the howling storms and perpetual saturation. If he goes out into the fog, he’ll be soaked anyway.

He hadn’t taken the time to explore this building through to the fullest. He had no need. For a short time, he wanted to stray away from the televisions and crackling static. He needed a fleeting spell disconnected from the signal, and its otherworldly insistence to behold an empty message with no meaning, no substance. Finding televisions was not the problem. Avoiding them, this was at times the trial.

The intense showers of the Pale City had yet to return, in its place was the oppressive fog swirling through the alleys, clinging to the mortar and ruble. It condenses against the shattered remnants of glass, forming stagnant beads that coalesced and ran into little tracks. The walls of buildings and winding roads ceased to exist, trapped in some other memory until the recollection was revisited. Even noises carried weird, distorted or muffled. He hated it.

Everything was still wet, it was hard to breathe. He wanted to crawl into a small space in a wall and wait out this horrible weather. But when was the last time he found foods? He didn’t have a schedule for when to sleep or eat, or anything like that. If the sun was gone and he needed to eat something, it was time to go out and find edibles. If the nightmares were too disturbing to deal with, then perhaps he needed to check the rooms and passages. Assure himself where the monsters were, check in with all the shades, make note where all the adults had gone, or vanished.

The best time to get something done, was before you neglected it to the point of crippling.

He missed the rain. He hated that he missed the rain.

These alleys felt mysterious and spooky. He’d been wandering through the curving pathways for some time, without clear indication of where he was going. The sky no longer existed, and the walls barring his trek extended into the mist. He was certain it was day, but time felt nonexistent.

A sodden lump emerged from the heavy vapor, crammed against the lower wall. Cautious, Mono slowed his step and tugged his coat tighter around his sides. He had nothing to worry about, this child had been dead for some time. As he stepped by the body, he turned his gaze up.

It might’ve been a misstep, or a leap from a window. With the rolling haze, he can barely define the tatters of cloth streaming in the open frame. Sometimes, it was better to jump. There’s no telling what could happen if you were caught. Anything could happen really, but it usually was dire and permanent – far too often immediate. He’d seen kids thrown into cages, other times shoved into sacks; most suffered injury and became unable to wait for a break to freedom. Those introductory situations were hard to tear from, but those that managed to snap out of the stupor and run learned the first most essential lesson.

Don’t get caught.

Even if the slim chance of escape was possible, there was really no telling what would happen before that opportunity arrived. It wasn’t really opportunity as it was luck. If you were lucky. The illusive If.

Mono climbed down from a stack of rubbish and crouched in a nook, resting a moment and having a thought. The child told something. There was might danger. Whole alley pathway was danger, not immediate, but was threat. If could, he would have left it by now. But he was very lost from where he began, and he was certain the routes kept adding on. The twist and turns kept coming, but no direction for escape. It is a bad if he gets sought by something.

The alleys had debris, cracked dips, discarded furniture, sometime crates and other things which he could duck into. But one way or the other, there was only so much space to hide in and confuse a pursuer. It was likely he’d be cornered before he realized the dead end was there.

Around the next corner, there is something different. Some kind of metal cage built into the wall. It might’ve gone overlooked, given his preoccupation with locating a way out of this alley. However, not far from this eyesore, he located a set of steps that lead up to a door. It was one of the few he had seen throughout this maze, and he spared the time (and energy) to pull himself up each step and try the handle.

He’s so astonished that the door opened, he flopped down. A gale of air whipped past him, dragging the ends of his coat into the murk within. It takes a few moments before Mono steels himself, and then crawled over the threshold. Inside, it is muggy and stale, like the door never once was opened. Some of the lights do work, but not all. This is best, he can save the flashlight.

The interior is filled with glass cabinets and counters, within, the discarded heirlooms of a time that should never existed. He stands on his tiptoes to see over the edge, and peer within the moldering containers in turn. In some, insects have gotten inside and chitter about. Lumps lay under the glittering carapace, he can’t tell if the pale hand within is from a toy doll or….

He becomes unnerved by the archeological find and traverses through rooms, finding much of the same. Decrepit items portraits left to sour in stacks against the wall. One room huddled off in the shops corner had a secondary door within, but it required a key. There are rooms full of every sort of bottle shape known to the city, one stuffy room jammed tight with furniture; so tight, he would never find a suitable place to hide. He stumbled into another space reserved for things that might’ve gone into a kitchen, but no smells of foods. No foods at all. He’s irritated and disappointed. This place is no good, and he’s wasting time.

At the back of the shop, a set of steps rose to a second story. The stairway is cluttered with odds and ends, but nothing that can impede Mono. He navigated his way around stacks of jars and boxes, ears attuned to the musty air and muscles tense. There’s too much light on the upper landing to be safe, he must hear before he is seen.

The second story is much the same as the lower, except with dusty clothing weighing down coat racks, and the faint radiance from ceiling windows. Not much spare space is left over, but it is brimming with whatever didn’t fit nicely on the lower floor. He inched up and down the main corridor beside a banister and found a creaking board—

Something in a dark room scuttled. He heard it, and in a flash he was sprinting the other way, detached from the banister and sliding up under the ratty clothing. The garments swayed a little, but he stifled the movement with a brisk touch. Then, leaned low and looked out. He counted the boards as they creaked and groaned. Not a child.

Whatever was out there, prodded at the layers of cloth further from Mono’s position. His eyes watered from the unexpected dust. He shoved his face into the crook of his arm and breathed on the moist coat. It was sweeping through the outer layer, shifting closer his way. Taking a risk, he crouched and zipped out from beneath the frayed edges and began running. He remembered where the loose board was, and gave it a special attention when he stopped to step waaaay over it.

Curious, he looked back.

Some of the light from a nearby lamp glistened over the vest shirt. The shape of the person didn’t look too terrible, at least, not in that clothing. All this speculation, before it swung around. Or, the head rotated atop the shoulders one-eighty degrees.

Mono didn’t get a good look at the features of the face, he barely processed the head swivel thing when his feet carried him faster. A horrible shriek ignited behind him, but he could go no faster and settled to lean into his harried dash.

The first room he reached, he dove into and hurried to the door. Mustering a grand deal of strength, he managed to shove the door shut. Right as the person slammed into it. He bounced off from the shockwave of the collision, but aside from a bump he was in great shape. He launched to his feet and gave his new quarters a look over. Nothing much, aside from furniture and stacks of books and other stacks of things. A chair was to one wall of the room, and while the person clawed at the door to get in, generating a racket, Mono hauled the chair over to beside the doorway. He hid behind it, up until the door crashed inward. He was situated behind the side where the door would hit, if not for the chair. He winced when the chair cracked, nearly falling apart from the impact. But he was all right. He huddled down, as the timber creaked and the person with the twisting head entered. They hissed, announcing irritation or warning.

With all the stealth he could muster, Mono inched around the door panel. He checked insuring the guttural noises were further away. It was, but at any moment that could chance. Go now, the adult poked in at a stack of VHs tapes and records. He inched around the door and crept through the doorway.

Once he made it out of view, he shot off as silently as he could muster. The intent was to return downstairs, and…. Then what? Go outside and deal with the miles and miles of alleys going nowhere? What if that place was wrong, like the Tower? There didn’t seem anyplace out there to go, though he wondered if he was mere feet away from the way out.

Probably not.

For now, he bypassed the steps and went into the furthest room. There wasn’t much to aid him, aside from some shelves and junk. Tools and other rusted parts and pieces from machinery. He could climb up one set of shelves, and from it he could reach the windowsill with a good leap. He shuffled along the sill, trying to decide which way of the alley it was above. There was no glass in the window, he might be able to find a rope or make one from clothing.

He plopped off the sill and rushed to the doorway, halting only to creep up to the threshold and check for where the person was. He poked his head just beyond the wood frame and was for a precious moment, grossly captivated.

The creature stood in the center of the corridor rigid, its head spun around-and-around atop its shoulders. Why it did this was very obvious, but only when this bizarre displayed ceased and it gave a shriek. That is when Mono spurred back into animation.

He ducked back from the doorway and rushed to the base of one shelf and sprang int a small can there. He huddled down among grease and bits of paper, listening to the steady steps as they rushed into the room. Once the creature entered the room fully, its rushed paced eased out and resorted to more casual, cautious steps. As the faint noises became fainter still, he risked poking his head up.

Thankfully, it was on the other side of a shelf. He could scarcely view it in the gloom, but its head was whirling around like a slow top. That is, until it moved closer to the shattered window.

While it appeared distracted Mono eased himself out of the can, by pulling himself up by the lowest shelf. He set his feet to the floor and crept around the side of the shelf, keeping to the shadows. One arm raised at his side, but he harshly declined the thought and winced.

No telling what could happen.

Instead, he plucked up one of the metal pipes beside the shelf and moved in closer. His eyes remained fixed on the back of the creatures head. It was thoroughly focused on something out there. He gawked up at the thing, it wasn’t as large as say regular adults. Not that the Bully’s weren’t easy to deal with, let alone Her.

“Psst.”

The creature winced and its head rotated. Before it could turn fully, let alone register what was there, Mono had already swept the pipe around with all his might; the makeshift weapon cleaved against the back of its knee. With a grating wail, the thing toppled through the open window and plunged.

Mono staggered backwards throwing the pipe aside. He fully expected the thing to come flying though the gaping portal, or some other terrible event to happen. Though it didn’t, for the time he was safe. Safe in this place he had no use for. But it was safe now, that was the point. He supposed it was its turn to fall out of a window.

With the building cleared out, Mono returned to the downstairs area. Still, he retained caution foremost, scurrying from one shadow to the next and wincing at the walls creaking. He did head over to the door he initially entered from and shoved it closed, just in case. He wasn’t sure where the adult wound up, but after the… other time, he didn’t want to take chances.

In a tall cabinet in a corner of the building, he did find a package of soft biscuits and cheese. He hunkered down behind sturdy wooden counter and went to town, barely pausing at odd chitters or the other troubling sounds of the walls around him. There wasn’t much, thus the foods got scarfed in nearly thirty seconds flat. Nothing to store away.

Just to be certain, he searched the cabinet through a little more thoroughly. In one of the drawer-shelves, he did find a key. This he clipped to his coat, finished his search, then hurried back to the other room of the far side of the building.

The key fit the lock in the door. He couldn’t reach the handle, but a sizable and movable crate was offering its services. In a haste he was up and twisting the handle with all his might, nearly tumbling out the door when it swung open.

Darkness greeted him. This startled Mono very badly, and he leaned back tugging the door with him. Then, he realized his error. He recognized the cement steps leading down, a set of pants and shirt strewn over them. The fog remained stubborn and thick, yet it was there, and that somehow was a comfort too. Not too far from where he stood, a lone streetlamp cast a vaporous cone of light onto the sidewalk.

He spent so much time exploring around, he hadn’t realized night had come. Not that it mattered. But maybe now given circumstances, it did matter. This mattered. He had succeeded in one of his goals, find some foods. That in itself was a struggle. A trick. It was time to stop for a short while. Just stop.

At the thought, his lips turned down. He inched away from the threshold and took his time going down the steps. He could go a little further, find someplace that felt deserted. Somewhere that the nightmares couldn’t find him.

He hopped off the last step and tugged his coat a little tighter around his sides. Usually at this time, the buildings boundless would be glowing with soft radiance or stark blaze. The fog is too thick, so much of the world is cut off from him. Yet in the suffocating night, highest above all of it, the Signal Tower burned bright. He hated that too. In the murk somewhere, he wasn’t sure which way, the dull whump! of a shape broke against the road. Mono yawned and kept going.

A typical day in Pale City. Every day was typical, if you survived.

#little nightmares #little nightmares fanfic #little nightmares fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #mono #the thin man #the man in the hat #mono fanfic #thin man #pale city

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heli0s-writes · 5 years ago

Text

“I’ll wait.”

With Bucky, for an anonymous request. I love pining, dreamy landscapes, and soft Bucky. 1.4k words. 🌻🌱🌷🍃

[28 WAYS Masterlist // Prompts]

The path through the woods is overrun. Heat of a thawed winter warms his determined steps as wild grass stems flick his shins. Speckled seed heads bow when he parts them with ease. His destination is sharper each passing second and he feels it shudder awake and alive, rocking him with anticipation.

Nestled inside the verdant greenery even maps couldn’t mark is the safehouse cabin, a sanctuary of dappled sunlight and unspoiled earth. A secret you keep close to your heart, allowing only few to know.

Bucky would never have come to your hideaway uninvited.

But it had been a week without you and the ache grew restless.

Inside, the imprint of your shadow reveals furtive observations his heart collects when you’re around: half-finished mugs of coffee, abandoned papers by the dining table showcasing scenery in skillful marks, its accompanying array of chalk pastels to the side. Bucky investigates your traces like footsteps of a trail, eyes reaching stems of wilderness collected and pressed between journals. Novels piled in stacks on the counter with fondly dogeared pages of tender quotes.

Faithful habits of chasing escapism he knows all too well.

The bedroom door is slightly ajar, but empty still. Pillows are pushed down in careless piles, blankets and sheets crumpled against each other. How did you look this morning, he wonders. Hair mussed prettily in disarray? Long lashes fluttering, heavy-lidded for a few blessed seconds?

A glance at the softly indented spot where your cheek laid just hours prior and he exhales.

Probably lovely. Like always.

There.

Bucky spots the familiar hue of your crown deep in wild grass. Buzzing wings land on your bicep, crawl to your elbow. Wildflowers are entangled sweetly in your hair.

Ethereal and finally found like the recollection of a wayward dream.

A delicately molded face with rounded chin regards his figure. You are resplendent like spring itself, yet the corner of your bottom lip is pulled inside your mouth, tongue holding back the tide of a million thoughts.

Bucky swallows drily when a pained smile shifts your eyes downward, but neither of you are ready to address your isolation or his arrival. Instead, one hand reaches forward over the blades, palm faced at a slant, eyes imploring him closer.

Effortless steps lead him past tall trunks. He’s close behind your graceful weaving, hand over yours carefully, keeping you close as if he might lose you again.

Trees finally give way to a small clearing where fallen logs lie haphazardly, adorned by worms and beetles that loiter about in ridges of the bark. Dandelions rise from the earth between tufts of grass and droop gently in the breeze. Patches of dirt pattern the forest floor, quickly becoming overcrowded with seeds and remnants of the nature all around.

He’s awestruck by how you find these pockets of splendor where time fades and surroundings suddenly seem to be glazed over by a painter’s brush. Delicate phthalo emerald leaves, linseed glaze of the highest shine, gold-grained flecks over blades of grass, and it’s like he’s entered a Rococo rendering. A pastoral Arcadian landscape, fragrant and idyllic and sublime. Steve would weep at the sight if he were here.

You shift into the scenery— all light-footed with buoyant step until you pause, distracted by a ring of chanterelles. Half-shaded by the canopy, half-illuminated by the streaming and stubborn sun, their soft caps looking like thick marshmallow brushwork.

“Better not step in or fairies will take you.”

A mischievous peek at him before you turn back around. Intrigued blue admire the collection of buds falling apart in your hair, lavender and orange petals crumbling down your back and he thinks for a moment perhaps fairies have already taken hold of him.

At a stream of water, you kneel and invite Bucky to your side with earnest pats. Tilting forward on elbows and knees, you press your body to the ground and gaze at the trickle as it runs, mouth curving into a smile. The wide neck of your top slips when you duck to smell a blossom, exposing a broad line of collar and shoulder. Strips of baby-fresh skin cord down your arm like vines, strangling the moment.

Six days with your advanced healing and you’re practically brand new again in all ways but one.

“Buck? I’m glad you’re here.” Your mouth opens after a second of mulling over a thought, breath on the pinnacle of a confession before a snap and pop alerts both your heads over the water to where something emerges from behind a tree. He’s already up on his feet, poised to protect, drawing laughter from your throat when you spot the intruder.

Tawny grey and absurdly harmless, the bunny’s nose is frantically twitching, cheek full of sweet berries but alert with wild panic. One tall ear quirks Bucky’s way and the moment grows quiet as the three of you watch each other earnestly, before finally, as if it’s had enough of his shadow, it takes off into the deeper woods behind.

“Sorry,” he offers, sitting back down on his haunches.

A swat to his knee—mouth still cheerful, “Nah, just in its nature to run.” Then, suddenly, you avert your gaze. “Keeping itself safe.”

One hand wraps around the other shoulder and you begin to cave, folding inward like those bedsheets, pulling yourself smaller and smaller. “Maybe it’s in my nature to run, too.”

The quiver of your voice wounds him. The ache, the tremble, the silent lament when you duck your head down, hiding. Bucky waits for now, lets you have a few seconds because he knows you need this: the silence and comfort of nothing sentient. The balm of meandering wind prose. The consoling ebb of water. The midnight song of crickets because sometimes the human world is too loud, too painful, violent, and unfair. Indiscriminately vicious. Because sometimes, people hurt, and hurt, and hurt.

And despite your best efforts—you hurt, too.

Your heart behaves in ways he’s well-versed in. He knows it. Knows you.

You remain on the forest floor, face buried into the crook of your elbow and it reminds him of how you lie supine across the couch after sunset, feet propped in his lap, watching the warm sherbet gradient, patient for the curtain of night when all things rest. Aglow and warmed by the disappearing sunlight. Painted blue-gold. A little shattered. Still lovely.

Deeper in the woods, birds begin to sing.

Bucky reaches forward tentatively, slowly, until he’s holding your arm, fingers gently curling. “Hey,” he whispers when you rise from the curve of your elbow to look at him. “I’m not in a hurry to leave. I’ll wait.”

He points to the tepid rivulet, a trickle of it going sideways and cutting through a patch of dirt. “Bit of running water, nice sunshine. Looks like our day’s booked full.”

It’s enough to make you grin even if your smile is a little swollen around the edges.

A breath as you trace the slope of his touch all the way back up to his face. Another breath as you watch him watching you, lips slightly parted, eyes searching, knowing, seeing you. Caring for you.

And then you’re up, closest hand gripping his, other one reaching with haste to find his neck, or chest, something to support your weight when you pitch forward.

Even though he wasn’t expecting it, but because he’s fast, Bucky meets you halfway, pulling you flush into his lap, letting your damp cheeks rest on his collar. Like he’s done it all his life, his arms arrange themselves without another thought, locked tightly over your back, fingers stroking lightly down your spine.

A gentle breeze blows through and ruffles his eyelashes under the canopy, scattered sunlight falls on his chestnut head, lighting up stray hairs. He’s warm daylight and sugary sunshine. Soothing meadow brook music and butterfly wing caresses. Your heart bumps along in time with his, chest on chest when you turn and look up at him, nose tip rubbing against his chin. Bucky chances a smile at you, sincere and concerned and doting.

Lovely, you think. Like always.

You graze your cheek over his, eyelashes kissing along the path, feeling emboldened nestled like this, wanting to tell him—show him—feel him, too.

But instead, like that little rabbit, you tuck yourself back and away, not yet ready.

Bucky hums to the tune of your breath when you shyly press your brow against his collar, cutting off the start of an apology with a promise. “It’s okay.”

And it is.

Birdsongs echo through the trees and he feels it in his bones the way you sink into his hold. Trembling and warm and perfect. Heartbeat dancing along with his.

He’s waited hundred years for a love like this.

He’d be happy to wait a hundred more.

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs @pinknerdpanda @xoxabs88xox @imsoft-barnes @momc95 @typicalangel @wretchedgoddess @readeity @iwannasail @ya-lyublu-tebya @geeksareunique @wildefire @satanxklaus @jhangelface0523 @wkemeup @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave

#marvel #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes imagine #reader iinsert #fanfiction #28 WAYS

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otonymous · 6 years ago

Text

Slick (SLBP Kyoichiro - NSFW)

Description: To turn up the heat with Kyoichiro, just add oil. Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language - reader discretion is advised Word Count: 2050 (~ 10 minutes of smut/fluff/angst; perfect for your morning or evening commute) AO3: Read here

Author’s Notes: I’m currently playing Kyoichiro’s route in SLBP and it is giving me feels left, right and center! So of course, I had to write about everyone’s favourite Sengoku era Robin Hood. Hope you all enjoy this messy, mixed bag of a story!

Tagging: all the other Kyoichiro fans that I can count on one hand 😆: @dear-mrs-otome, @quincette: THANK YOU BOTH for all the naked sprites @ieyasu-tacogawa: Because I live for your Kyoichiro nanban hero comic strips. @saizoswifey: Whose awesome Kyoichiro headcanons I may have read a million times once or twice Other lovely readers: @pseudofaux, @all-my-cuffs-have-buttons, @artemira-sengoku, @fieryanmitsu, @belxsar, @suzi-q-uinn, @otomediary

All characters & SLBP owned by Voltage Inc.

“Watch it, bumpkin!”

It was too late. The terracotta jug lay shattered on the shop floor, the golden liquid contained within slowly spreading out in concentric circles on the tatami.

Freezing in place at the jarring sound of the crash, you gradually bring yourself to face Kyoichiro, all the while mentally calculating how many years the accident will add to your indentured servitude. His eyes are wide, the whites almost swallowing up the vibrant peridot of his irises; their perfect roundness only challenged by the shape of his mouth suspended open in disbelief.

“Do. You. Have. Any. Idea. How. Expensive. Olive. Oil. Is?!”

If it wasn’t for the fact that Kyoichiro’s face was completely drained of colour, you might have been tempted to unleash your horrible habit of laughing when nervous. But his look of utter devastation channeled your jittery energy into quickly fetching a bowl from the kitchen instead, kneeling over to scoop up whatever was left of the liquid into its new container.

“I’m so sorry! There’s still a bit left. Look! A whole bowlful!” You venture a smile, raising the offering up to the prickly merchant for inspection. A hand shoots out to stop you in your tracks.

“Stop. Just stop. No one is going to want damaged goods and I sure as hell am not going to stake my good reputation on trying to pawn off merchandise that’s less than pristine. Keep it for yourself bumpkin…”

Your eyes lift in surprised glee.

“…you’ll just work off the entire cost of the jug. Gods, you’ll be here for a million years.”

Only to drop again like the stone that sinks to the pit of your stomach.

“Why are you naked?!”

“Really? You come into my room, throw something at my face and that’s the first thing you think to say? What is that anyways? Don’t tell me that’s the olive oil you spilled earlier?”

The look of indignation leaves your face as you consider Kyoichiro’s words, feeling guilty for the second time today. But evidently not guilty enough to avert your eyes from his body, your gaze drifting from his broad chest to the firm grid of his torso and finally, to the dark shadow trailing down his pelvis, the tantalizing preview cut short by the scarlet haori held up around his waist. You discretely clear your throat before continuing.

“I-I thought you were a ninja of Iga, creeping around the way you did! My body just reacted and tried to attack you with the only thing I had on hand. But why are you naked in the first place?”

Kyoichiro shakes his head in exasperation.

“Your furry, freeloading comrade happened to lose control of his bowels when I carried him home tonight, making a mess of Ishikawa Goemon’s extremely expensive, scalloped nanban shirt. As such, I thought it prudent to clean up by the well outside before bringing the stench indoors. But I suppose you just had to add insult to injury by dousing me in oil the second I entered my own home. Bah, it’s all over the place!”

Securing the haori around his waist, Kyoichiro struggles to wipe the oil from his face, grimacing as his glancing touches prove unsuccessful.

“Here, let me help.”

Gingerly, you approach him, his balled-up fists rubbing at his eyes the way a child does when fighting sleep. The sight imparts an air of vulnerability to the seemingly invincible man that gives you pause.

“You really got me good this time, bumpkin.”

His voice, soft despite the accusation in his words, jolts you from the thicket of your thoughts, and you carefully bring your hands up to cradle his cheeks, thumbs gently sweeping along the thick fan of lashes lining his closed eyes. The contact makes Kyoichiro’s breath hitch, and the sensation of his jaw relaxing under your palms makes you brave.

“Kyoichiro, you must know by now how...how I long for you.”

It was true. Slowly but steadily, your fellow runaway had unobtrusively crept into your heart like smoke from his kiseru pipe, clinging to its deepest recesses the way the scent of tobacco clung to your clothes. Unlikely though it was, his acerbic tongue only served to accentuate the kindness behind his actions, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself wishing to be the sole recipient of his special brand of tenderness.

But your admission is met with an excruciating silence, only broken by the sound of him removing your hands from his face to fall impotently by your sides. His wavering voice, so low as to almost be a whisper, is heartbreakingly raw when he responds:

“You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not the man you think you’re in love with.”

Kyoichiro makes to leave, turning away from you.

Stop running!

“Tell me who you are then, so I can judge for myself!”

Your voice turns shrill in its desperation as your hand whips out to grab his retreating body, only to catch onto his haori, the luxurious fabric unravelling from his tapered hips with a flourish that was as dramatic as the man himself.

Hardly cognizant of the fact that your jaw had dropped, your gaze traverses the trails blazed by the viscous oil that had continued to run down his body during your heated exchange, the faint sheen highlighting every solid plane and sharp angle in the moonlight. A sudden heat courses through you and you swallow dryly, feeling parched in the presence of the cool drink of water that was a bared Kyoichiro.

“Is it not enough to strip me emotionally that you also feel the need to strip me physically too?!”

The dusting of pink on his cheeks has now reached the tips of his ears, and you heave an inward sigh of disappointment as his large hands move to cover up a groin that couldn’t quite be masked despite their size.

“Fine! You say you hate ninjas because we keep everything close to our hearts, always unwilling to take the first step in trusting anyone. Consider this my attempt at meeting you halfway then!”

Caught up in the heat of the moment, you reach behind you to untie your obi, hands tugging at your kimono until it falls in a disheveled heap by your feet. It isn’t until the cool night air sends a shiver through your naked body that you feel slightly sheepish at your impulsive behaviour.

For once however, Kyoichiro’s smart mouth is rendered speechless by the sight of you before him. No, he can tell by the artless way your fingers clench and unclench into nervous fists at your side that this is no ploy of a kunoichi; that maybe, just maybe, you are being honest with him. Perhaps then, he could be honest with you. After all, the unveiling of your secret skin conspired with the mystery of your curves to ignite a fire within him like no other, and even Kyoichiro had to admit that the body doesn’t lie.

“Please Kyo! What can I do to make you love me?” Your plea comes out in a rasp as you move to close the distance.

“I don’t deserve your lo—.”

Unwilling to listen to another disparaging word, you press your lips to his, allowing the sounds to die in your throat as your tongue slips into his mouth to swallow his bitterness for your own.

“Let me be the one to decide that.”

His eyes, dark with desire, fixate on your mouth as you leave that whisper on his lips. Finally released from the bounds of propriety, your hungry hands fly over Kyoichiro’s body, his shaky breaths encouraging your fingers to continue gliding over every dip and peak, borne on the slick oil coating his hot skin. How many nights have you lain awake, hands moving furiously between your legs, imagining this very moment?

Linking your fingers behind his neck, you press the length of your body insistently to his, relishing in the slippery slide of your supple flesh against his firm muscles and caring not a whit about the mess. And when you finally feel his hesitant hands alight on your skin, infinitely careful in their reciprocity, your ecstatic joy has you arching into his touch.

Kyoichiro’s breathing becomes shallow when you tiptoe up to suck the tender flesh of his neck into your mouth, his groan only adding to your desire to mark him boldly enough to necessitate the buttoning of every last button on his collared shirt for weeks to come.

“Hmm! You don’t — ah!…don’t understand. I’m not a good man.” Kyoichiro utters his confession in between moans, his eyes half-lidded as you make to straddle his lap on the hurriedly made futon. His cock pulsates under the undulating pressure of your hand, stroking torturously from thick base to smooth tip and back again. At his protest, you slow your movements to take in the expression on his face, asking,

“Kyo, do you want this? Do you want…me?”

He closes his eyes, their corners damp with the unfathomable weight of profound sorrow as he solemnly nods in affirmation. Of course he wanted you. He’s wanted you ever since the day he first saw your face, when the clenching grip around his heart made him bristle and unleash ugly words designed to keep you at arm’s length. He didn’t want you to sully yourself by associating with him, damaged and dripping in sin as he was. The way you made him feel was altogether much too good for him, far surpassing his worth as either Narukami Kyoichiro or Ishikawa Goemon.

Breathing a sigh of relief at his response, your lips taste the salt of his tears as they kiss them away. “I’m glad. Because if a man like you is considered bad, then I don’t want to be good.”

His eyes snap open to stare into yours, a softness pervading their emerald depths as the wall of ice starts to melt, signalling you to slowly lower yourself onto him while studying his face to catch every wisp of emotion. The endeavour proves difficult however, as the delicious sensation of being overwhelmingly filled threatens to drive every semblance of thought from your mind as surely as the moans leaving your lips.

Wrapping your legs tightly about Kyoichiro’s waist, you start the slow rock of your pelvis into his hips, each swing ending in a grind of your sensitive clit against the hardness of his groin, already glistening from the commingled smears of olive oil and your mutual arousal.

With you still perched on his lap, Kyoichiro takes your breast into his mouth, and you delight to find that his clever tongue is as skilled with pleasure as it is with sarcasm. Suddenly, you start from the sensation of his teeth lightly grazing your nipple, earning a chuckle from him as he cheekily says, “Can’t have you being the only one with tricks up their sleeve tonight, now can we?”

“Do you always have to have the last word?”

“Yes, at least when it comes to your pleasure.”

And with that, Kyoichiro lays himself flat on the futon, his strong arms keeping you in place above him as his hips thrust up impossibly fast from below, hitting all the right angles to make your mouth gape open in a silent scream. The addition of his thumb drawing slippery circles about your clit proves to be altogether too much for you to take, and your climax has you collapsing onto Kyoichiro’s chest, panting as he tightens his grip on your ass to chase his own release.

“So, about that olive oil. Seeing as the final dregs were used on you, perhaps you can cut me a deal and shave a few years off my debt?”

You pose the question to Kyoichiro, angling your head to face him as you lay on his chest, basking in the afterglow of intercourse and the sound of his heartbeat against your ear. One look at the mischief on your flushed, smiling face is all it takes for him to know that you are the one thing he cannot give up.

“I think not, bumpkin. You see, I’ve already decided to never let you go.”

Incredible. Also, slightly sexy.

Thanks for reading! More stories available here! 💕

#slbp #samurai love ballad party #slbp kyoichiro #slbp ishikawa goemon #narukami kyoichiro #ishikawa goemon #fanfic #slbp fic #slbp smut #fluff #angst #assertive MC #slbp kyoichiro fic

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queenofeden · 5 years ago

Text

🎵it’s my birthday and i’ll write what i want to🎵

Day 29: Wildcard (Erotic Shaving)

Pairing: Nadia Satrinava/Julian Devorak/Female Apprentice

Word Count: 1779

Summary:

With each pass, dark curls mixed with white foam fall away, carried away by the razor and leaving only pale, lightly pinked skin behind -- sensitive and untouched.

✨ My Ko-Fi // Read on AO3 ✨

“Best hold still, darling,” Julian coos, winking up at Laurel from between her thighs. She is spread wide to accommodate the broadness of his shoulders, the ache in her muscles already settling in with a pleasant burn. From above, Nadia’s finger strokes comfortingly over the bridge of Laurel’s nose, shifting her crossed legs just slightly under Laurel’s pillowed head.

“I am holding still,” Laurel breathes, cheeks burning as Julian’s thumbs trace idle circles in the creases where her ass meets thigh. “You best hold still.”

“Yes, do be careful, Julian,” Nadia says lightly. “I am rather fond of Laurel’s cunt after all, and would like to keep it unmarred.”

Laurel shivers.

Julian takes their ribbing in stride, shaking his head with a grin. “Oh, ye two of little faith. I’ll have you know my hands are quite sure -- like death. And taxes.”

Nadia snorts. “From a man resurrected, that saying loses a touch of certainty, don’t you think?”

“I’ve not heard either of you complain about my hands before,” he says, releasing his grip on Laurel’s thighs. Beside him their assembled accoutrements sit innocuously on a towel. This is it, Laurel thinks, eyeing them with some measure of trepidation. A bowl, a brush, a folded straight razor. She wanted this, she reminded herself. She’d asked for this.

“From here,” Nadia says to him, and taps Laurel’s right thigh. “To here.” She taps her left.

Julian makes a surprised-but-pleased sound in the back of his throat and draws his gaze away from Laurel’s exposed sex, flickering up to meet Nadia’s. “All of it?”

Laurel tilts her face upwards, swallowing thickly. “Nadia?”

Nadia’s hands trail over Laurel’s shoulders, smiling beatifically down at her. “I want to see all of you, my sweet.” Her fingers wind into the coarse curls at the apex of Laurel’s thighs, petting her, tugging gently. “Just for now. There will be plenty of time to play when we do this again.”

A small whimper builds in Laurel’s chest at the thought of again already. To be so exposed, so utterly, unabashedly on display -- clinical and yet so terribly, almost unbearably intimate. Her cheeks burn, desire and embarrassment warring inside her, stoking each others flames higher and higher.

Julian reaches for the small bowl, a warm, brown terracotta, and then the dampened brush. It’s a familiar sight, this. Laurel watches him every morning, swirling that same brush in quick, precise circles around the little cake of soap, working it to a creamy, spiced smelling lather just as he is doing now.

Only this time he doesn’t bring it to his face.

Julian takes the brush and sweeps it up and down the length of Laurel’s slit, coating her cunt lips in rich foam. Laurel gasps, the softness of the brush tickling, teasing past her clit. He swirls and strokes it over her mound, up towards her bellybutton, then down into the dips of her thighs.

Laurel’s breath comes in shallow pants, fingers clutching at the edges of the plush towel laid beneath her. Then, seemingly satisfied, Julian sets the brush aside, and takes the razor in hand. It is the very same one she sees him use every day, cleaned and freshly sharpened just for this -- for her -- the blade gleaming in the bath’s lantern light. It fits perfectly in the curve of his hand, natural and well balanced from years of use. It isn’t so much that she is afraid, she isn’t, she trusts Julian implicitly after all, but somehow this trust doesn’t do much to quell her pounding, hummingbird heartbeat. The thought of cool, sharp metal pressed to her skin by another hand is enough to make her dizzy, lightheaded, and she is grateful for Nadia’s grounding touch, fingers massaging at her temples.

“Are you ready?” Nadia asks, for both of their benefits Laurel is sure. Laurel forces herself to take a deep breath, holding it for a count of six, and nods.

“Yes, please, I’m ready,” she whispers.

Laurel feels only the barest hint of pressure, the light scrape of the blade against her steam-softened skin like a whisper. Her eyes slip shut under Julian’s slow, methodical movements. He is careful, precise, starting high on her mound and working inward in short even strokes. He smoothes the skin with one hand, pulling it taut before gliding the razor over it with practiced care. With each pass, dark curls mixed with white foam fall away, carried away by the razor and leaving only pale, lightly pinked skin behind -- sensitive and untouched.

She had often wondered how it felt, spending enough time between Nadia’s legs to marvel at the smooth skin, the trimmed and perfect thatch of curls she left in a wide triangle just above her clit. Laurel had even watched her, found herself enraptured by the ritual of it all, almost covetous. It was a decadent practice, purely aesthetic, and Laurel couldn’t help but feel a touch homely in comparison, more conscious than ever of the unruly, untamed mess of curls between her own legs, even if neither Nadia or Julian had ever complained.

It had shamed her to even bring it up, taken them months to tease the words out of her, months where even just seeing Julian in the mornings, razor to his cheeks, had begun to make her warm, make her cunt twitch and throb for attention. She had finally spilled her desires, only in the dark safety of their shared bed where they could not see the bright, lurid flush of her cheeks as she spoke. Laurel had thought perhaps that would be the end of it, a naive, fool thought given her lovers’ natures, their unrivaled joy at embarrassing and completely debauching her.

And so here she has ended up. Julian’s long fingers take special care around her lips, pulling and manipulating her flesh to get at every nook and cranny of her. The sound of the hair being scraped away is, perhaps, the loudest sound Laurel has ever heard, pressing against her ears, louder even than her own thrumming pulse knocking between her temples.

The only thing that cuts through the noise is Nadia’s voice, melodic and distracting. “You are going to look so lovely like this, sweet girl,” she whispers. “All of this pretty new skin for us to explore, to touch and kiss. I cannot wait to spread you open like this, to taste you.”

Laurel keens, turning her burning cheek against Nadia’s legs. Nadia’s hands turn her face back, smoothing gentle thumbs over her eyelids until Laurel blinks them open again. “Don’t look away,” Nadia murmurs. “I want you to watch him groom you for me, I want you to know how beautiful he’s making you for our pleasure.”

Julian hums, low and appreciative. His thumb and forefinger spread the newly bare folds over her clit wide, pulling a surprised gasp from Laurel’s lips. Already it feels so different. “Nearly finished, I think,” he says, smoothing a finger down her slit, checking for missed spots.

“Almost.” Nadia tilts her head. “Don’t forget her ass.”

“What?” Laurel mewls, eyes widening, torn between Julian’s touches and Nadia’s words.

Julian chuckles. “Might need your assistance for that, if you don’t mind.”

“But of course,” Nadia replies, both of them ignoring the wild confusion on Laurel’s face.

She feels Julian’s hands at her ankles, and then suddenly her legs are being lifted up, pressed back against her chest. Laurel’s stiff muscles scream out in sweet agony from the new, unexpected movement, the sharp stretch of the angle.

“Oh gods,” she whines as Julian’s hands are replaced by Nadia’s, holding her up and open for Julian’s inspection. Laurel jolts, jerks in Nadia’s ironclad grip, and very nearly screams when the soapy brush returns to smear another, new layer of suds between the cheeks of her ass, teasing over her hole.

“Hold still,” Nadia reminds her evenly, patiently. “You’ve been so well behaved, Laurel, don’t you dare make a fuss now. Not when you’re almost finished.”

Laurel shakes her head, still resting in Nadia’s lap. “Mmn -- Nadia!”

“Shh, I know, pet, I know.”

The gentle scrape of the blade returns, careful and meticulous as ever. Laurel’s eyes begin to water, her breath shuddering in her chest. It doesn’t take Julian very long to finish, but Nadia keeps Laurel’s legs splayed so that Julian can run a warm cloth over her, clearing away any remnants of hair and soap clinging to her skin. It’s overwhelming, the soft terry against bare skin that had never been bare before. Like being touched for the first time all over again, Laurel whimpers and cries out, hips rocking side to side.

“All done,” he declares, but still Nadia holds her fast. Julian runs a single finger from just above the rim of her asshole to her entrance, coming away with the pad glistening. He raises his evidence up to Nadia’s sight. “I think it’s safe to say she enjoyed that.”

He licks his finger clean, eyes fluttering closed as he savors her taste on his tongue. When he opens them again, they are molten, the heady weight of them descending on her cunt. Laurel’s hole clenches weakly around nothing, feeling the aching emptiness, the way her newly bare lips stick together slightly with her slick.

“May I?” he asks, husky-voiced. He isn’t asking her. While his gaze is all for Laurel’s cunt, he waits for Nadia’s quiet go-ahead.

“You worked so very hard. Go on, take your reward.”

Julian’s hungry mouth descends on her, lapping at the wetness he’d only toyed with before. This time Laurel does scream, his tongue too soft, his cheeks too cool against her overheated skin, swollen with desire, nothing left to protect her from the full sensation of his touches.

Laurel shakes apart with embarrassing quickness, orgasm taking her by surprise as it rolls through her, hips rocking against his face as he licks her through it, mouthing at her clit with his lips, the tip of his tongue. He licks over her in broad strokes, not just her slit, but over her lips, clearing her of her own arousal and teasing more from her at once with the feeling of too much warmth, too much wet.

At last Julian pulls away, face shining with her spend, eyes bright. There is a high flush of satisfaction in the apples of his cheeks as he grins.

“How does she feel?” Nadia asks, the first hint of breathlessness making itself known in her voice, her own lust getting the better of her.

“Exquisite.” His grin widens, glinting as surely as the curve of the blade he’d held earlier. “You should come see for yourself.”

#the arcana #the arcana game #nadia satrinava #julian devorak #nadia x julian x apprentice #arcanagame #my fic #kinktober2019 #nadia

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ashfae · 5 years ago

Text

Point of View

Prompt: Autobiographical 1st person

I turn the tuning peg such a small amount, ten degrees out of three hundred and sixty, pulling the string more taut. My semi-calloused thumb plucks the A string. It sounds true, but my ears are untuned now, years out of practice, and this isn’t my instrument. Not yet.

But I already love it, the dark wood balanced on my knee, nylon digging into my insufficiently calloused left fingers as they press near the frets, strings singing when I stroke them with a pick. This can be mine. I will make it mine.

I pluck the C string, then the A, recognize the plaintive tone of the minor third. Maybe I haven’t lost this language in the past decade of learning new words, words for disabilities and teething children and the organization parents and patients need. Maybe I can relearn.

Prompt: Fictional 1st person, someone in an unpleasant job

It’s not much of a day, just cold and rainy enough to keep away all but the regulars, plus a few tourists too stubborn to waste the time they’ve got. You can always tell those, the mulish expressions and cheap as chips poncos bought from some tat shop on the Mile, because they thought the stories about how it never stops raining here were exagerrated. They never tip.

The regulars tip. One of our favorites is here, the short lass who always orders a grande one shot mocha no whip please. She never forgets the please, or the thank you, or to call us by name. She laughs at our jokes, even Darren’s, and his are abyssmal. In return we laugh back every time she tells us how glad she is it’s Monday, even though we’ve all heard it fifty times. After all, she tips.

IT’s slow though, and the heavy murk of coffee has already plugged my nostrils and the space behind my eyebrows, or maybe that’s the humidity. Fuck, if I were a tourist, I wouldn’t be here. I’d go somewhere warm.

Prompt: 2nd person, beach, pants, young girl

The sand is hot, so hot, and you have to try different ways of walking. On your toes first, tippy-toe, then your heels, which makes you laugh because of th way they slide down and leave holes in the sand, soft and sliding and hothothot and it’s fun but it doesn’t really work.

Sides of your feet next, curving them out, then back to tip toes. That’s easiest, hop hop hop on points. You look up but the wet sand, the cool sand, is still far away, a whole thirty feet left to hop or maybe three hundred feet, and then you stop on something not hot, not sand.

Bend down, ignore the scorch, have a look. It’s dingy blue fabric, stained in all sorts of ways. Pants. Boy pants. Probably boy pants. They smell like seawater and hot sand. You pick them up, add them to your shell bucket. If you can find the right stick, then they’ll make a decent flag.

Random intermittent thought: The queen sat sewing by the ebony windowsill, to make use of the light. As she sewed, she pricked her finger with the needle. Three drops of red blood fell onto the snow-white silk, and the queen thought, “Oh, bugger.”

Prompt: Rewright the autobiographical 1st person into 3rd person

She turns the peg minutely, her attention on the string rather than the peg, hearing the note change. The ukelele is balanced on her knee, supported by an old lanyard attached to string that wraps under the body of the instrument and winds up tied to a paperclip hooked on the sound hole. It buzzes a little as she plays the string again, plucks other strings to hear the intervals. With a caution born of unfamiliarity (because it couldn’t be fear, who could be intimidated by a ukelele?), she fits her fingers between the frets, then grimaces; her ring finger, broken in a childhood accident, bends inward, must be awkwardly held or the note won’t sound right. But the third time she attempts it there’s no buzz or fuzz or twang, and she beams.

Prompt: 3rd person subjective, a couple are in a restauraint being served by a waiter, AKA dammit I was so close to not writing fanfic in class this week

His favourite enigmas are lunching today, at their usual table. The rules of the establishment discourage familiarity beyond a certain warm politeness, but he can smile as he offers the wine list, and does.

Usually the man in the black suit--they are always dressed the same, every week, one in white and the other in black--will give the list a brief flance and toss it back on the table as he makes his selection, apparently at random. The other gentleman takes more time. Louis can’t begrudge it, not when he’s inevitably given a beatific smile and an, “If you’d be so kind” along with the order. The black suit’s mouth always quirks up at that, whatever his mood is otherwise, clearly charmed by this old-fashioned courtesy whether he likes it or not.

There are bets on among the staff as to whether or not the pair are a couple. There’s an ease of long familiarity between them, and the sorts of small nitpicking statements that waiters inevitably hears between married couples. The McKenzies do nothing but argue over their meals, and they’ve come every Saturday without fail for forty years. Perhaps fighting in private bores them.

But with these two it’s less clear. For one thing, they never touch, neither casually nor deliberately, and they lack a certain frisson that acknowledged couples have. But neither of them ever looks bored, no matter how deliberately provocative black suit is (which he is, he seems to get a kick out of being a bit of a nusiance), or how slow to finish his meals white suit is (which he definitely is, a starter and a main and two desserts and whatever black suit hasn’t finished eating). Amos the piano player swears they’re madly in love but each think the other one is straight, and will deliberately pick the most over-the-top Cole Porter arrangements to play for them in the hopes that eventually they’ll clue up, because he has two hundred quid riding on an eventual proposal happening in the restautant (there’s a separate betting pool on whether white or black will be doing the proposing, and one stubborn busboy betting on both at once). Elizabeth the seating hostess orders everyone to leave them alone because she thinks they’re adorable.

Louis just wonders why they’ve ordered champagne today. That’s unprecedented. Maybe he should’ve bet along with the busboy.

#writing #writing exercise #monday writing class #good omens #crowley #aziraphale

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 6 years ago

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YOGA FOR KYPHOSIS

by Amber Burke

“Thoracic kyphosis is the rounding of the middle and upper spine. While it is normal for the thoracic spine to have a slight kyphotic (outward) curve compared to the lordotic (inward) curve of the lumbar spine, this rounding can sometimes become exaggerated. When thoracic kyphosis is particularly extreme, the spine (seen from the side) resembles the letter “C.” An abnormal curvature of this degree is commonly called a “dowager’s hump” or “hunchback.”

“If the spine is ideally aligned, you could drop a weighted string from the ear through the shoulder, and on down through the hips and the heels,” says Bill Reif, a physical therapist in Atlanta and author of The Back Pain Secret: The Real Cause of Women’s Back Pain and How to Treat It. “But for many of those with excessive thoracic kyphosis, that plumb line falls somewhere in front of the chest.”

If the spine is ideally aligned, you could drop a weighted string from the ear through the shoulder, and on down through the hips and the heels.

Excessive thoracic kyphosis (from here on, simply “kyphosis”) is a common postural misalignment in many yoga students, though particularly in more mature students. It is worth understanding, as it has implications for not only the poses we practice, but also for the way we practice them.

Causes, Consequences, and Cautions

According to Reif, while diseases like osteoarthritis, osteoporosis, and (in younger adults) Scheuermann’s Disease can cause kyphosis, the way we move, sit, and stand is often a major factor in the degeneration of the spine. “Imperfect body mechanics while we lift and carry can cause the wear and tear on the spine, leading to ‘degenerative kyphosis.’ Poor prolonged sitting posture results in muscular imbalances known as “upper and lower crossed syndrome,” says Reif. He adds, “If these imbalances are not addressed, the result can be ‘postural kyphosis’ for students of any age.”

The consequences of kyphosis, according to Reif, are a loss of spinal height and flexibility, as well as reduced range of motion (particularly in the neck and shoulders). “Many people with kyphosis are unable to turn the head fully, due to the loss of length in the cervical spine,” Reif says. “Since the shoulder blades protract [move away from each other] and the shoulders internally rotate as the upper back rounds, those with kyphosis may be unable to reach overhead and/or behind the back. This shoulder position can also cause an impingement or ‘pinching’ of the glenohumeral joint, which, if unchecked, can lead to several common diagnoses including biceps tendinitis, rotator cuff tears and strains, and bursitis.”

Reif’s primary goal when working with patients with kyphosis is to create length in the spine, or to keep the length that still exists. The extent to which the “C” may be straightened depends upon the degree to which the spinal changes have advanced. Reif explains that “shortened muscles, tendons, and ligaments surrounding the spine cause a flexible abnormal curve, whereas vertebral changes due to degeneration of the bone surface may cause permanent curvature of the spine. If caught early enough, when the changes have not yet solidified, the kyphosis can often be reversed. But for the older student, who may have undergone irreversible bony changes, the primary goal would be to prevent any further increase of the curvature.”

Practice Guidelines for Kyphosis

Reif recommends yoga to his patients with kyphosis. At the same time, because of the vulnerability of their spines and shoulders, he advises that they be cautious with certain movements (and skip some entirely). For example, he does not recommend that yoga students with kyphosis do poses that flex (round) the spine, which would reinforce their undesirable postural habits and may even lead to more fractures for those whose kyphosis is caused by osteoporosis and osteoarthritis. “For those with a fragile, kyphotic spine stemming from one of these diseases, even the spinal flexion that comes from hugging the knees to the chest while lying down could cause vertebral collapse,” he explains.

Additionally, poses in which the hands and arms are asked to bear weight—like plank, chaturanga, and arm balances—are poses yoga students with kyphosis should steer clear of initially (and perhaps forever). “Because thoracic kyphosis is associated with shoulders that are protracted and internally rotated, students are at a mechanical disadvantage and especially vulnerable to shoulder injuries,” says Reif. “It’s important to mobilize and strengthen the shoulders before asking them to bear weight.” First, the shoulders must be brought back and the shoulder blades pulled toward each other (as shown in the image below). Once the shoulders can hold this healthy position while bearing no weight at all (in a pose like mountain), and then keep this position while supporting a modest amount of weight (in poses like tabletop and sphinx), students can gradually increase the load on the shoulders (with plank and chaturanga). Reif cautions, “Some students with an extreme hunch may never get to a place where their arms can support the full weight of their upper body without injury.”

Reaching the arms overhead, as in upward reaching mountain or downward facing dog, can be risky as well. Reif says, “Moving too far or too fast into an overhead reach can aggravate both shoulder pinch and upper back pain.” Instead of reaching up quickly, aiming to bring their arms in line with their ears, students with kyphosis should lift the arms up slowly, with control, bringing them only as high as they comfortably can, focusing on keeping the shoulders back, and the shoulder blades pulled toward each other.

Inversions like headstand, handstand, and shoulderstand are inadvisable for those with kyphosis, not only because of the demands they place on imperfectly positioned shoulders, but also because the thoracic spine is not properly aligned to channel weight. In headstand and shoulderstand, Reif says, “Going vertical increases pressure on the cervical spine, and injury may occur. A student whose cervical disc space has narrowed from decades of wear and tear due to rounded posture will never be able to tolerate the stress of going into headstand or shoulderstand.”

Reif recommends that students with kyphosis focus on spinal lengthening and shoulder placement in neutral-spine poses and in gentle backbends, sidebends, and twists. Eleven of the poses and movements Reif finds most helpful in treating kyphosis are below. For some of those, he recommends, you will need a wall, doorway, and support (such as a block, book, folded blanket, or towel) to place underneath your head. These poses could be practiced in this sequence, interspersed throughout a yoga practice, or used at different times during the day.

Reif recommends that students with kyphosis focus on spinal lengthening and shoulder placement in neutral-spine poses and in gentle backbends, sidebends, and twists.

Reif encourages his patients to check their posture throughout the day while standing, walking, and even while driving, since the greater one’s postural awareness throughout daily life, the greater the opportunity for improvement. Reif encourages, “Notice if your head moved away from the headrest. If it has, look out: You’re moving back into that ‘C.’”

Therapeutic Poses For Kyphosis

1. Mountain Pose

Stand up straight with your back against a wall. In this mountain pose, and whenever you’re standing in your daily life, imagine a plumb line dropping from your ears down through your shoulders, hips, and heels. Check your alignment with the help of the wall: With your buttocks against the wall, can you bring the back of your head to the wall as well? Don’t force your head to the wall by tipping your chin up and shortening the back of the neck; instead, bring the back of the head as close as you can to the wall while keeping the back of the neck long.

After years of slumping, our spines may have “forgotten” what to do. Reif helps his patients reclaim an upright standing posture by encouraging them to envision a marionette string pulling them up by the crown of the head. Because thoracic kyphosis often brings the gaze (and the head) forward and down, Reif likes the instruction, “Look straight ahead as you imagine being pulled up by this marionette string.”

Throughout practice, students with thoracic kyphosis can benefit from finding as much length as possible in neutral-spine poses such as high lunges; in warrior poses (lifting the arms only as high as they comfortably can, or keeping them down at their sides); and in seated poses like staff (in which they can lean back and press their hands into the floor to help them lift and broaden the chest).

2. Shoulder Rolls and Scapular Retraction

While standing in mountain pose or seated up straight, roll your shoulders forward, up, and back several times. Then practice “pinching” your shoulder blades together on your back. Aim to keep your shoulders in this position through as many of your yoga poses, and as much of your life, as possible.

“Those with kyphosis exhibit a rounding between the shoulder blades, and the knobby spinous processes of the thoracic spine visibly protrude,” says Reif. “When the shoulders are in the ‘right place,’ there is a crease between the shoulder blades, and the thoracic spine is flat rather than protruding.”

When students with kyphosis begin bearing weight on their hands in poses like tabletop and sphinx, they should lower the chest close enough to the floor that they create this crease between the shoulder blades. (It is easy to drop the head while finding this shoulder alignment. In both of these poses, students should attempt to line up the ears with the shoulders while keeping the back of the neck long.) It is important that a student with kyphosis be able to create and maintain this healthy shoulder alignment in tabletop and sphinx before adding to the shoulder load with poses like plank, chaturanga, and arm balances.

3. Chest and Shoulder Stretch, with Doorway

Standing on one side of a doorway, bring your palms to the wall on either side of the door frame at shoulder height or slightly higher, elbows bent. Then step one foot forward through the doorway, pressing both hands into the wall, and leaning forward slightly (as if beginning to fall); hold here for several deep breaths. Step back, and then repeat, this time taking your hands up the wall just above your head (elbows bent at shoulder-height). Again, hold for several breaths. Step back, and repeat one more time. This time, climb your hands up the wall as high as you comfortably can, and then lean forward again. Hold for several breaths. (Alternate which foot steps forward when you practice this stretch to ensure that you're working both sides of the body evenly.)

Reif values this pose for anyone whose shoulders have rounded forward. “It is a stretch for the deltoids, pectorals (major and minor). and biceps (long and short heads),” Reif says. “As you take your hands up higher, the latissimus dorsi will also lengthen.”

4. Chin Tucks

While standing or seated upright, look straight ahead, chin level with the earth. As you exhale, tuck the chin slightly toward the chest as if you are nodding slowly. On the inhale, lift the chin again. Repeat several times. “This movement encourages the neck to lengthen by stretching the scalenes, omohyoid, and sternocleidomastoid, muscles that are often tight for those with thoracic kyphosis,” says Reif.

5. Hands-and-Knees Flow

Start on hands and knees in tabletop pose, aiming to create a neutral spine, with the head and hips in one line. Inhale here. Then create a slight arch as you exhale, moving toward cow pose. On your next inhale, move back to your neutral tabletop position. On your next exhale, rock back toward child’s pose as far as you comfortably can while keeping your arms outstretched and palms rooted in front of you on the mat. With your next inhale, move back to all fours, re-creating a neutral spine. Repeat the cycle several times. ‘This movement encourages full use and flexibility of the spine,” says Reif. “As your mobility increases, gradually move from neutral toward both extremes—bringing the hips closer toward the heels when you go back from tabletop, and lifting into an upward facing dog as you come forward from tabletop.”

6. Cobra and Sphinx

Lying on your belly, come up onto your hands (cobra) or forearms (sphinx), lifting your chest while moving the shoulders up and back, and bringing your shoulder blades toward each other on your back. Reach up through the crown of your head, allowing the back of your neck to lengthen. Reif explains: “Backbends strengthen the erector spinae, multifidus, latissimus, longissimus, and iliocostalis muscles. Especially when they’re done on the belly, small backbends are particularly valuable to help reverse the “C” (due to the help you get from gravity). Your belly and trunk can ease toward the floor as you maintain the support of your hands and forearms.”

All of us, but especially those with osteoporosis, should avoid any pain when moving into gentle backbends like these.

7. Bird Dog

From all fours, create a neutral spine, lengthening as much as possible from the crown of the head to the tailbone, and lowering the chest until you can pull the shoulder blades together on the back. With as little swaying as possible, on an exhale, slowly reach the right arm forward and the left leg back—bringing both as close to parallel with the earth as you comfortably can. Hold for several breaths, and then lower with control. Repeat on the other side. Alternate sides several times. Reif recommends this pose for students with kyphosis to “increase multifidi and paraspinal strength and create spinal stability.”

8. Supported Fish Pose

Recline, placing a rolled-up towel, blanket, or foam roller (for a bigger stretch) across the back, just underneath the bottom tips of the shoulder blades. Take your arms out to the sides, elbows comfortably bent, palms up. (Support the backs of your hands with blankets or towels if they do not touch the floor.) Be sure to keep your shoulders and arms above the towel or blanket roll in order to encourage your shoulders to drop. In this pose, and whenever you lie on your back, place a support (such as a block, book, folded towel, or blanket) underneath the head (not the neck), at the lowest height that allows the back of your neck to lengthen comfortably. You can straighten your legs out in front of you, or bend your knees up toward the ceiling (with feet on the floor). Hold here for a few minutes, taking deep, easy breaths.

Reif recommends this pose to gently encourage spinal extension.

9. Snow Angels

Lie on your back, with a block, folded blanket, or towel under your head (not your neck), at the lowest height comfortable for your neck. Start with your hands alongside your hips, palms up. As you exhale, slowly glide your straight arms up overhead, grazing the floor with the backs of your hands. As you inhale, bring your arms back down alongside you. Repeat this movement several times. Reif recommends “making snow angels” for posture restoration. “This movement slowly and gently stretches the pectorals and biceps, which can become tightened during daily activities,” says Reif. “As you improve, you can make snow angels while standing up, with your back against a wall.”

10. Head Press

Lie down with support, such as a block, underneath the head (not the neck), at the lowest height at which you feel no strain in your neck. As you inhale deeply, gently press your head into the block and hold this pressure for several seconds. As you exhale thoroughly, slowly stop applying this pressure and focus on length, reaching the crown of the head back and the tailbone forward. Repeat this action several times.

“This will lengthen your neck in much the way traction does,” says Reif. “Over time, you’ll be able to lower the support, using a smaller book or blanket under your head.” Your goal is to eventually be able to comfortably rest your head on the floor with no strain in the neck.

11. Savasana

Lie down on your back, again with the minimal support under the head necessary for neck comfort. Take deep, easy breaths, imagining that each breath is increasing the space between the vertebrae, allowing the bottom tip of the tailbone and the crown of the head to drift away from each other.”

(Source: yogainternational dot com)

#yoga #kyphosis

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jadekitty777 · 6 years ago

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Divine Intervention: Chapter 3

Unofficial Taiqrowweek: Day 4

I’m cutting it close on this one, but there was some minor hitches in this chapter that needed some desperate ironing out. I feel the story is stronger now and I’m more satisfied with it overall. I hope y’all like it too!

Rating: T

Word Count: 4,400

Ao3 Link: Chapter 3

Summary: [Afterlife AU] Qrow is a raider demon. His job is clear: Collect recently fallen souls for Hell. The more he could gather, the more power he would be granted. Easy, right?

Well, it would be, if not for a certain blond angel constantly getting in his way. Qrow was pretty sure Taiyang’s job wasn’t to keep the souls safe from him, but rather to infuriate him with his overblown righteousness and his insufferable smiles.

Eternal damnation wasn’t supposed to be this annoying.

When someone passed on, a bell tolled to mark the moment.

When a silver soul passed, the bell never stopped tolling.

It was said these souls were made from God’s tears and that each one was meant for a great purpose, but at the cost of great pain. During the ‘biblical’ times, it was said there were many of these souls running around parting seas and foretelling dreams, but they had since faded to a fewer and fewer number as time went on.

Still to hear it here, now, his body ruled ahead of his mind and Qrow flew faster than ever before.

It was far, almost at the edge of his region, but he paid no heed to that. Only to the sound – for as long as it kept ringing, he knew there was still a chance. He could still-!

Is that really what I want? The thought finally got through.

What an inane thing to think. Of course he did! To fulfill his purpose was the only way to make his existence less miserable.

What will Tai think?

Qrow leapt out of one shadow, shaking his head violently to try and clear it. What did it matter what that featherbrain thought? He was so good, he could never really understand his plight.

He’ll be so disappointed.

Yeah well… he wouldn’t be the first.

There were no further arguments, and he crossed the rest of the distance in insufferable silence.

When he finally arrived, even before he left the portal, he could feel other demonic auras seeping down from above. It felt like tar, weighing him down with the combined crushing strength alone. He swum against it, certain his wings would rip right from his back from the effort alone. On a one on one, he had no chance against the combatants already there – his only hope was to be craftier.

He finally managed to breach the surface, though he didn’t emerge further than to his eyes, taking stock of the situation with a sweep of his gaze.

It was lucky his mouth was still under, because the groan he gave at the sight of Taiyang would have given him away instantly.

There were two others. The first was the silver soul and he almost did a double take at the sight of her. The likeness she had to Tai’s ex-wife was absurd. From hair and eye color, to even the face-shape, there was no denying that she had to be a descendant. She was also no older than Oscar had been or, perhaps, was just small for her age.

The other was the cause of the drowning sensation in the shadows. A lieutenant of the Lord’s court, Tyrian. He looked more demonic than most others, with much larger, curling horns, wide, powerful wings, and a thick tail with a stinger on the tip. Qrow had heard many stories of the lunatic; he had a soul count of a few thousand and it was said he took immense joy in torturing others, no matter their age or affiliation. He was one of the first he had ever been told to avoid at all costs. His presence here was both a blessing and a curse, as that meant no one else would risk approaching.

But it also meant escape was almost impossible.

“You’re not taking her!” Taiyang snarled, voice unusually furious as his wings spread wide to provide a better guard for the girl behind him.

Open like they were, it was hard not to notice the vertical scars that ran down the length of them, as if something had once nearly cleaved them off. Qrow had seen them a few times before, but only now was he worrying how he must have obtained them. He ducked a little more into his dark pool. Don’t be reckless Tai.

“I can respect a man who sticks to his resolve, but you know that I just can’t do that.” Tyrian’s voice had a hint of mania in every word he spoke. His grin was equally wicked, eyes alight with insanity. “If you wish to struggle, though, then I’ll be sure to give the girl a show by plucking off every single one of your feathers.”

Tai reached up to pluck off two of his feathers, collecting light as he spun one in either hand. Qrow had only seem him do that motion once before, during their very first encounter, and knew he was preparing to summon his weapon. The memory of the bruises Taiyang had left when he’d jabbed that bō staff right into his stomach were still fresh in his mind.

The angel’s eyes stayed trained on the danger even as he spoke to the girl. “Sweetheart, just stay behind me. I promise I’ll get you home.”

She sniffled, clutching onto her oversized red hoodie. “O-Okay.”

“That’s quite a promise, friend.” Tyrian’s eyes glowed as he rose his hand, placing his thumb against his middle and index fingers.

Qrow knew what it meant and screamed soundlessly in warning.

“I hope you can keep it!” He finished, the snap of his fingers as loud as thunder.

Within a heartbeat, two pools of black formed on either side of him. Springing from them were two Hellhounds, guardians of Hell’s gates. They were despicable creatures with rotting, pockmarked skin and three heads that were similar to a Doberman’s but large enough to rival a horse’s.

And both were charging right for Taiyang and his ward.

Just as quick, Tai slammed his glowing feathers together, before pulling them apart. The light followed, expanding into something solid. Barely waiting for the staff to finish forming, he swung it around into the head of one dog with enough force to send it skidding. It gave the other hound the opportunity to skirt by, jaws dripping as it pounced for the girl who could only duck down and scream.

Taiyang pivoted, swinging his leg up and delivering a brutal roundhouse kick to the dog’s middle. It yelped, rocketing right past where Qrow was hiding.

And he didn’t go unnoticed. Tai froze, eyes widening.

His momentary hesitance was a fatal mistake. Tyrian was on him in an instant. He grabbed the angel in a chokehold, beating his bat wings to torpedo them both through the air, their legs knocking the girl over when they passed above her. They didn’t stop until Tai’s body collided with a tree. Tyrian held him by his neck several inches up off the ground, a sadistic grin spreading as his opponent spasmed in his grasp. The angel clawed at his hand as he desperately tried to get air.

Qrow’s chest compressed so tightly he almost couldn’t breathe either. No. No, no, no! He had to do something!

Tyrian licked his lips. “Have fun with your snack, boys. I’ve got my own.”

Qrow looked from one situation to the other, seeing the defenseless child still curled on the ground, crying frightfully as the dogs ran full force for her.

He had but a split-second to decide – and as he yanked himself from the pool, he quietly prayed Taiyang would forgive him.

He propelled himself forward, wind rushing in his ears as he curved his wings inward for more speed. It was just enough that he was able to scoop up the little girl just moments before one of those animals got their teeth into her. His presence was confusing enough to the dogs that they paused in a follow-up attack. One that would have undoubtably taken him down. Instead, it gave him the window he needed to get away.

He shot upwards, high into the sky.

“What?!” Tyrian cried. “You wretch, bring back m- oof!”

His distraction afforded Tai a slight advantage, and he used it to the full effect as he brought up his legs and gave the lieutenant a solid double kick to the gut that sent the demon flying back. He followed after the sailing body, snatching up his fallen bō staff. When Tyrian impacted the ground, Tai pinned him down by stepping down onto his wings. As he jabbed his weapon into the demon’s throat, his gaze briefly wavered towards Qrow, giving him a nod that said everything.

I can’t hold him off for long.

Take care of her.

I trust you.

Before he could be given a chance to rethink it, Qrow nodded back as he cradled the girl close and took off. He beat his wings hard, focusing on his speed. This was his realm, so he knew the nearest church was a few miles away; and though his portals would get him there in three hops, he couldn’t take the girl through them. It made his haste all the more pressing.

“Are you gonna take me somewhere bad too mister?” The girl blubbered.

He looked down at her, her face blotchy with tears and terror. He held her tighter, saying firmly, “No. I’m a friend of Tai’s. I’m gonna get you home.” She nodded, but her weeping barely seemed to slow. Qrow didn’t know a lot about kids, but he figured if he could keep her talking it might calm her down. “What’s your name kid?”

“R-Ruby.”

“Ruby, huh? That’s a really pretty name. Certainly, better than mine.” He did his best to imitate the saccharine tone he always heard Tai use when under these circumstances.

She snuffled, her words jumbling together. “Waz yours?”

“Qrow. See you got named after a gemstone but I got named after a big, dumb bird.” That made her crack the tiniest of smiles. “How old are you Ruby?”

She rubbed a hand under her nose. “Eight.”

“Ah, so you’re practically a big kid! I guess that means you have lots of responsibilities.” Gods above, he was bad at this.

“What’s a responsibilities?”

“Uh it’s a – You know, like a chore? Washing the dishes, folding laundry, that kind of thing.” He explained, ascending to a strong air currant and soaring across it. He was trying to keep his eyes everywhere. He really hoped Tai could keep Tyrian busy long enough.

The wind had pushed the hoodie up over Ruby’s head. “Oh, I had one of those! I had to take care of Zwei.”

“Who’s Zwei?”

“My dog. He’s a lot nicer than those big meanies that tried to bite me.”

Clinging to the safe topic like a lifeline, he kept asking questions. “Oh, and what kind of dog is he?”

By the time he was approaching the sweet salvation of town, he probably knew more about Ruby’s dog then he knew about his own sister, right down to his birthday and the correct place to scratch him to get his leg to kick. He focused on the pointed rooftop that stood out like a beacon to guide him, dipping lower the closer they got. Unlike the one Oscar had gone through, this church was still holding up fairly well, nothing quite falling to pieces yet even if it had signs of weathering. There was no gate around this one, so the border was a little harder to make out, but as he drew near, he noticed how the surrounding grass faded away into nothing but dirt. That was it! That was the boundary.

All he had to do now was just get her to go inside and then he could go find Tai.

“Alright, we’re here.” Qrow announced. “All you got to do now is walk yourself through the door and the light will do the rest.”

“You’re not coming too?” She asked as they landed.

He looked down at her. If it were not for the fact it was physically impossible for him, he was pretty sure those big, round eyes looking up at him could convince him to do anything. As it was, he could only say, “Sorry kiddo, I’m not allowed past the border.”

“Can’t you try?” She said, clutching onto his shirt tightly when he tried to set her down.

He shook his head, trying not to let his impatience show. He didn’t have time for this! “I really can’t. But you’re a big kid, remember? You got this.”

Her lower lip trembled. “But I don’t wanna go alone.”

God damn it, you sniveling-!

Qrow took a steadying breath to keep his normally volatile temper in check. It wouldn’t help either of them and certainly would make her more resistant. No matter what it promised to be, that step into the unknown was hard for anyone. And for a kid who barely understood what was going on, this had to seem twice as scary. That was why the Guiding Angels existed. Sometimes they just needed someone to hold their hand – and it frustrated him, he couldn’t do that for her.

All he could do was stand here and watch; he had to hope that would be enough. “Look, Ruby-”

“Dear child, I’ll make sure you’re not alone.”

It was as if a thousand spiders crawled up his spine all at once. What had happened to-?

He heard the crunch of footsteps behind him and shouted, “Don’t move! One more step and I throw her in!”

“Hoo, what’s this? Are you actually challenging me wretch?” Tyrian’s tail smacked at the ground. The aura of pure malice he exuded was almost tangible, weighing on him just like it had in the portal.

Qrow couldn’t dare turn around, as that would leave Ruby unguarded, but to have his back to such a powerful foe was extremely unsettling. It was difficult to keep his voice steady. “I have the advantage here.”

“And yet, you tremble like a lamb.”

He scowled. “Anyone would shudder in disgust in your presence.”

“Yeah! You’re a butt-ugly bug man!” Ruby chanted with him.

“That’s the spirit kiddo.” Qrow said, moving his hand slowly so he could unwind her little fists from his shirt. He strained his senses, trying to detect even a hint of movement that would imply he was in danger.

“What a rude sort you are.” He rambled on, “Alas, you’re right. I’m truly at a checkmate here. I can’t even attack, elsewise you may just fall past with her – and she’ll be lost to me forever.”

He let him keep talking, adjusting his grip on Ruby inch by inch. She’d get a few scrapes, but seeing as the alternative was so much worse, he didn’t worry too much of it. He tensed, preparing to toss her in.

“However,” Tyrian’s voice seeped into him like poison, “Did you consider what will happen to you when you do?”

Qrow froze.

He must have seen it, as he suddenly began to laugh wildly. “I mean, you didn’t really think there’d be no consequences, did you? This is treason of the highest offense! Our Lord will certainly see to it you’re thrown to the deepest pits and tortured for a thousand lifetimes.”

His heart raced, the rhythm painfully beating at his ribcage and his body shook in terror, as if it remembered something he could not.

Why? Why did that sound so familiar? He had never been to Rings of Hell before. He’d only heard of their reputation. How each of the layers’ methods of torture only grew worse as the number did. They were chosen based on the crime committed against their Lord. For something like this, he’d certainly be tossed into the ninth and final layer, Treachery.

He shuddered, nightmarish images consuming him as he saw his skin being peeled down to bone and his organs being soaked in boiling acid.

“But,” Tyrian’s venomous tone was back, enticing him in the worst of ways, “If you give her to me, then all is forgiven. I’ll even welcome you to my ranks for it.”

He… he couldn’t move.

This was what he wanted right? Here it all was – status, power, infamy – all being offered to him on a silver platter.

All he had to do was sacrifice one little girl.

His grip loosened.

Who would miss her anyways?

“No way! Mr. Qrow would never do that!” Despite her size, Ruby’s voice was loud. Those bright, honest eyes looked up at him, and she said as if there was no truer truth, “Because Mr. Qrow is a good guy!”

Qrow could not explain, exactly, what her words did but it felt as if a spell was shattering around him and he was fully coming awake; not just in this moment, but for the first time in years.

Memories he never realized he’d forgotten flooded in all at once, so fast he could almost not keep up but so clear it was as if he was wasn’t just remembering it, but experiencing it.

He was there in his final moments right before his death, praying one last time with the Reverend for forgiveness, before he stood to take his final walk.

Now, he was waking up to the smiling face from an all-too familiar blond, a helpful hand being offered. (He was a lost soul! He’d never been forsaken at all!) He recalled how Tai’s kind demeanor was tempered with a sense of urgency as he guided him, his eyes darting everywhere as if expecting the shadows to jump at them.

How they did jump at them.

Qrow’s current rage mixed with the terror he’d felt at the time as he saw what happened next:

Demons surrounding them.

Tai ordering him to run for the chapel.

The angel’s following cries that made him look back.

The sickening jolt in his stomach at the sight of him pinned to the concrete, beautiful wings speared through like the beginning of a taxidermist’s newest project.

How he turned back around, ignoring Tai’s pleas for him to keep going.

The jarring impact of a demon tackling him down.

His own screams for help as he was dragged towards the shadows.

His final sight before being pulled under was of Tai getting out of the spears’ restraints by leaping towards him, the desperate attempt ripping great tears down his wings.

Sadly, he might have made it, if only he had still been able to fly.

The rest of it passed in a blur: the months he would spend in the dungeons of Hell’s fifth ring of Violence. The trials that chipped away at his psyche until the things that mattered were gone.

Until he was told by others what he wanted and what he was meant to strive for.

Until the mantra he kept repeating to not listen became buried.

Until all he felt he had left was the worst of himself.

Until…

Until he was broken enough to lie his way out of his cell but not enough to be completely insane.

When he finally ran into Tai again, he didn’t recognize him.

Tai still smiled at him, even as he knocked him to the ground.

It was only now that Qrow could understand how that near permanent smile was hiding the sadness in Tai’s eyes every time he looked at him.

The last memory faded. He blinked rapidly, his hazy vision refocusing as his mind cleared. It could not have been more than a second or so that he’d been standing there, but it felt like it had been days. He looked down at Ruby, still secure in his arms, unable to hide his amazement.

This was a silver soul, huh?

“What’s your choice wretch?” Tyrian’s words brought him back to the matter at hand.

Qrow squared his shoulders, finding the weight that had been crushing him was now lighter than feathers. He looked back, just enough to catch the demon’s eye. “I have to thank you.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Oh? Whatever for?”

“Giving me an ultimatum like that?” He grinned. “It tells me I have nothing to lose.”

And then he stepped forward into the sanctuary.

Understanding came too late, Tyrian charging with a warning yell. His nails, as sharp as falcon talons, breached the barrier and were vaporized immediately. He jerked back with a shout, gripping his wrist and watching as the damage continued to spread down the rest of his nails. He looked up, aiming him with a truly wrathful look, “You’d best hope I don’t see you again wretch.” He grinned crazily. “Because if I do, I’ll be sure to take your hand as my trophy.”

Qrow just leveled him with an indifferent look. “Get lost lowlife.”

“Yeah!” Ruby joined in, sticking her tongue out at him.

Tyrian gave them both one last parting scoff before he scuttled away into the nearest portal.

In the wake of his departure, Qrow nearly fell to his knees as relief swept through him. They had made it! He glanced at his charge, briefly concerned she’d burst into more tears now that the danger was gone. It quickly vanished when instead she looked up at him and smiled.

He found himself easily returning it. “How about I walk you to that door now?”

She nodded and he set her down onto her feet. He held his hand out to her, which she took, and together they walked across the dirt lot and up the stairs, stopping in front of the entrance. He knelt down beside her. “Alright kiddo, this part is all you. You just gotta open the door and walk through.”

Ruby stared up at the knob apprehensively, then looked towards him. “It’s not gonna hurt, is it?”

He shook his head. “Not even a little bit. And I’ll be right here, just in case.”

“And - And I won’t be alone?” She rocked on her heels, bunching her hoodie up in her tiny hands.

At least this was an answer he knew with absolute certainty. “Not a chance. There’s loads of other kids where you’ll be.”

“But what if I can’t make any friends?”

“Ah come on kid, that’ll be impossible. ‘Cause I’m your friend.” He pointed to himself boisterously, as if that alone was the grandest of accomplishments. “And if you can make friends with me, then you can make friends with anyone.”

She seemed completely unimpressed. “Yeah but you’re old. I gotta make friends with people my age.”

“Call me that again pipsqueak.”

Ruby placed her hands on her hips, bending towards him and stretching out the word tauntingly, “Ooooold!”

Qrow couldn’t help but laugh, tapping her on the nose. “Very funny.”

She grinned proudly. As she straightened back up, she gave the door another thoughtful look, giving a firm nod. “’Kay, I’m ready.”

“You sure?” He questioned cautiously.

“Uh-huh. I was ready for everything else. I’ve been sick a long time. When I couldn’t get outta bed anymore, Mama would sit beside me and tell me that this is the good part. That Heaven’s a place where I can run and play again and nothing hurts anymore.” She placed her hand on the door. “I felt kind of bad because I wanted to leave so much. But Mama said it was okay, even if she was real sad. I think she just wanted me to stop hurting too. So now that I have, I gotta make the most of it.”

It should have been tragic, knowing this eight-year-old had been ready for death before her life really got started; but seeing how brave she was in the face of it all, Qrow just couldn’t look at it that way. She was the type of person who would grow to be the hero of her own story – and that was something to be admired.

He placed a hand on her head. “Keep that attitude and you’re gonna do just fine kid.” He gave her hair a good ruffle before backing off. “Alright, go ahead.”

She reached up, touching the doorknob and pulling it open. The light inside eddied out like an ocean wave on a hot day, inviting in its relief and compelling in its pull. Ruby looked to him one last time. “Thanks Mr. Qrow for helping me.”

In an instant, she was gone.

He got to his feet, placing a hand on the door. The warmth of the light fell across his arm, tugging insistently.

“Come home.” Raven requested. It was in that he knew it wasn’t actually her speaking. After all, if it really was Raven, she wouldn’t request anything of him. She’d demand it.

It was harder than he liked to admit to shut the door. “Not yet.” He murmured. He still had to find-

“QROW!”

He spun at the shout, seeing a lightning bolt zipping through the sky – the telltale look of an angel riding the light. The tension in him broke instantly. He was alright!

But just as suddenly, the flash was plummeting down. “Tai!!” Qrow’s heart jumped into his throat and he kicked off, rushing towards him. He just barely managed to catch him a few feet above ground, wings straining as they flapped rapidly to compensate the extra weight. The landing was still rough, his legs almost giving out from the jolting impact.

Tai was clinging onto him, head tucked against his shoulder, his breathing rough and rapid, “Sorry, sorry. I’m fine, I just-” His explanation was cut off as he groaned lowly, hands fisting into Qrow’s shirt.

“Just catch your breath, I got ya.” He said, sweeping his gaze over him, quickly finding the injury.

One of the Hellhounds must have gotten him, because the left leg of his pants had been torn away around the shin. Fang marks were visible where they had punctured through. Murky vapors wafted from the injury rather than blood and a deep blackness was slowly spreading along his skin like a bruise. All clear signs of darkness poisoning. Left unchecked, it would eventually immobilize an angel entirely and suck away all their light. The only remedy was returning to Heaven.

Tai lifted his head some, looking around frantically. “Wait! Ruby, where is she?”

“She got there safely, don’t worry.” He reassured.

“Good, good.” He relaxed against him again, hissing softly as another surge of pain hit him.

“Alright buddy, we need to get home. That wound’s looking pretty nasty.” Qrow shifted his grip, throwing Tai’s left arm over his shoulders so he could provide more support for his bad leg.

As they shambled forward with less coordination than a newborn duck, Tai still found it in him to ask, “We?”

His gaze stayed fixated on their feet. “Yeah.”

He’d seen it for so long now, he could already picture the smile he was wearing. Even after they reached the door and Qrow finally found it in him to look up, he found that despite all the pain Tai must have been in, it hadn’t faded, not even an inch.

Qrow reached out and opened the door. The light welcomed them home.

#qrow branwen #taiyang xiao long #Taiqrow #rwby thoughts #fanfiction #Chase Firekitten's Tale

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blackrose-ffxiv · 7 years ago

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That Voodoo That You Do 02/21

Lebeaux Desrosiers wrinkled his nose slightly at the tone the Mouse Vaegaji and Idristan Agache had taken discussing how injuries could make one appear weak. He cleared his throat to interrupt them. “Perhaps we’ll focus on the bleeding mess first, then concern ourselves with how it makes us appear to others. There’s an order of treatment and that nonsense can wait until the sickness has been calmed. How’s that water coming along? A second opinion would certainly be in order.” Lebeaux called out to Idristan as he inspected Mouse's concerning wound more closely. The fresh blood clung to leather gloves as checked for any sign of clotting or healing. He straightened up and wiped his fingertips casually off on Mouse’s leg to clear the blood away before he fished a ring from his pocket, sliding it on to his finger with the gem turned inwards. When his fingers returned to their inspection there was the addition of a small amount of aether to lessen the pain of having an open wound poked at.

Mouse looked as if he was about to bite back something further in response to Idristan, but - Lebeaux's words quieted him. He looked down as he felt the elf's fingertips gloss against his flesh to wipe away the blood still clinging to the tips of his fingers. "My Mother was like that for as long as Mouse knew her. She only had two children because birth was so dangerous for her, Mouse and his twin. She used to say the ordeal almost killed her, and that if she didn't have my aunts, she wouldn't have survived at all. She said we were cursed. She was always trying spells to cleanse it, and to heal herself. Voodoo couldn't fix her, so nothing else would. That's what she used to think." He admits, glumly. "Does that mean there's no way to fix Mouse, either..?" He blinks down at his wound as he feels the reverberating hum of Lebeaux's aether sinking below his flesh. The overwhelming urge to pull away claims him, but he forces himself to hold still.

Idristan just gave Lebeaux a flat look at that. That lecture was somewhat ironic, considering what had happened the other sun. "Says the person who presses fingernails into wounds," he mutters under his breath as he turns back to the stove. Drawing in a deep breath, he reached to pick up the pot as quickly as he could, nearly splashing hot water onto himself in his haste. Drawing in a sharp breath, he quickly moves back towards the others, away from the mysteriously rattling sugar pot. Settling it on the table as well, he goes over to join Lebeaux by Mouse. He sniffs at the mention of voodoo. "Hard to say--though I'm not sure how much trust I would put in the talents of someone without a proper education in magic."

Lebeaux furrowed dark brows. “Despite being nearly two days old there is little to no clotting or scabbing. There’s certainly infection, as to be expected from a wound left mostly open for two days. Improperly wrapped.” He trailed off when Mouse explained his mother’s medical history. Excessive bleeding during childbirth, difficulty healing after losing blood. “Maybe if she had tried some proper treatment, but that’s not going to help us now.” Lebeaux noted, agreeing with the other Medic on that least. “If it’s the same sickness of the blood, there isn’t necessarily a cure for it. But there are ways to manage it.” He straightened up and dipped a length of clean cloth from the medical supplies into the hot water, letting it cool a few ticks before using it to begin cleaning up the excess blood. “I suspect the other symptoms are side effects of that. Or perhaps the infection, it’ll be difficult to tell until it’s cleared up. What did you do for it beyond wrapping it?”

Mouse let out a quiet, seething, irritated -hiss-. "She was the most talented and powerful witch Mouse ever knew. She didn't need an education, or a stuffy Elezen to tell her she wasn't good enough. She ate their hearts, and kept their eyes as trophies. She didn't have time for books, and shiny glasses." He looked away, ears folded back in clear irritation. "Not all magic is learned through books and cleverness. There are some things an -education- center can't teach." He sniffed, and turned his nose pointedly up. He loves his mum. He blinked as the cloth is placed over his wound, brow furrowing further when there isn't an instant sting in return from the open wound. He lifts his hands, and he folds them against his chest, tucking his chin against his thumbs as his tail curls, and squirms. "..how can Mouse manage it, then?" He asks, slowly, softly, carefully.

Idristan rolled his eyes at this. "Yet those hearts and eyes didn't fix what was wrong, did they? You don't even have a name for this beyond 'curse', do you?" he demands. His expression has gradually darkened as he spoke; there were certainly things that fell into that category--and his experiences with them had never been good. It maybe made him a bit paranoid. Just maybe. "But regardless," he continued. He eyed Lebeaux for a moment, but he does not reach out his own hand, not wanting to interfere with what he was already doing. "I believe the first step would not be pulling a stunt like this again."

Lebeaux pursed his lips primly, though the corners of his mouth remained curled in a calm smile. He leaned a little more pressure onto the towel at the mention of stuffy elezen with shiny glasses, as well as cutting the pain-relieving aether he had been slowly seeping into the wound. Leaning on casually it with the intent of making it more than a little uncomfortable. Likely soon unbearable considering the tender state of the skin surrounding. “I hope you haven’t been doing any of that in hopes of fixing this? Nothing good has ever come of such things. This is how you get corruption, sickness and heretics.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, that’s no longer a polite word is it.” He kept his gaze down.

Mouse's good eye narrowed into a critical glare aimed at Idristan at that. "Then what is it, if it isn't a 'curse'?" He asks. "What's the name? If it--ooOH!" He sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden pressure pressing down upon the fleshy curve of his thigh. It sends a sharp sting of pain throbbing through his form, a reverberating ache that spreads to the tips of his fingers, and the tips of his toes. His tail curls, his fur bristles, and the colour in his features abruptly drains away as his vision swims and swirls - turning the room into a kaleidoscope of colours that don't make sense - leaving him even more stricken and pallid than ordinary. His good eye seems to roll back, his hands fall uselessly to his sides, and the thief keens sharply sideways; falling into a heap upon the couch, pale hair tangled with leaves fanned out above him like some kind of fragmented halo. He's still, and he's silent - but his chest continues to rise, and fall in steady and slow breaths in, and out.

Idristan shifted ever so slightly in his seat at the mention of "heretics", though he does his best to keep his expression carefully neutral. It mostly works, though he's careful to avoid Lebeaux's eyes--not that it's much of an issue at present. "No," he says, choosing his words very, very fully. "It's fallen into disfavor of late. To say the least." Which was what he fully intended on doing. "It seems likely it will fade out like the Inquisition." He was still being so careful--but there is no entirely- hiding the fact that he seemed hardly heartbroken by this. It shone in his eyes--though not for long, for Mouse was a very good distraction as it turned out. "And not yet but--" His eyes widen in slight alarm as he reaches out to try to catch the Keeper, easing his fall back onto the couch. "Well then," he remarks slowly, looking up to eye Lebeaux. "I suppose that was merely blood loss?"

Lebeaux flashed that same sickeningly sweet smile at Idristan that he had given the other medic immediately before digging fingernails into his open wound. “It must have been... two days of bleeding must have finally taken it’s toll.” He noted, clicking his tongue in theatrical sympathy. “At least that saves the aether needed for pain or the alchemy needed to put him under. How fortunate.”

@roses-and-grimoires @mousexiv

#lebeaux #idristan #mouse #golden fox tradehouse

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