#v;; skin and bone (side; knives millions)

[adventures-written]

@orangetintedglasses || Continued from here.

There's a low laugh that slips from Knives lips, something raspy and showing the meager creature he was now compared to what he was before July. The laugh quickly turned into a cough as his body rejected the motion of laughter entirely. Dry mouth, charred lips. There was a reason he hid his face underneath a cloak, after all.

Still, he allowed Vash to aid him. Helping him onto his feet and steadying him with his own form. Despite everything, despite this not even being his Vash, he could never hate him. He was still his brother, after all.

"You don't have the heart to leave someone who is dying," he pointed out, "You always did protect life, even at the cost of yourself..." Speaking as though he knew this Vash. But did he not? The man acted similarly to his own. Helping him like this was only confirmation of that.

"Perhaps it would be better to kill me now though, if you could stand to. After all, my opinion still has not changed..." He narrows his eyes, glancing up from under the cloak. "Assuming you know of what opinion I speak of."

Humanity, of course. They still had to die.

[yespolkadotkitty]

Tinderbox, pt 6

Part V here

Fuck. He’d left his jumper behind.

“Sweater, Dad,” Faye would remind him. Thank Christ she wasn’t here to see him leaving a relative stranger’s apartment at seven-thirty a.m after some steaming hot sex. He hadn’t been inside Rosie and yet, last night and this morning had blown his mind.

One of the hardest things he’d ever done was leave her standing there, skin still half-damp and warm from their shower, hair waving around her face, looking infinitely kissable.

It was cold outside, Winter hanging onto New York by its teeth, not quite done eating. Marshall walked briskly to his precinct, ignoring the subway. He needed the exercise, needed to get the sexy brunette out of his system before the team update in an hour’s time.

He still couldn’t believe how well he’d slept beside her on that lumpy futon. At some point he’d woken in the wee hours to her curled up next to him, the curve of her ass snuggled into him, trustingly. He’d breathed in the scent of her hair and drifted back into sleep, content. That was mostly unknown to him - he rarely fell back asleep if he woke from a restless dream.

No dreams when he’d slept beside Rosie.

His chirping phone had been a message from the precinct. They had a sketch of the infamous “Whiskers” - so dubbed because he’d left a crayon drawing of a simplistic cat’s face with whiskers at each crime scene.

Marshall huffed angrily as he thought it over. The media could be his best tool and worst enemy - often multiple times in a single day. But when they got a hold of something, they gnawed it like a dog with a favourite bone, and Whiskers was the current media favourite.

For a change, he - or she - wasn’t the usual flavour of criminal the media favoured. Whiskers had only burgled houses and apartments so far. Not that burglary could be ignored, but Marshall far preferred it to having the evidence techs scrape the remains of someone off the cold, bloody pavement.

Apparently one of the beat officers had gotten lucky, meeting someone who claimed to have seen a white man, mid-thirties, leaving the building where later, missing items and a cat doodle had been reported.

Marshall quickened his pace, wanting to find out more, and feeling the cold due to having left his jumper behind.

He wished he’d swallowed his pride and asked Rosie for her number. Both to get the garment back and to see her again.

Unbidden, an image of her naked save for his jumper, which would swallow her, pushed itself to the front of his mind. It’d smell of her, bergamot and sugar; addictive and heady.

And deep down he’d been afraid that if he’d allowed himself one more taste, he might have tumbled back into bed with her and prayed never to surface.

He swung angrily into the precinct, hoping he didn’t look like hell or smell too much like women’s shower gel. His colleagues would have a field day.

****

Rosie left for work earlier than usual and stopped by Police Plaza, Marshall’s cosy, moss green sweater in a bag. Had she considered keeping it, sleeping in it, stuffing her pillow inside it and cuddling it all day so she smelled like him?

Yeah. Multiple times.

She’d dithered over what to do for a whole half hour, before getting sick of herself. Grow up, Rosie, she’d chastised herself. She’d scrabbled around in a draw, finally finding a napkin from her deli. She’d scribbled you forgot this, R x on the napkin and stuffed it inside the garment, refusing to think about it further.

She scooped her hair into a bun, fussed over Salami and fed him half a can of tuna, his favourite treat, then caught the subway. The air knived into her lungs, icy cold. The ride was crowded, people in suits jostling with the rhythm of the carriage. She was hot and bothered by the time the train stopped where she needed to go. Checking her watch, she climbed the steps and pushed through the doors.

The Plaza was the only place she could think of to return the sweater. She didn’t know which precinct Marshall worked at, and she didn’t know if asking for that information over the phone was allowed.

And she also didn’t want to turn up at his precinct like a stalker, or a weirdo who didn’t understand that him leaving without her number probably meant that he didn’t want to see her again. It splintered her heart, thinking that, but it was what it was. I am a big girl, she told herself. I’ve survived much worse than this.

The officer on duty at the reception desk smiled as Rosie approached with the bag.

“Morning ma’am, how can I help you?”

Rosie smiled back, trying to fight the instinct to hold on to a piece of the man who’d rocked her world last night, and again this morning.

“I, ah, have this sweater that belongs to Detective Walter Marshall. I’m… not sure which precinct he works out of, so I thought I’d, er, drop it here.”

The officer worked to keep her face bland, but Rosie caught the tamped down amusement in her voice when she replied, “Sure, ma’am, I’ll make sure he gets it.” She held her hands out for the bag.

Rosie hesitated for a split second. Should she take out the napkin? He’d know it was from her.

But she couldn’t bring herself to remove it. He’d see it and think of her, and after what they’d shared, was it wrong for her to want him to remember her, now and then, perhaps during a quiet moment at the end of a long day?

She let the bag go, thanked the officer, and walked out of Police Plaza and out of Detective Walter Marshall’s life.

*****

Work passed slowly. Had he collected the sweater? Would they even deliver it today?

Rosie blew out a breath as she delivered sandwiches to customers in the deli, half missing Marshall terribly, and half wishing she’d never invited him in.

It was a relief when Rachael walked in. An FBI profiler who often worked with the NYPD, Rachael had become a regular in the two months Rosie had worked at the deli. She always ordered two sandwiches; one chopped cheese and one roast beef on rye, extra tomatoes. Over the weeks, she’d stay, have a coffee while the sandwiches were made. If her visits coincided with Rosie’s break, they’d occasionally chat.

Having a female friend was nice. Rosie missed her sister, but Dahlia would never leave their small home town. She was a home bird through and through, but phone calls only did so much. She’d missed the company of her sister and Midwestern friends when she’d upped sticks and left Dylan.

Without knowing it, Rachael was one of the high points of her day, so she was glad of a little lull when the gorgeous brunette came in, wearing a sharp suit and smelling floral.

“Hey, Rosie.”

“Rachael!”

Rosie moved out from behind the counter to greet the other woman. Rachael always looked so put together, razor sharp in her well cut blazer and high ponytail. “How’re things?”

Rachael shrugged. “A million miles a minute, as usual. But, can’t complain. Profiling keeps things interesting, you know? Get to work different cases.”

“I bet it is interesting,” Rosie replied, genuinely wanting to know more.

Rachael tilted her head to one side. Rosie knew that look. Rachael had been an NYPD therapist in a past life and it showed. “Something’s different about you.”

Panic scrambled up Rosie’s spine. “Really?”

“For sure. You look sort of… glowy. You feeling all right?”

Rosie smoothed a hand down her apron. “Had an eventful evening,” she managed, hoping the vagueness wasn’t indicative of the fact she’d had the best orgasms of her life to date.

“Wanna talk about it?”

God, did she ever. “Um…. maybe later?”

“Sure.” Concern creased Rachael’s face. Fortunately, at that moment a few men pushed through the doors, and Rosie went back to business.

“Your usual?”

Rachael smiled, recognising that she wasn’t going to get anything out of Rosie right now. “Sure, thanks. And a coffee while you make it? No hurry.” She tugged a smooth, square-edge business card from her pocket and pressed it into Rosie’s hand. “If you want to talk. About anything.”

Thanks to my beta, lovely @ly–canthrope​ 

Tagging: @brokenthelovely​ @mary-ann84​ @pinkzsugar​ @boiled-onionrings​ @dr-kayleigh-dh​ @leapingoveroblivion​

[the-end-of-art]

Waltzed nightly on the moon

She Had Some Horses by Joy Harjo

I. She Had Some Horses She had some horses. She had horses who were bodies of sand. She had horses who were maps drawn of blood. She had horses who were skins of ocean water. She had horses who were the blue air of sky. She had horses who were fur and teeth. She had horses who were clay and would break. She had horses who were splintered red cliff. She had some horses. She had horses with eyes of trains. She had horses with full, brown thighs. She had horses who laughed too much. She had horses who threw rocks at glass houses. She had horses who licked razor blades. She had some horses. She had horses who danced in their mothers' arms. She had horses who thought they were the sun and their bodies shone and burned like stars. She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon. She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet in stalls of their own making. She had some horses. She had horses who liked Creek Stomp Dance songs. She had horses who cried in their beer. She had horses who spit at male queens who made them afraid of themselves. She had horses who said they weren't afraid. She had horses who lied. She had horses who told the truth, who were stripped bare of their tongues. She had some horses. She had horses who called themselves, "horse." She had horses who called themselves, "spirit," and kept their voices secret and to themselves. She had horses who had no names. She had horses who had books of names. She had some horses. She had horses who whispered in the dark, who were afraid to speak. She had horses who screamed out of fear of the silence, who carried knives to protect themselves from ghosts. She had horses who waited for destruction. She had horses who waited for resurrection. She had some horses. She had horses who got down on their knees for any saviour. She had horses who thought their high price had saved them. She had horses who tried to save her, who climbed in her bed at night and prayed as they raped her. She had some horses. She had some horses she loved. She had some horses she hated. These were the same horses. II. Two Horses                   I thought the sun breaking through Sangre de Cristo Mountains was enough, and that                                                           wild musky scents on my body after            long nights of dreaming could                                                        unfold me to myself.                 I thought my dance alone through worlds of odd and eccentric planets that no one else knew       would sustain me. I mean                                                     I did learn to move                                                                                       after all    and how to recognize voices other than the most familiar.           But you must have grown out of                                                                      a thousand years dreaming               just like I could never imagine you.                         You must have                                                    broke open from another sky to here, because                             now I see you as a part of the millions of     other universes that I thought could never occur        in this breathing.                                       And I know you as myself, traveling.   In your eyes alone are many colonies of stars                                                              and other circling planet motion.                                           And then your fingers, the sweet smell                                            of hair, and                                                                 your soft, tight belly.       My heart is taken by you                        and these mornings since I am a horse running towards a cracked sky where there are countless dawns                                                      breaking simultaneously. There are two moons on the horizon and for you                     I have broken loose. III. Drowning Horses She says she is going to kill herself. I am a thousand miles away. Listening.                   To her voice in an ocean of telephone sound. Grey sky and nearly sundown; I don't ask her how. I am already familiar with the weapons: a restaurant that wouldn't serve her, the thinnest laughter, another drink. And even if I weren't closer to the cliff edge of the talking wire, I would still be another mirror, another running horse. Her escape is my own. I tell her, yes. Yes. We ride out for breath over the distance. Night air approaches, the galloping other-life. No sound. No sound. IV. Ice Horses These are the ones who escape after the last hurt is turned inward; they are the most dangerous ones. These are the hottest ones, but so cold that your tongue sticks to them and is torn apart because it is frozen to the motion of hooves. These are the ones who cut your thighs, whose blood you must have seen on the gloves of the doctor's rubber hands. They are the horses who moaned like oceans, and one of them a young woman screamed aloud; she was the only one. These are the ones who have found you. These are the ones who pranced on your belly. They chased deer out of your womb. These are the ice horses, horses who entered through your head, and then your heart, your beaten heart. These are the ones who loved you. They are the horses who have held you so close that you have become a part of them,                          an ice horse galloping                 into fire. V. Explosion The highway near Okemah, Oklahoma exploded                                                           They are reasons for everything Maybe             there is a new people, coming forth                         being born from the center of the earth,                         like us, but another tribe. Maybe             they will be another color that no one                         has ever seen before. Then they might be hated,                         and live in Muskogee on the side of the tracks                         that Indians live on. (And they will be the                         ones to save us.) Maybe             there are lizards coming out of rivers of lava                         from the core of this planet,                                                               coming to bring rain                         to dance for the corn,                         to set fields of tongues slapping at the dark                         earth, a kind of a dance. But maybe the explosion was horses,                                                          bursting out of the crazy earth near Okemah. They were a violent birth, flew from the ground into trees                                                         to wait for evening night mares to come after them:                         then                 into the dank wet fields of Oklahoma then                 their birth cords tied into the molten heart then                 they travel north and south, east and west then                 into wet while sheets at midnight when everyone                         sleeps and the baby dreams of swimming in the                         bottom of the muggy river. then                 into frogs who have come out of the earth to                         see for rain then                 a Creek woman who dances shaking the seeds in                         her bones then                 South Dakota, Mexico, Japan, and Manila then                 into Miami to sweep away the knived faces of                         hatred Some will not see them. But some will see the horses with their hearts of sleeping volcanoes and will be rocked awake                                             past their bodies                                                   to see who they have become.

[adventures-written]

v;; skin and bone (side; knives millions)

The injuries he had sustained from the events in July were immense. Due to placing himself directly in the stream of energy, his body is torn up and weakened. Knives survived, but just barely. His body was a mangled mess, bone showing through charred skin. His body would heal, but it would take time.

He has enough energy to form his cloak, both protecting himself and hiding his grotesque body from view. He is very tired, but his goal is to find Conrad. The man can help restore him, help him heal from these injuries.

Though, if he happens to find others along the way, perhaps something interesting could unfold.

[adventures-written]

Hearing Vash call him Knives was...strange. It was the title he had chosen for himself, one he had wanted Vash to use since Nai was dead, but hearing it come from a Vash just made it feel odd.

He brushed off that feeling, dismissing it as something he was just surprised to hear. After all, in the end, his Vash still insisted on calling him Nai. This one was obviously different. He was curious as to what, exactly, the other had gone through. What could have happened to shape this brother of his?

He made a noise, it sounded like a choked laugh, but the sound had gotten caught in his throat. It couldn't quite make it out to be properly verbalized. What happened to him? What a question.

"I tried to make a paradise, for you -- for my Vash and I. I nearly had it, I nearly saved all of us..." he grit his teeth, sharp fangs stained with blood revealing themselves underneath the cloak, "He took it. He took the power I needed from him...and I tried to take it back..."

And he had failed.

Though, even Knives was surprised to find himself alive. He had been a heap of bone and blood, a truly grotesque sight. It had taken weeks to gain any semblance of strength to even move again. At first, he had thought Conrad would come to look for him, but the man likely presumed him dead. So he would have to find the old doctor himself, so he could heal and be restored to his former glory...

"What happened to you? You are not my Vash, so how did you get here...?"

@orangetintedglasses || Continued from here.

There's a low laugh that slips from Knives lips, something raspy and showing the meager creature he was now compared to what he was before July. The laugh quickly turned into a cough as his body rejected the motion of laughter entirely. Dry mouth, charred lips. There was a reason he hid his face underneath a cloak, after all.

Still, he allowed Vash to aid him. Helping him onto his feet and steadying him with his own form. Despite everything, despite this not even being his Vash, he could never hate him. He was still his brother, after all.

"You don't have the heart to leave someone who is dying," he pointed out, "You always did protect life, even at the cost of yourself..." Speaking as though he knew this Vash. But did he not? The man acted similarly to his own. Helping him like this was only confirmation of that.

"Perhaps it would be better to kill me now though, if you could stand to. After all, my opinion still has not changed..." He narrows his eyes, glancing up from under the cloak. "Assuming you know of what opinion I speak of."

Humanity, of course. They still had to die.