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we-live-in-a--society · 4 years ago

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El Nacimiento del un Hombre Nuevo

The Downfall of Humanity – obtusely poetic phrase, prolixity, without a direct meaning, without a place, without a purpose, only a forage for youth, blatant lies; in other words – not fitting his taste. Each time someone pours it onto his lithe frame, a flame is ignited, a flash of disgust running down his body, since he believes that being an idealist gets you nowhere, at least nowhere significant, only to the Place of Eternal Disappointment.

Where you suffer.

Making sure you shatter.

And then begin your slaughter.

As the years go by, the circle completes itself, from the Dawn of Humanity and the Killing Monkeys to the Absolute Disorder and the Rise of Rats, filthy, sinewy rats that pop out of their hideouts just to rip you apart, piece by piece. Rip or be ripped – a motto of the New Order – and those who are unable to comprehend it are meant to extinct – natural selection in its most advanced form, leaving only the strongest specimens.

The Survivors.

The ones that are left to roam the earth in search for hell knows what, with endurance being their main principle, their drive towards inevitable, towards the place of unknown. Years ago it would terrify him, but today he doubts whether this world has anything grisly for him to offer, anything that would shatter him once more.

He was born in the first year of Clinton’s presidency, death of Audrey Hepburn, soaked in his mother’s tears, and that Buddha album, full title lost within the depths of his mind. It seems so far away now, not because of the twelvemonths but the variety of events following his graduation – a new, foolishly hopeful, beginning, and oh, what a fierce one in his case, carrying an incomprehensible disaster that has shaped the post-apocalyptic world. All it took was a ridiculously minuscule creature, cause of the outbreak – a single word, carrying such a powerful meaning – albeit leading to more than half of the population biting dust within the first few years.

Unbelievable, huh?

However, as the time went by, so did the slaughters, with people taking matters into their own hands, and now, depraved from any actual data, he can only assume the number of deceased, not that it bothers him much anymore, since according to one famous dictator’s words: “A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.”

When has he become this bitter?

Or more importantly, what is the point of asking a question if you already know the answer?

* * *

She feels numb, aching, detached from her body, yet present within, floating on a passage where she is capable of sustaining every single sensation, though unable to move, caught in a trap, too stunned and terrified to attempt any escape. At the very beginning she has made the following promise: I will not fall on my knees and beg, but the reliability of said assumption is not so zero-one anymore as she eyes her oppressors, standing tall and broad, with all the inglorious possibilities flashing through their minds, staring at her with full-blown pupils. The intensity of their gazes has her wanting to curl into a ball, hide somewhere deep within her soul, hoping it would ensure her safeness, take her back to a place where she would be floating free, deprived of all the unpleasant notions: trepidation, cruelty, and misery.

There were times when she did nothing else but wonder what it feels like to lose control over one’s body, forget how to fight, instead give in and accept one’s fate. She used to consider it as absurd, absolutely and utterly nonsensical

(“what if I slept a little more and forgot about all this nonsense”),

wafting on a whimsical cloud called Faith, like a thoroughbred hypocrite would, pretending that choosing to believe in certain absolutes is not, by any means, a form of enslavement, a prison with silk-upholstered walls.

And so, she has become the thrall of her own convictions – another hopeless idealist within this cruel world, idealists that are meant to extinct.

“Will you cry for me, sweet girl?” One of them asks all of sudden – the person she used to call Clay back in the better days – with a mocking laughter that sends a jarring shiver down her spine. Instead of bothering to form a verbal reply, she keeps staring at the dusty concrete, the tiny patches of grass now ridiculously absorbing; everything to not look him in the eye.

“Answer him, bitch!” Jarring voice that has her flinching in disgust, or fear maybe, frame shaking like a leaf in the dusty fall breeze. The ability to form words has abandoned her long ago, presumably at the time when they tugged her away in the alley, hence the lack of ideas what she is supposed to say under such circumstances.

He, however, is pretty far from deciding that it would be a way more sensible to let it go, and so grasps her by the neck, pushing her up against the brick wall. She chokes on her breath, head bumping into the hard surface with a loud thud that sends a reverberating ache through her body, dark spots marking her vision. With an innate reflex, she grips his wrist, trying to yank him away, but he appears to be stronger as he slams her head back, this time on purpose, to stun the girl and so put a halt to her pitiful escape attempts.

“Just don’t fucking kill her, dude,” Clay warns, his voice breaking at the end, as if his consciousness managed to spoke through the thick barrier of borne animalism. Her eyes prick with tears threatening to run down her cheeks, awoken by the icy cold tone of his voice, cumulating with the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach.

“Relax,” he chides, although lets her go, so she is able to stand back at her feet instead of the tippy-toes, “I’ve got it all under control. Won’t be any use of her if she is dead.”

“You’re right, it won’t,” he nods, as if attempting to convince himself, which is at least how she wants to perceive the whole situation, to think that Clay has been forced to participate in it, that all he is doing consists of blatant, sharp-edged lies, that he already regrets even considering it in the first place.

(I sincerely doubt he does).

“Fucking told you so,” he huffs – a mannerism of yet another expert in the infamous field of manhandling people – however still quick to dart attention back to her – tensed, albeit passive. His gaze remains focused solely on the girl in front of him as if he possessed an ability to drill into her soul, and so uncover all the layers of horror and hatred, break her down and scatter the pieces on the dusty concrete for the benefit of all the watchers.

To be honest, she would rather die than let it happen.

(You are wasting time, Fabienne.)

And so, accordingly to guidance of her inner consciousness, she aims for the only spot she could think of in such a state – crotch, obviously – not very ingenious, either way efficiently enough. As if on some comical command, he lets her go, groaning in pain as he curls into a ball

(oh how the tables have turned),

and she is left with nothing else than make a run for desired freedom, her rip from the pavement surprisingly graceful, deprived of any unfavorable tripping. However, Clay is quick to steady that matter with a harsh tug of her leg that knocks the girl over onto the ground, forcing a scream out of her throat, a never-ending cry of Banshee, in hopes that it will alert someone who cares enough to help her.

(… and other lies people keep telling themselves)

She attempts to wriggle away from his grip, crawling on the dirty ground akin to some grotesque snake, with a tunnel vision that allows it to strive only for the ally’s intel, gravel pricking the exposed parts of its skin. For a brief moment, she does nothing else but wail, like some wounded animal, as if she went completely mad, kicking anything within her reach, but actually aiming for Clay, or rather for sweeping him off his feet. Although it all appears as success-oriented pursuit, her attempts are soon to be rectified with a sharp jerk and crushing weight brought upon her shoulders, stealing another breath from the terrified lass who is now forced to face the predators as one of them flips her onto the back as if she was nothing more than a dainty ragdoll.

(Just close your eyes and you will be alright.)

(… and other lies people keep telling themselves)

* * *

Through his life, he has gotten a chance to discover that certain things never change, which might as well be yet another lie that has been made up to protect the weakest among from the crushing weight of truth. Either way, he has noticed that forming habits somehow helps us in the darkest times, when we are unable to focus on anything but the negatives: grief, longing, and abandonment; allowing us to complete essential activities, even if caught in some sinister trance where we are barely able to acknowledge what is happening around us. He has always considered it as some unconventional form of a blessing, a route to headway, an acquiescence for pursuit, and much, much more but unfortunately he has never been good with words, and accordingly so – incapable of verbal expression.

Aside from habits, he has discovered the existence of routines, something that helps him to lead a day to day life in spite of unfavorable environment, and so keep himself attached to reality – a factor that becomes rather important during survival struggles. One of them appears to be a peaceful meal consumption, picked up from home and still relevant today despite all eventual threats, something that brings back memories of the better past and faces that somehow manage to hunt him even these days.

Nonetheless, as the years pass by, he finds it harder and harder to look at himself in the mirror, knowing that he is getting older, that death is creeping closer and closer until it captures him with its icy claws, draining any remains of life out of him. If he believed in any holy spirits, it would feel relieving to think of it as a reunion with everyone that had been left behind, but he sincerely doubts it, expecting nothing but the End, la Grande Finale as his mother would say, the Downfall of His Existence – a peace-bringing denouement.

But what is it worth?

Certainly more than an interrupted meal, whereas the harshness of such severance still leaves a caustic taste upon his tongue, the one that will not last long, albeit enough to be acknowledged, and so remembered.

His ears prick up at the tearing noise: a scream, a wail, a whine of a wounded animal; loud enough to awoke a will to come up to the source and silence the person himself, but instead he wonders whether such altruistic jeopardy is indeed necessary in this case. These are not even coherent words, just a croaky, unrelenting shriek that cumulates with the pile of growing irritation, but also wakes up some contradictory inkling that he should come down and help.

Therefore, he is quick to raise from the seat, soon stepping through the doorway and down the staircase, cautious steps echoing through the empty space. Having casted an eye on the street, he walks out of the building, heading towards the now dulling sound in face of all inhuman amount of screeching, eyes following every of a few turns, immediate to reach his destination.

Peeping from around the corner, he witnesses an odd scene playing in front of him, as if meant to be regarded – two chaps, even if of relatively average build, failing to subdue no one else than a dainty girl. While waiting for her to quiet down, he wonders what would be the most beneficial way to handle the oppressors, since of course shooting them would do the trick, but the real question is whether they are worth wasting any bullets.

Ergo, he picks up a brick, testing its weight in his hand with a few careless tosses, before he hides inside the nearest building, and throws it somewhere aside, hoping that the sound itself would be enough to alert them, nevertheless remaining in doubt about its efficiency. However, and much to his surprise, their movements halt while taking a moment to inspect the surroundings, as if trying to determine whether they simply misheard something, or whether the noise was real, eyes meeting in the end.

“The fuck was that?” The taller one curses angrily, not quite managing to hide the hint of trepidation within his voice.

“Infected?” His friend dwells with a tensed frown marking his forehead, a word that never fails to settle an ominous notion in the pit of his stomach, even despite all those years.

“Fuck infected!” He exclaims in exasperation, backing up a couple of steps. “And fuck this, man! You convinced me to do all of it, and if I get to die because of you I swear I’ll-”

“Hush,” he silences the unstable lad, the one that appears as more confident and trenchant, maybe also the one that will get to live longer, who knows, “I’m trying to fucking listen, okay?”

“Fuck you, man!” He bawls, keeping up with the irresponsible person attire, much to the watcher’s interest, “I’m outta here and outta this. If you wanna take her, be my fucking guest but I don’t fancy getting eaten by any of those fucking beasts.”

His friend just shakes his head with ironic disbelief, hissing a bunch of incoherent words to the girl below him, before he lets her go and calls out to the already retreating one. “Wait!” He whisper-shouts, quite an odd speech manner if he was being honest, and springs up from the ground, quick to follow the taller one’s traces, and so disappear around the final corner.

Having waited for their voices to mold into silence, he jumps through the empty window frame, landing on the concrete with a loud thud that alerts the confused lass. In an attempt to get up and most likely run away, she somehow manages to drag her body up, but regardless of the effort trips once more and falls down on her knees, an act that is accompanied by a pained moan. He watches her with an odd concoction of pity and amusement playing upon his face until she looks up to him, scared and perplexed, eyeing him with a mistrustful gaze.

The initial notion that hits her in time with the first glance is simple – he looks older, probably on the cusp between thirties and forties, exactly like a rugged survivor would, with toned forearms and prickly beard. But what eventually captures her attentions is a jarring straight-shaped scar across his eyebrow and cheek, which gives her the impression that the past assaulter must have failed to slash his eye for less than an inch or so. Under any other circumstances it would whip up certain uneasiness within her, however this time she is swept away with a relief towards this stranger, fighting the innate urge to express her gratitude in a more intimate way, a hug maybe, since that would be rather irresponsible and quite childish if she was being honest.

“Thank you,” she croaks instead, barely managing to get the words out of her constricted windpipe, either way accepts the offering hand that he holds for her to help the young woman rise from dusty ground. An involuntary shiver runs down her spine due to the close contact, his pleasantly warm in contrast with the frigid coldness of her flesh, callous texture scraping over her skin – a notion that she finds oddly distracting.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, voice all gravel and sandpaper, letting go of her hand as soon as she stands up on her feet again, watching her wipe the dust from her clothes.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” she chuckles nervously, refusing to look him in the eye now, her gaze sweeping over the surrounding in an annoyingly swift manner, before she finally meets his browns, much to his relief.

“Then don’t say anything,” he shrugs, not a relatively nice phrase, but either way he has got a point and she feels obligated to bear with it. Being honest here, he appears to be one of those harsh, unpleasant people to spend time with, but she, in turn, seems to be deprived of any decent alternative, certain that she has to convince the stranger into taking her in, at least for a couple of weeks until they reach another city where new opportunities will drop, allowing her to depart eventually.

“Um, okay,” she hums in agreement, still visibly tensed around him, which does not manage to slip past his attention. “Can we at least go somewhere less exposed?”

“We?” His eyebrow perks up – a display of partial incredulity. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m going back alone.”

“What? Why?” She utters, anxious as ever, since he must be overreacting at least for a tiny bit. “I won’t bother you, I promise. It’s just- I’ll probably be dead by tomorrow if you leave me here, and it all would be for nothing.”

“No,” he refuses with blatant simplicity, another ugly, harsh word that almost causes her to burst into tears due to all the pent-up emotions.

“Even if I promised I would leave you alone in the morning?” She tries once again, barely managing to swallow the thick lump down her throat – a telling sign of an approaching cry.

(She won’t.)

“No,” he repeats, already annoyed and anticipating their separation.

“But-” she begins – a fact that remains seemingly unnoticed by the harsh man as he walks past her, aiming for the ally’s intel. “Oh, great.”

He leaves her no other choice than follow him, despite his surly attitude and moderate approach, in face of the inevitable death that awaits her somewhere in the creeping night’s shadows. She is well-aware of the fact that he was the one who threw the brick, and the action itself wakes up something within her – an emotion so intoxicating that it feels crushing upon her chest – unable to be named

(calm down),

but worryingly influencing.

Throughout all these years, spent in strangling solitude, she has felt some foreign urge to mate with someone, and thus create at least a makeshift substitute for so-called family, unable to resist another opportunity – genesis of her personal damnation, nail in the coffin, but oh so terribly desired. In certain moments she finds herself unable to resist the sudden temptations, driven by a distinct, innate urge to carry on, in search for the necessary fulfilment, safety, and peace, while other times she is swept away with a lancing wave of anxiousness, an inkling that it would be foolish to pursuit, harmful even, that she would regret it later on, albeit not today.

Today she wishes to make it all happen.

Therefore, she follows him, jogging by his side to match the strides, seemingly exaggerated in length but either way bearable, despite his unpleasant tendencies to ignore her, as if pretending he has gone for a pondering, lonesome walk. Being honest here, the assumption fits him perfectly – a forlorn wolf amongst many, the one that rarely bothers to utter a decent sentence, not to mention his disability to see her as a human being, a sensitive creature, instead of a harmful nemesis.

According to her observations, people these days seem numb, depraved of any actual feelings, focused and alert for any dangers awaiting in the dark, or just around the corner, hid in the depths of their weeping souls, begging for redemption, for mercy. Many times before, she has heard that world is a cruel, empty place, lacking in the aforementioned qualities, and so offering damnation only – a burden that comes with blood stains on their hands, with sleepless nights, delirious wandering, no purpose, no place.

And what for?

Lost in her own thoughts, she barely notices that he has halted in front of one of abandoned buildings, slightly lower than the rest, entrance unblocked, as if inviting the passerby with a promise of a satisfactory loot

(am I one of them?),

or right the opposite – yet another threat lurking in the shadows, waiting for its prey. A dreadful shiver runs down her spine at the sinister thought, an inkling existing only to be confirmed or denied, whereas the ingenuous parts of her are putting emphasis on the former – a trait that is determined to abandon her somewhere in the future.

“We depart now, kid,” he announces bluntly, pointing in the opposite direction. “If you head west, you’ll leave the city and reach the nearby woods. Analogically, if you go opposite, it’ll lead you to the center area, but I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

“And why is that?” She inquires, frowning in confusion.

“The area is already occupied,” he explains, quick to add a brief, “not negotiable,” as if to clarify her visible doubts.

“Who lives there?” Another question leaves her lips, as if to prolong their hopefully brief encounter.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he spats involuntary, another bitter manner to catch her off guard, not attentive enough to care about possible misunderstandings.

“I still don’t get it,” she shrugs, staring at him with silent anticipation, as if she indeed expected an answer, like it would astonish him.

“It’s from the Old World,” he attempts to cuts the matter short, but she is not yet to disappoint him even this time, another query following his lack of explanation.

“What does it mean then?”

“It means that in certain situations inquisitiveness might lead to a scrape,” he sighs in defeat, but bestows her with the simplest gloss either way.

“If you say so,” she huffs, clearly annoyed with his lacking answers, but is immediate to pursuit with the plot that has been left hanging for a brief moment. “Can’t spend a night here, though? Not negotiable too? Just keep in mind that by forcing me to leave you’re practically digging up my grave.”

Manipulating is a filthy practice, according to what his mother used to tell him on multiple occasions, that he is supposed to be a decent man, living a candid life of a meticulous and conscientious person, amongst other lies, with moral behavior on the very peak of her own Pyramid of Absurd. The rules might have applied to the Old World, but the New Order most certainly does not allow any nostalgia to blossom, a penchant for recreation, for rebirth, nipping it all in the bud, drowning their wicked souls in the tears of those who were perished.

Ironic.

“You think I’m some fucking charity, don’t you?” He chuckles bitterly, a nasty manner that sends a shiver down her spine in time with the newfound realization – of course he would want her to pay, what was she even thinking?

“What kind of payment are you interested in?” She gulps, instinctively backing a few step away from him, ready to run in case it will be necessary. “Sex?”

“Your dignity must have abandoned you long ago if that’s the first offer you pop out with,” he comments harshly, a hint of a mocking smirk playing upon his lips, which might as well be only a matter of her perception.

“Does it mean I can stay then?” She ascertains, not quite managing to hide the tremor within her voice, resolves running thin in face of his judgmental attitude.

“I guess so,” he nods, as if finally willing to admit that she is rather improbable to ditch said matter, “but conditions first,” he shushes her with a dismissive gesture. “I’m rather meticulous when it comes to my stuff, which means no touching, no snooping. What’s mine is mine, don’t forget that. If I catch you breaking the rules, you’re out. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she confirms, opting for the simplest possible answer, since it appears as the most sensible too, a technique that would most likely talk some reason into him.

“We’ll see about that,” he remarks at last, and without waiting for her answer, he disappears inside the building, steps echoing in the empty space, which leaves her with no other choice than to follow him. She matches his pace, although remains a few stairs behind him, running her hand past the railing, as she climbs up to face the inevitable, with bits of dust covering her fingertips.

Moments later, they march through the door, only to be greeted by the sight of something that must have been an office installation back in the days, with a row of desks and a coach by the window, a furniture that is already occupied as if to line up with her expectations that concern the matter of being forced to spend the following night on the floor. In the meantime, he manages to barricade the door with a book shelf, now lacking in the better parts of its prior contents– void and deplorable – a flawless fit for the New World, waking up that peculiar longing for something she has never got a chance to experience but either way misses it – another exemplary paradox. She perches on the sofa, her spine awkwardly straightened as her eyes remain glued to him, a notion that he does not fail to notice, but ignores it either way, satisfied with the result of put effort.

They stick to the silence for quite a while, a time needed for her to relax on the seat, and him to eat in the corner, back supported by the wall – an action that does not slip past her attention, smell of food redirecting her focus to own discomfort. Nevertheless, she feels like it would be off top to come up and ask for a share, considering that he is more likely to refuse, not that she finds it hard to believe, but on the other hand at some point filling up her stomach would become an obligation rather than just an option.

“Hungry?” He asks, creeping in between her thoughts, much to her relief actually, in face of undisputable lack of ideas when it comes to figuring out the most efficient approach.

“Starving,” she affirms with a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her lips – a sign of nonverbal alleviation.

“C’mere,” he motions her towards with a universal wrist flick, and despite the innate uneasiness, she obeys, stomach acting as the eventual decision maker. She plops down on the empty space in front of him, good few feet away in case he might want to touch her for no actual reason, leaving him with no other choice than throw whatever he is having at her, partly impressed that she manages to catch it.

“Enjoy your meal,” he adds, a promise of something darker that is yet to come, “it might be the last.”

* * *

Over the course of time, he has managed to notice something distinctive about her personality, something that he is incapable of addressing, frustrating but ever present in the least convenient form possible, itching akin to an insect bite that calls for a scratch ever so often. In addition, the aspect itself is considered as something he was not fully aware of in the following years, but the Change has brought yet another conspicuous realization upon him.

He might be not as talented at reading people as he perceived himself to be.

At first, it appeared as a rather galling factor, a bookish example of noting more than a splendid mistake, but then it transferred into something else, something of entirely different nature – an awakening, utterly clarifying in its simple form. Swept with augmenting realizations, as sensible as any other person would be in a middle of a mental turmoil, he felt obligated to switch his lifestyle for obvious reasons.

Having someone else around is unerring to shift someone’s perspective, forcing him to adjust – a primeval tactic that comes with evolution, or natural selection, call it however you want. Nonetheless, in his case the whole process has formed some bizarre juxtaposition of two almost opposite factors – company and serenity, depraving each from the other, clawing until the bone peaks through the paper-thin epithelium. In one hand he can barely stand her presence, the fact that she is lurking behind him like a shadow, capable of remaining dead silent throughout the day, while in other hand she keeps asking questions, sometimes completely out of context, but he suspects each of them might lead to a greater goal.

Tonight has also been chosen for the former purpose, and while they are hidden safely

(more or less)

under the roof, the storm is raging around the motel, heavy droplets beating out a rhythm on the tiles – a melody of primordiality. It brings him certain solitude, a pensive longing for what he left behind – demons of the past that hunt him no matter where he is harboring, no matter where he is hiking, no matter where he is heading; always beset, caught in a trap. There are times when he craves for nothing else than hush their excruciating wails, strangle and watch them suffer for a change, switch the strict roles – a prelude for another thought to occur – if so, it would all be for nothing, all he has gone through, all he has done just to stand here today, bathed in the metaphorical sun.

All as simple as that.

“You’re quiet today,” he notes out of thin air, nevertheless drawing her attention, eyes flicking up to glance at him. She does not bother to answer, instead her gaze adverts to the side, focusing on the peeling wallpaper that for some reasons seems more bearable than the sight of him. “Are you even listening?” He repeats, a hint of annoyance lacing his voice, shaped by the blatant lack of reaction. “Fabienne!”

“I’m sorry,” she mutters under her breath, eyes meeting his for a brief moment, “I was just… you know, thinking.”

“About anything particular?” He asks as if only to carry on with the conversation – a meaningless pursuit, a silly trace picked up from society. For a brief moment, she dares to consider that he might, indeed, be interested in her pointless babbling, pursuit to reveal the answers, reasons why she is still here.

“Am I supposed to think about anything particular?” She retorts, voice distant and dreamy, detached from reality – a trait that is certain to get her killed one day. “I found some notes here while you were out, scavenging the store, and I… I can’t believe it. It all seems so absurd, like some tale that parents would tell their children, naïve and artless, unable to find a different meaning.”

“You can always just tell me what was in the notes,” he sighs, somehow fed up with her far-fetched responses as the one who rather stands for retrieving less complicated solutions, or simply forming an essential statement.

“Just a poem, but it’s so beautifully expressive,” she sighs, smiling to herself – probably without realizing it – an otherworldly, evanescent visage, “and some diary writing. Maybe it’s silly, but browsing through the Old World stuff always makes me better, like I’m capable of somehow sharing my life with them, transferring to their reality, and so become the person that I’ve always wanted to.”

“And why is that? Why become another person?” He queries bluntly, and even though she had a decent amount of time to get used to his mannerisms, he is still capable of throwing her off guard in certain moments.

“I don’t really know how to talk about it,” she admits, accompanied by a nervous chuckle. “To be honest, each time it makes me feel so empty, as if my whole life was lacking in something essential.”

Without a clue what to say, he only hums in response, a notion that he is all too familiar with, unable to depart, leave it somewhere behind, and gain that fluent speech manners that prompt suitable words when needed. He is partly aware that it is, indeed, the cause why she perceives him as a rude person, the one who does not give a fig about what she is willing to communicate, which might as well mean that her judgment is not as flawless as it appears to be in her eyes.

Why does it have to amuse him so much?

While they were talking, the heavy drumming of rain – a signature of the fall season – seemed to subside a bit, and now he can only imagine the fresh scent of concrete – one of few life’s aspects that he has always found quite pleasing. However, his attention is quick to switch back to her, now facing the opposite wall, back turned to him, curled into a ball, as it helps her to fall asleep – probably some sort of innate wont, or maybe trust issues that deter her from taking more comfortable position.

(You would want that, wouldn’t you?)

Maybe laying down next to her will be inappropriate, but in all honesty he has grown fed up with sleeping on the floor or armchairs anytime they doss in a place with only one bed, and since his doubts considering whether she will oppose are rather strong, he settles next to her, mattress dipping due to extra weight. She flinches as soon as she senses the shift, subconsciously dragging her body away from his arm range, but does not bother to object, right according to his suspicions. While his head is resting on the pillow, eyes close on their own, enjoying the serenity of late evening, along with the subtle moonlight peeking through the thin gap between the heavy curtains, oddly unprepared for what is about to come.

“How did you get these scars?” She asks out of nowhere, a question that hangs in the air for a longer while, as if waiting to be consumed, thick akin to a morning mist.

“Fell down the stairs once,” he evades, flashing her a brief glance, attracted by the sideways movement, which allows her to face him.

“You didn’t,” she chuckles, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“I did,” he counters somehow impishly, such an unusual occurrence when it comes to him, considering he has never struck her as a particularly easygoing man.

“I’m sorry if that was too interfering,” she elucidates, apologetic smile lacing her lips. “I didn’t mean to sound rude or anything. I was just curious, that’s it, and I perfectly understand if you don’t want to tell me the whole story, it’s just-”

“I think I was around sixteen when I got it,” he interrupts, rectifying her rushed explanation that, for some reasons, was considered as adequate in such case. “The thing is, at that time I used to ride a bike quite a lot, and by saying ‘a lot’ I mean every day on the route to high school and back. It was all peachy keen, until I got drunk one day.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve always wondered what it means to get drunk in the first place,” she admits, a shy smile, finely subtle, blossoming upon her face. “Actually I think it’s a perfect example of one of those things that you hear someone mentioning from time to time, but at the same time have no idea how it’s supposed to feel like.”

“Dizzy but in a fine way, and as you might know, people’s responses tend to differ,” he explains, a clarification that she surely does not find neither detailed nor specific enough. “I don’t think I have the capacity to expound it well, since-”

“Yeah, I know,” she shrugs it off, seemingly tired with his habit of developing quite a decent amount of exaggerated explications, “it’s one of those things you have to experience to know for sure.”

“Something like that,” he agrees, nevertheless immediate to get back on the formerly abandoned track. “Anyway, while I was trying to somehow make it back home, I… let’s say… crashed into a bus stop, the glass part to be specific, and as you might already surmise, some of the fragments cut my face, while others pricked other parts of my skin, forearms for instance.”

“What happened with you afterwards?” She asks, voice laced with some odd kind of compassion, the one that she is not supposed to feel towards him, as her gaze remains glued to his profile, while he, in turn, opts for the celling.

“Well, they patched me up, that’s all,” he shrugs, casting Fabienne a brief glance that has her own elude to the side, cheeks flushed with embarrassment each time he catches her stare by accident. He would be lying if he said it never amused him to see her in such a state – caught hand in a cookie jar – while the real question is how deep she has managed to dive, whether it is still enough to retreat or not really.

He will never truly know.

“I’m sorry,” she indicates, a worried frown making an appearance upon her face.

“For what? That I was a stupid kid who did nothing else than bring it down on himself?” He huffs, sometimes caught in doubt whether it is only a matter of compassion, or whether she seeks some gain within it. “I don’t think there is anything to feel sorry for.”

“Why do you always have to such a jerk?” She accuses, a little too blatant for his own taste, nevertheless immediate to catch his attention, especially when she shoots up straight, maybe in order to get the height predominance.

“Calling me names won’t be beneficial,” he states, so matter-of-factly and much to her upset, “considering I could walk away any time.”

“You’re-”

“Yeah, do go on,” he encourages, voice completely flat, deprived of anything that might be labelled as an emotional layer, something that never failed to amaze, or rather unsettle her. She sometimes doubts he is a human after all. “I ain’t stopping you.”

“What are you so afraid of?” She practically cries out, a turmoil of contradict emotions raging inside her, only to be fueled by his lack of answer – nothing more than a constraint to make her blunder more, dig up her own grave. “That you’d let someone too close and lose him afterwards? So it all would be for nothing?” Not a word. “Everything happens for a reason, why can’t you see it? Why do you have to be so blind?”

“Less effort means more effort,” he adds, a sentence that she has heard him utter on multiple occasions in the past, something that never fails to agitate her, and so desert of the possibility to comprehend its virtual meaning.

“So that’s all you have to say?” She spats, bitter venom lingering on the tip of her tongue, nevertheless not meant to surpass his.

Silence speaks a thousand words.

She feels like it might as well be his motto, words of wisdom that he keeps telling himself instead of forming a decent, verbal reply that would please the interlocutor – yet another futile pursuit in the eyes of this odd man lying next to her. She often dwells upon what life factors he actually perceives as important, meaningful, more or less significant, the ones that are probable to make a real difference, not a mere shift like removing a stain from a fabric. Therefore, at some point of their relationship she has managed to realize that the odd savior complex, combined with his reconditeness entices her more than she cares to admit.

Shame.

Since his eyelids remain shut, she gains a chance to watch him, at least briefly, caught in such a vulnerable state – not a day-to-day occurrence by any means – a single forearm draped over his face, blocking every mere gleam of moonlight – the guide of those who got lost within the dusky depths of night. His chest is raising and falling in time with each steady inhale, making her wonder whether it is nothing more than a false façade, a serenity that is meant to hide the turmoil inside, raging storm just below the surface.

Probably not.

She sighs heavily, a sound that is loud enough to draw his attention, one hazel eye falling open to meet her gaze once more that night. He keeps them locked for a brief moment, until she involuntarily adverts, escaping the privilege to maintain the contact for a little longer, and he only snorts in response – nasal substitute for a proper laugh. He is partly aware of the thoughts hidden underneath, but has never taken a chance to absorb them in any way, rather than pretend that they are non-existent, whereas this time seems different.

This time he decides to acknowledge that the girl is, indeed, ‘in love’ with him.

(Well, that’s too bad.)

Ironically, even a person like him – unable to comprehend the diversity of emotions, considering they do not classify as anything interesting

(we see what we wat to see) –

has managed to notice the variety of her acts, including the subtle ones, from the occasional, bashful glances to the unusual concoctions of words that carry one and one association only. Somehow, he pities her, although there is nothing to be done here, despite so many aspects that are scattered around until fixed, rather than wait for it to subside, or leave her hanging one day – an action that would lead to bilateral loneliness, something that he is not quite certain he is willing to restore. Maybe traveling with someone else is nothing more than yet another developing habit, paired with an urge to spend time with certain person, seemingly unable to switch back to the Life Before.

(People get used to everything.)

“I’m going to sleep,” the exclamation that slices through the mist of silence, thick, and laced with something that he cannot quite place, a hint of expectance maybe, so he remains speechless, allowing her to continue.

But it never comes, so instead he opts for the simplest, old-fashioned, “sleep tight,” immediate to turn around on the side, curling into a ball, more or less, since it helps to maintain body heat – something that he had a questionable pleasure of testing on the course of multiple freezing nights – eyes closing on their own.

(You know what they say, Craig...)

Silence speaks a thousand words.

* * *

A mere brush upon his shoulder, a faint shuffling sound, dim moonlight shining through the thin gap, or rather the concoction of three factors is what appears to be the cause of his abrupt awakening. He springs up in alarm – another habit developed throughout all these years – eyes scanning the room with meticulous precision, at least as much as the circumstances allow him to, in search for a factor that appears to exist apart of usual room components.

Unable to perceive anything significant, his gaze eventually lands on a silhouette beside him - a girl lying on her side, hand tossed carelessly on the spot previously occupied by him. He sighs in relief as soon as the newfound realization sweeps upon him, the one that brings final denouement – her accidental slap had to be the cause of said awakening.

With cleared out mind, he focuses more distinctly on Fabienne, lying on the side, face turned towards him - an unmissable opportunity to study her visage, since such behavior would not be tolerated on daily bases. At the current blink, she appears as otherworldly, lost within the depths of her own mind, somewhere far, far away, not that he finds it hard to believe, since it forms quite a common association – dreaming equals traveling.

Ironic.

At first, he considers, quite strongly, waking her up, but then another thought occurs, an inkling, driven by intuition, or rather opportunistic nature, that he might, in fact, abandon her now if he really wanted. She will not even notice his departure, remaining asleep, safe in her on dreamscape, left to uncover the truth in the morning as light paints her face, taking away all false beliefs.

Why does it have to be so tough then?

Stepping out if the door is almost effortless in physical matter, walking down the stairs also, heading down the streets joins the gathering, now of three. It is almost absurd, how incapable of admitting certain actualities he is, a grown-up man and still afraid of words – lines of letters on the newsprint. He is a blind man, a liar, lost within his own illusion, simplifications, an expert in covering up the verity, but what for?

Suffering?

No.

A feeling that is foreign, without a proper word to address it, impossible to be described, but ever present in his life, marking him like the glass once did.

(I don't want to die without any scars.)

(Sardonic, cynical, caustic…)

Ironic.

As if with a mind of its own, his hand hovers over her body, muscles twitching with anticipative tension, clueless about what he is willing to do, without a plan for a change. After a few haywire moments, filled with offbeat anticipation, his fingers twirl through her hair, carefully brushing out a few stray tangles. She flinches in response to the touch, and for one fatal moment he is certain she is just about to wake up, frozen on the spot, hand still in between her strands, nevertheless she is quick to relax, which prompts him to resume.

Truth to be told, he has always found her enticing – petite girl with delicate nose and nimble fingers – so innocent and even prettier, oddly fitting in his tastes. Over the course of time, he has learned to admire her as a woman, or rather not silence the encouraging whispers, whereas the desire to perceive himself in terms of a decent man, full of unspoken virtues, righteous and worthy, never made it less challenging. ‘Twisted morality’ is what some people like to call it – remaining pure yet flawed, endless attempts, frustrating pursuits, sleepless nights – and while it might be considered interesting, he has never been able to comprehend why. It carries the truth about him – he has failed and he has failed spectacularly, squandering many years of self-improvement and abnegations just to look twice at the wrong person that has never supposed to attract his attention in the first place.

Who would have told she would be the one to drag him down?

“First time?” A voice that slices through silence, exclamation in a quiet room, in the gloomy night, uttered for him and him only, and as any sane man in his place would, he almost jumps out of his skin, caught hand in a cookie jar. Without a clue about what he is supposed to say, he only stares at her as if he could not believe she was real, awake, and speaking – a passerby from a parallel reality.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” ah yes, back on track and as believable as always.

“Whatever, Craig,” she tosses him a careless glance, “you might as well keep lying to yourself, as you presumably have done your whole life, or admit what’s been on your mind all this time so we could have the ‘adult’s talk’.”

“Is that what you want?” He huffs, voice laced with a blossoming hint of impatience. “Are you even aware of what does it mean?”

“What means what?” She raises to his level, eyes locked, not the one to look away for a change.

“Doesn’t matter,” he sighs heavily, all of sudden reminding her of an old man, tired with temporal life, too yellow to end it albeit too exhausted to keep it up.

“No,” she shakes her head in disbelief, an ugly furrow marking her forehead; for some reasons he has never liked when girls frown, “it does, believe me.”

“That’s not a determinant,” he retorts drily, voice flat akin to his judgments, “since apparently everything matters to you. But if you-”

Before he gets a chance to finish his sentence, her lips are on his, kissing him with some unplaceable, fierce passion, all while he is too stunned to react, caught in delirious unawareness. Time seems to halt for a moment – parallel lines that collide – where impossible becomes possible, where everything melts together just to come into being as a formless… pulp.

Sounds lovely.

However, in reality it takes nothing more than a few brief seconds for her to pull away, leaving him in bewilderment , mouth agape as if he forgot shutting it lies within his abilities. He stares at her in disbelief, and she cannot help but look away, flushed in embarrassment

(what have I done?)

hands folded on her lap, akin to a child waiting for a reprimand. Whatever that display was, it is already gone, the confidence, the exasperation, the vehemence, and she is back to her old self – the rapid downfall following every climax.

“Why did you kiss me?” He manages to utter after a few longer moments of silence, no accusation, no vexation, just plain, old formlessness.

She gulps.

“No reason?” He reiterates, this time with a hint of annoyance lacing his voice, unusually expecting more than yet another evasive answer.

(We desire what we cannot provide.)

“What is it?” He repeats, bitter, impatient, awaiting. “Cat’s got your tongue?”

“I’m sorry,” she mutters under her breath, glancing at him as if to ascertain that he is still eyeing her with the same displeased expression, “I shouldn’t have. It was kinda inappropriate to say the least, and I’m just… sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he holds her gaze for a brief moment, a hint of what might as well be a smile lacing his lips, “you probably won’t like it, but we can always pretend like it never happened.”

“You’re right,” she agrees, “I won’t like it.”

“So what do you expect me to do about it instead?” He inquires – a question with determined answer – locking eyes with her, and this time she does not attempt an escape. There is something offbeat hidden within her gaze, something that he has never seen on her, feminine but fatale in consequences, and part of him lives for it, soaks it up like a sponge. Thirst and longing is what speaks through him, takes control over his mind – the steering wheel – in order to crash the car if given half a chance – regret-bringing attempts, vain abnegations.

“I want you to…” she halts, as if pondering her next words, picky and never meant to be satisfied, “to, um… consummate our relationship.”

Euphemisms are useless.

“Foolish girl,” he jeers, but she opts for ignoring it, aiming for the long-awaited denouement rather than yet another argument, “you have no idea what you’re asking for, do you.”

Not a question by any means.

“Let’s just give it a try and see where it’ll take us, ‘kay?” She proposes, scooting a little closer to him, knees touching – the simplest of contacts that sends a subtle shiver down his spine. “Say something, please.”

“Okay,” he agrees carefully, slowly uttering the given word, “but I ain’t gonna fuck you, and you won’t ask for that.” Being honest here, she is not sure whether she likes the authoritarian order. “Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal,” she nods, throat parched and mind foggy all of sudden – unable to come up with a more descriptive answer.

“Come here then,” he bids, patting his thigh – a non-verbal encouragement that might be required sooner than later – as he leans back to rest comfortably against the wall. She follows his command, inching closer and closer towards him until he is able to direct her the rest of the way, settling her on his lap with a bit of help from the girl.

He troubles with recalling the last time he had someone in such position, months maybe, her body heat prominent despite two layers of clothing, fueling him up more than he cares to admit. He should not have even considered it in the first place, agreeing to her proposition, laying down on the bed, letting her join his voyage – mistakes and misjudgments, piling up until he is incapable of seeing the very top one.

(You won’t see anything afterwards, we’ll take care of it.)

“How far are you willing to go?”

(Ha! How diplomatic.)

“I don’t know, really,” she chuckles quietly, or rather nervously, her gaze adverting to the side, “and honestly, I have no idea what ‘far’ means.”

“Fine then,” he brushes off, voice distant, as if the information was yet to reach his comprehension, while his fingers seem preoccupied with her hair again, combing it gently to the side. “Let’s try it differently. Will taking off your clothes be an issue for you?”

“Partly yes,” she admits, nevertheless immediate to rectify her words, just as he suspected, “but not entirely. You know what I mean, right?”

“Perfectly,” he ascertains, with a barely noticeable smirk playing upon his lips – a factor that changes everything about his visage, almost everything to be exact, the glint in his eye that she is unable to place, seemingly mere nuance, yet perspective-shifting. At this point Fabienne is positive she will never forget said countenance – a hunter within a dream, prayer of the night, craver of oblivion, wayfarer without a guide, guide of a wayfarer – one and one man only.

Craig.

The man that currently takes away her privilege to respond, kissing her once again, tasting her lips with cautious precision, as if he had every intention to memorize all those unfamiliar

(not for long)

parts of her, yet to be discovered. As the caress is deepening, his hands slide lower until they settle on her waist, squeezing the soft flesh with enough pressure to receive a breathless, feminine gasp that awakes something within him, a part that has been meticulously buried down, not meant to be dug out, at least not by her.

Despite being barely able to perceive what is happening around him, he still manages to sense how her hands glide smoothly through his longish hair, tugging at the strands for the slightest bit, most likely fueled by carnal frustrations, eliciting a muffled groan from him. The gesture, even if innate and quite hackneyed, is the cause of his abrupt lounge backwards, leaving her in bewilderment, caught off guard, as she keeps their gazes locked, ignoring the fiery blush marking her cheeks.

“Can I touch you?” he rasps, voice huskier than usual, a mundane change that appears to be enough for an almost foreign sensation to blossom in the pit of her stomach, something that rarely invades her body. At this peculiar moment he looks akin to a lunatic – delirious and mind-swept – with restless eyes, heavy breaths, mussed hair – a personification of lust-ridden instabilities that billow in the confinement of his soul, retreating his ability to think straight, to perceive the reality in the way he once used to.

He is a broken man.

(Was, is, and will be.)

She only nods her head, considering the ability of forming words to have abandoned her lately, to which he responds, or rather his body does, as if having a mind on its own, with one of his hands slipping underneath the beige sweater, eliciting a wave of goosebumps, as the pads of his fingers tease the bare flesh. He traces the protruding lines of her ribs, entranced with how they expand in time with each shallow pant, following the path up until he meets with one if her breasts, dragging the very pad of his fingers over the pert nub. She flinches at the contact, attempting to scoot away from him in the first reflex, but he holds her steady with a firm grip of her hip, drawing a breathy gasp from the lass that is immediate to transmute into a quiet, feminine moan.

“Do that again,” she begs softly, her voice small in the empty room, echoing through the long-lived walls akin to a promise of something fresh to perceive, something from the Old Days. ”Please.”

Mere word, breathless promise, bashful request – minuscule nuances that transfigure the whole concept, a potency of mysterious and misunderstood, never meant to be explained – something that remarks certain aspects of his life. She seems to agree with him on this one, idealism be damned, and in face of his lacking responses, she opts for taking the matter in her own hands, covering his own and squeezing afterwards, her eyes falling shut for a moment. Much to her relief, he decides to go along with her, showering her with variety of contradictory sensations, from gentle brushes to harsh tugs that have her squirming in his lap, as her hands ball into fists, clutching on his t-shirt.

She appears as desperate, beyond such to be exact, doe eyes staring at him, now filled with carnal admixtures, foreign in its salacious nature, irking him to pursuit, to break the promise, to take her as soon as possible, before she turns to dust; to relish the moment, and so finally be able to achieve the long-craved gratification. It takes a shorter amount of time than ever implied or expected for all inhibitions to leave his mind, to slip away through the thin gap that separates the door from dusty floor, float into the night.

(She is the devil.)

Gradually, he lifts up her sweater, exposing the sliver of flat stomach, pale skin contrasting with dim moonlight, while the other hands still teases the plush flesh of her breasts. She arches towards his touch, as if in an attempt to minimalize the distance, insatiable and aching for more – mercy that he is willing to deliver.

In accordance with the prior assumptions, he tugs the garment up, coaxing her to remove it the rest of the way, to which she complies, unusually so, tossing it aside on the mattress briefly afterwards. In a reflex that outruns anything else within the dazed man’s mind, his had traces the creamy skin, painting it with invisible strokes that only increase the burning in her core. Truth to be told, she is still a bit too skinny, nevertheless appearing healthier than at the very beginning of their

(damnation)

journey, with more flesh than bones to hold onto. She remains silent throughout the process, with mouth slightly agape and eyes half-closed, until his lips attach to the tender skin below her ear and suck, not enough to leave marks

(yet)

but to redirect her attention, to the point where she utters a soft gasp, tangling her fingers within his hair as if urging him to do pursue.

“I’ve always dreamed of something like this,” she admits, her voice distant, lost between the traces of past, somewhere far away yet ever present. Maybe she is expecting an actual answer this time, however he feels like it would be crude to break the silence, to wash away the calmness, to disrupt the night’s creatures, so he only hums in response, acknowledging that he is, indeed, paying attention. “Craig?”

(He’s not much attentive, isn’t he?)

“Any particular requests you have in mind?” He purrs against her skin, gruff, sending a shiver down her spine.

“Yes,” she nods, retreating a dash from him to meet his eyes, foreheads bumping as she leans into him, free and unrestrained, nipples brushing against his t-shirt distinctly enough to fuel the restless throbbing between his legs.

“Such as…?” He almost groans, all of sudden finding it harder to focus, caught off guard by a mere scrape – details that shift the whole perception.

“Fuck me,” she purrs against his lips, tongue darting out to taste the plush flesh – an act that he would consider ostentatiously vulgar under any other circumstances, however this time he catches himself wishing to experience it once again.

“No,” he counters despite the aforementioned impulse, left to watch how the alluring expression drain from her face, making a place for newfound frustrations and disappointments to blossom.

“Why?” She snorts, not bothering to hide the blunt disappointment as she departs from him, albeit remains settled on his lap for obvious reasons. “Because all of sudden you have some moral values?” No answer. “You think I’m some tart without a taste and self-respect that would jump into any opportunity to fuck someone?”

“That’s not the case and I think we both know that,” he evades, as smoothly as always, his hand brushing her hip in a manner that might be almost considered as gentle, or even sweet, distracting her for a brief moment.

“Then what’s the case?” She inquires, a hint of desperation lacing her voice, carrying all of her inhibitions, all resentments – the evidence of her frailness.

“I think it’s too soon for you,” he explains, all while his thumb is rubbing tiny circles on her skin, leaving a tingling trait behind that somehow manages to break the train of thoughts once more. “I’m not trying to say we can’t fool around from time to time, only that you should wait for someone else, someone more… meaningful to you.”

“You’re such a hypocrite,” she huffs in annoyance, swatting his hands away as she speaks. “Do you even believe in any of it? Honestly.”

“My beliefs aren’t important,” he sighs, suddenly giving her the same impression as before – tired and old, rugged and seasoned, already on his way to reach the inevitable.

“Then why you-”

Depraving her of any chances to finish the sentence, he joins their lips for what was supposed to be nothing more than a chaste kiss, but she manages to break his resolve once again that night, tongue darting out to get a proper taste. It is electrifying, rich, dazing, combined with the manner that she flicks her tongue over his, branding his mind more efficiently than any incandescent rod, a memory never to be wiped. He almost groans in relief when she throws herself into his arms once more, molding her body into his, breasts pressed against his chest in a way that must be painful for such a petite, tender girl, with only the thin cotton of his tee separating their heated skins.

Neither of them exchange a word

(they can only do harm)

after they break apart, and instead, his arms fly up to remove the troublesome barrier that is his t-shirt, exposing his flesh to the judgmental moonlight that only emphasizes the firm physique. Surely not the sublime built man, albeit slim, with nicely shaped muscles, enough to appear as fit and masculine in her eyes, creating an image of something that is certain to hunt her in the few following nights.

She wants to lick him all over.

But yet, she opts for running her hand down the freshly exposed flesh, enjoying the simplicity of said gesture, the smoothness of his skin, sparse hair slipping through her fingers as she rakes them down, scratching his skin as she goes. What bothers her more is the linear pattern of various scars, paining him like an inferior artist would, their texture coarse beneath her fingertips. She cannot help but wonder what kind of story they hold, laced with obnoxious dramatism, or maybe unobtrusive suffering – an answer that he is unable to provide.

(“Better keep our histories to ourselves.”)

Preoccupied with exploring what he has to offer, she fails to notice how his hands shift from the innocent place around her waist to the crease between her thighs, undoing the zipper of her trousers with a graceful flick of his wrist. Without giving her a chance to realize what is happening, as if caught in some lustful trance, he pushes past the fabric barrier, and she jerks at the contact, even if not direct, nevertheless not protesting.

Instead her arms fly up to grip his shoulders for more stable position, her hips raising up – a wordless command for him to push her jeans down the rest of the way. He complies without a word of protest, quick to toss the garment on the mattress, eyes glued to the smooth skin, the contrast it creates in comparison with the dark material of his pants.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” she interrupts herself with a flurried chuckle, “but I’ve never been this nervous.”

“Not much surprising, isn’t it?” He mutters into her hair, holding the trembling body in his arms, fingers grazing her sides in a leisure manner, until she departs from him on her own, doe eyes staring right into his own as if in an attempt to gaze into his soul, to uncover all the impure thoughts he had about her. “But we don’t have to do it if you’re not ready.”

“That doesn’t sound convincing,” she giggles – a reminiscence of all those silly, unstable girls he had a dubious pleasure to interact with multiple times in the past, “and I also think you know what my answer will be.”

“Should I take it as ‘yes’ then?” Nod. “Say it.”

“Yes,” she gulps, invaded with a notion that her declarations appears overly terminal for her own tastes, arising a wave of sudden uneasiness that never fails to sweep Fabienne of her feet.

“Then roll over,” he prompts with a subtle bow – an implication for her to move in a right direction, an inkling that she will feel more comfortable without looking directly into his eyes.

“What?” She shakes her head for the slightest, probably to meet with reality once again, to wipe out the hazy smile currently lacing her lips, unusually confused.

“Just face the wall,” he reiterates, to which she complies, following the path he has set from her, finally laying back to rest against his chest. His arms raise to encircle her waist, one hand settling on her hip, tips of his fingers dipping just below the waistband to tease the sensitive skin there, while she ignores the urge to jerk away from his grip.

She has never been this aware of her body, in a fragmental sense of course, perceiving each part individually, as if her skeleton was not a construction of two hundred and six bones, but instead each one of them was a separate organism. Probably the last aspect that sex is referred to on daily basis, but she has grown to embrace the occasional weirdness that is carried within her thoughts, pushing the unpleasantness in the back of her mind, burring it among other displeasures.

(Reality is a prison.)

While she is maneuvering between the cogitations, his fingers skim past the fabric until they reach the soft crease between her thighs, warm wetness that covers the very tips. She gasps at the alien sensation, fighting the foreign urge to jerk her hips, and instead opts for gripping his forearm, unnecessary tight, but the notion is yet to reach any of their minds, occupied with the Things of Greater Matter.

He is the one to come to senses first, woken up by an irritant stab of pain, caused by her nails, beginning with the simplest of touches, a mere brush over her clit that sends a jolt of electricity up her spine, a tingling sensation that spreads all the way to her toes. A quiet moan slips past her lips in addition, hips raising on their own, already asking for more, more that he is willing to deliver, evident in a way his strokes become firmer, albeit not much yet, since overwhelming her from the very first shot is not his intension by any means.

It feels odd to say the least, considering her lack of experience in said department, excluding those few incidents when she was lying late at night, devoting into aspects she barely had an insight into, out of plain curiosity, not to mention that they were nothing more than a child’s play comparing to this in so, so many aspects.

Begging with the reference towards his fingertips, or rather how much rougher, much more calloused they are than hers, providing a pleasant friction that surprisingly manages to surpass the disturbing embarrassment that blossoms somewhere within her mind. Then her focus shifts to the leisure pace that he has chosen for some reasons, a factor that is rather quick to appear as frustrating, meant to be rewritten – an idea he seems opposed to as soon as her hips begin to grind experimentally against his hand, smearing the wetness over the palm, something that he is supposed to find disgusting, at least according to common decency.

But not this time.

She, in turn, finds herself in a desperate need to speak, to verbalize her cravings, and so speed up the process, yet for some reasons troubles with doing so, throat too tight to let out any words. While he can undoubtedly sense the need, he decides against giving her the relief that comes with acknowledging it, much to her despair, lust-filled frustrations that lace her being into some grotesque knot, impossible to unravel. Not even once before she has felt something in such an intense way, resonating all the way to her toes, abounded in carnalities – the incontestable cause of said concentration issues.

While neither of them is willing to exchange a word, he allows himself to focus more on the girl atop him: her breathy sighs, quiet mewls, and urgent moans – attention that she does not seem to mind at the moment – a factor not as surprising as it may seem. Over the course of various sexual encounters, he has come to one, rather distinctive, conclusion: every woman driven past the very specific point is meant to forget all those make-believe assumptions, along with all of the shame, all of the worry that is carried within.

All in due course, of course.

(Patience is a virtue.)

“Craig,” she gaps in such a wanton manner, his name rolling out of her tongue, as if she was barely capable of uttering a different word, with a tunnel vision that shifts her entire perspective, “I need more.”

“Addictive, isn’t it?” He rasps into her ear, warm breath tickling the tender skin, as his fingers simultaneously pick up the pace, along with the pressure, hips pushing up on their own to meet his movements. “Christ, you’re so wet.”

For what has to be nothing more than just a split second, his exclamation reverberates underneath her skull, resonating all the way to her soul,

(bold to assume you have one)

painting it with wicked, sinful things that block the way back, never again meant to remain unchanged, pure, without flaws – yet another part of the ever-decaying matter. It may sound depressing if put this way, and yet appears as such a perfect match for this world – empty, morose, and dusty.

What has she become?

Apart from the sidetrack of thoughts, she can tell something is just about to happen, teetering on the edge, while bracing for a jump that is yet to come, presumably sooner than expected, insides coiling in anticipation. Vaguely aware of what is awaiting for her at the end of the rainbow, she arches into his touch, willing to speed up the process – innate trait that is carried within every carnal creature, rooted deep within the simplest of structures.

And then it comes, rapid rainfall, tidal wave that hits the shore, arching her back to the point where it becomes truly painful, and yet she is unable to care at the moment, her attention shifted solely to the burning between her legs. Nevertheless, the foreign feeling, impressive in its intensity, is quick to subside, so quick that for a split second she is invaded by an inkling that it was not even real, another creation of a person’s questionable mind, whereas the leftover tingling proves it wrong.

Lost in the delirious aftermath, she shifts in his embrace, locking his hand between her legs, as if to keep him connected, reassuring that he will not be able to leave her hanging there, caught in one of the most vulnerable states possible. Her mouth falls agape a couple of times, before she actually manages to utter a word, still high in the clouds, while the downfall is rather gradual for a change.

“That was,” she murmurs under her breath, barely distinctly enough for him to catch, “quite something.”

(No, it wasn’t. You just fingered a seventeen year old girl until she came. There’s nothing impressive about it.)

(Such a pathetic excuse for a male pride.)

“Wanna do it again?” He purrs, the hoarseness of his voice sending a rapid shiver down her spine, depraving her of any leftover sagacity, but she seems too delirious to care, or even realize.

Either way, she nods her head, spreading her legs again to give him a decent motion range, and as if on a command, he picks up where he left, fingers back to gliding over the swollen folds. This time, however, he reaches past the familiar area, the very tips getting introduced with the clenched entrance. She spasms promptly with the teasing touch, legs shifting in evident impatience, eyes glued to the peeling wallpaper, as if she was afraid to look at what he seems so preoccupied with.

Men are so predictable.

Truth to be told, as her height is gradually subsiding, she experiences some odd composition of contradict emotions that cascades down her, parallel lines that break the law, life-defining paradox. Deprived of any sensible analysis, she faces yet another profound challenge that requires creating at least a reconnection, something that will decrease the sharp juxtaposition, that will smooth out the edges, knock down the wall that separates all disturbing shame from the carnal craving.

Impossible?

Well, maybe.

“Wait,” she interrupts, hand flying to grip his wrist as a simplest move prevention, a tingle of urgency lacing her voice.

“What is it?” He asks, fingers stroking her inner thigh in a tender manner that is so unlike him, as if in an attempt to soothe her ragging nerves.

“I don’t know. I just… I feel so dirty, but at the same want more,” she sighs, her gaze dropping to the hand on her leg, observing how it glides smoothly over her skin. “Honestly, I had no idea it’d be this complicated.”

“Told you so,” he signifies, a dash insensitively, but it would be a lie to deny that over the course of time she has managed to grow accustom with more-than-occasional harsh manners. “But more importantly, do you want me to stop?”

“That’s not the case,” she counters, quick to roll over – a movement that catches him off guard for a split second, jade green meeting hazel. In order to gain some necessary stability, her hands settle atop his shoulders once again, while his, in turn take a steady grasp on her hips. As their eyes remain locked, a realization sweeps upon her, blunt implication that she has been aware of seemingly since ever, hidden in the depths of her soul.

“I like when you touch me,” she admits, her gaze dropping to his chest for a mere second, preoccupied with its rhythmical raises and falls.

“Do you now,” he replies teasingly, a hint of a smirk playing upon his lips – such an unusual sight to behold. “And what are you willing to do with it?”

“Bold to assume I have the slightest idea,” she murmurs against his lips, foreheads bumping into one another as she leans in, brushing his chest almost unnoticeably, and yet the skin-to-skin contact sets his core on fire. Depraved of an ability to speak, as her nipples graze his flesh – dance of death, sinful, macabre image, branded within his mind – a promise of something yet to come – he is only left to watch as she departs from him, longing burning deep within his soul, unusually quick to shred the remaining layer of clothing, tossing it aside carelessly.

Thud.

Although the noise is relatively silent, it snaps something within him – a frail reed – something that forces him to rearrange the grip around her hips to a more convenient one, reversing their positions, her back now pressed to the mattress. She squeals in response to the unexpected shift, then giggles – a girlish sound that he hates so badly, but somehow manages to tolerate under these circumstances.

(You are such a pathetic liar.)

“What are you doing?” She asks, amusement dancing behind her gaze, as she presses a whisper of a kiss at the corner of his lips, knowing well enough what it does to him, and most likely enjoying seeing him in such a state – hair tousled, breathing heavy, so hard it physically hurts. “Thought you said that you ain’t gonna fuck me.”

“Mmm… fuck,” he groans, dropping his head to her shoulder in some display of teenage-related helplessness, a heavy sigh billowing upon her flushed skin.

“Please,” she whines, wriggling below him in an attempt to grind against him. A heavy sigh slips past her lips as her clit catches the rough denim of his jeans, uneven nails digging into his shoulder blades in response to the intense stimulation. “Don’t you feel how wet I am?”

(I do, perfectly.)

“I’m sorry, honey, but the answer is no,” he demurs, with intents to sound apologetic rather than hypocritical, nevertheless managing to fail on every front possible. In face of a clear ability to sense his inner turmoil, her hands slips into his hair, dragging him down until their lips collide, hips grinding in slow, sensual circles, moaning into his mouth, as he responds to the kiss, tongue flicking against hers. Blushing at the thought that concerns what she is about to do, her hand reaches between her legs, tapping his hip on a way to redirect his attention, until her fingers glide over the swollen folds, eliciting a breathless sigh as an innate response to the gentle stroke.

Distracted enough, he breaks away, gaze adverting down, only to be greeted by the sight of her subtle caresses, something that sends a violent shiver down his spine, nevertheless subsided as soon as another thought occurs.

Cheap eroticism is what she indicates.

And he loathes cheap eroticism.

(Such a pathetic liar…)

She whimpers softly as his eyes skim over her form in a scrutinizing manner that she finds oddly arousing, ticking her nerves akin to grass while strolling through a lush lea, evoking an ephemeral shiver – dubious in its existence. What eventually forms an unsolvable conundrum is the expression marking his face – a countenance of contradictories – whereas his eyes burn with something that is supposed to be called ‘lust’ – a word that lays quite far from how she perceives it, hopeless idealist within her decaying habitat.

“Fuck,” he groans, a disclamation of fatigue that is gradually untying the strings of his being, “stop it.”

“What if I don’t want to?” She teases, vibrating with unusual confidence, most likely fueled by youthful greed that has every fiber of her body screaming for completion – a crack within his resolve.

“Won’t drop it, will you?” he huffs, lacing it with a hint of exasperation – an obvious attempt to sound steady and terminal, nonetheless entirely futile, considering the betrayal of his own voice: rough like a sandpaper, breathy at the end. “Fine then. I’ll give you what you’ve been bargaining for oh so desperately, but under one condition,” no answer, “You won’t pull that shit on me ever again. I’m genuinely fed up with your manipulative tendencies.”

“Anything, Craig,”

(Who is lying now, huh?)

she sighs, hands dropping on her stomach akin to some limp ragdoll, eyes piercing through his in a manner that almost causes him to snap back, considering all the entertaining features of the wall above.

Not wasting any more time, his hands reach the belt, fumbling with the tricky buckle for a few longer moments, until it falls apart with a soft click, soon to be abandoned on the floor. He has always considered such an act in terms of something terminal , how the clothes fall on said surface with a dull thud – transition between two phases.

Then come the jeans, all while he is standing up, especially for aforementioned act, watching her like a predator would observe his prey, gaze dark and heavy, burning into her flesh. She squirms slightly, in need to release some of the tension that he has brought upon her, as her legs close on their own, all of sudden bashful in face of inevitable. Lured by the shift, he glances at her figure, now propped on the elbows, quick to remove the remaining barrier, baring his body for her eyes to peek.

In the past he would considered exposure as a line-up for vulnerability, two equal functions, overlapping on the coordinate system, joined for eternity. However, due to the un-going process of so called growing up, or aging as some people might call it, he discovered that as every truth, it holds a subliminal lie.

(Exception proves the rule.)

Undoubtedly, some situations require a different way of thinking, specific approach, at times working out for one and one instance only – a factor that becomes a flawless example, not leaving any space for hesitancies that blossom within the insecure minds, invading them akin to excess weed on the rye field.

Whereas he is too old to hesitate.

“Spread your legs, Fabienne,” he prompts, hands resting on bended knees, the trembling of her frame now palpable on his fingertips. He gives her flesh a brief squeeze – an attempt of reassurance to which she complies, limbs tilting to the sides, inviting him in – a proposition that he gladly accepts, settling between the outstretched limbs. Her calves wrap around his waist, since she feels like keeping herself spread in such way is both awkward and rather inconvenient, the subtle flex of his muscles palpable upon her skin from now on, as he leans in more, nudging her folds in process. She is oddly afraid to look down, considering it is safe to assume that the sight alone is more than probable to scare her away – an opponent for the need to change something in her life, something significant, special even

(every snowflake consists of its unique pattern),

which might as well be yet another example of what the word ‘exaggerate’ really means.

“Don’t look so scared,” he adds, a ghost of a soothing smile passing his countenance, or maybe the result of yet another make-believed creation of her mind. “I don’t intend to hurt you.”

“But it is going to hurt anyway, right?” She ascertains, her lips sewed in a thin line, cheeks flushed, nails digging into his sides in anticipation.

“It varies how much,” an explanation that clouds her brain with even more unsolved matters, rather than satisfy her, but she takes it anyway, deprived of a better alternative.

One last glance is thrown over her, one eyebrow perked up in query – all it takes for her to give a brief nod of reaffirmation, followed by an even softer “yes,” slipped past her trembling lips. To say she felt nervous would be a mere euphemism, her stomach doing somersaults, anticipating the inevitable – yet another paradox, to be afraid of what one wants.

Absurd.

Seemingly out of nowhere, his hips snap up, forcing a choked cry out of her throat, nails clutching at his sides, hips withdrawing from his in a reflexive reaction to the sudden intrusion, nevertheless the sting appears as not quite willing to subside, at least as willing as she would like it to be.

“’M sorry,” he groans, gravel and sandpaper, rough and guttural. “Too fast?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, troubling to catch her breath, lungs seemingly unable to fit all the required air inside, so she gladly accepts the merciful halt – an opportunity to enjoy the moment, or rather examine all the merest sensations that come along: a scrape over her inner walls, fluttering pain that follows, and the pulsing fulfillment, so foreign in its nature.

To say she wants more would be a mere euphemism.

“Craig,” she gasps, engraving his name in a manner that sends yet another electrifying shiver down his spine, caught in a breathless anticipation, “do something, please.”

And who is he to deny her anything?

His hips rock forward, experimentally still, intending to check her reaction, to ascertain she is, indeed, ready to pursuit, to which she responds with a movement so innate, flawless in its borne simplicity – a push towards his body. The whole act seems so surreal to him – a throwback to the teenage years – as if he could not believe it was real, as if it was yet another dream, supposed to end up in no time – sharp, blinding finale – while he is wishing for right the opposite. Nevertheless, the conclusion is evident, maybe off-top but still obvious: the damned lass has a vice tight grip, so unfitting to the fragile exterior – a threat to blow it all up embarrassingly quickly, something that he is determined not to let happen.

“You gotta relax, darling,” he hisses through the gritted teeth, failing to contain the trembling of his own muscles – an evidence of his efforts.

(Easier said than done.)

She only manages to utter a soft hum in response, eyes shutting tight, as if it was supposed to help her focus, ribcage rhythmically expanding with each cautious exhale. Briefly afterwards, she regains the partial control over her own body, dubious in its effectiveness, however lacking in a better alternative. Still and all, her muscles relax around him, as if coaxing him to move, and he complies without further objections, hips snapping forward with a relieved groan, forcing a feminine squeal from the woman below.

The sensation is odd to say the least, revoking contradict reactions; in one hand her body welcomes it, relieved and thankful for the long-craved stimulation, while in the other she cannot help but wonder how close is the correlation between this and being ripped in half – the neighboring house or just the room? In spite of that she somehow grows accustomed with the unusual stretch, still in genuine hope that what now is just a dubiously comfortable fullness will transform into the so-called pleasure sooner than later, or more straightforward – that her suppositions are meant to be confirmed.

One thing for certain – Craig seems to enjoy it more than she does, in fact his countenance speaks for itself: eyes half-closed, not quite meeting hers, mouth slightly agape, labored breaths audible in the empty room. Nevertheless, he utters almost no sound as he rocks into her, not that she finds his manner surprising, rather predictable, that he will not outstand the day-to-day lack of words, if not for the occasional grunts she would suspect the deafness. The previously so-called ‘soft baritone’ has managed to transform into something gravelly, guttural – a change that is gradual, yet evident with every following groan, scratching her ears in one of the most pleasant way.

However, as the time passes and her focus shift more towards the commencements of something that might as well be the pristine bliss, so fussed-about, her insides coiling in a telling way, relish flicking over her nerves. She arches toward him now, determined for an increase, whether in pace, or depth – a gesture that he takes for granted, relieved to hear her subconscious purr.

“Mmm… give me more, I want more, please,” she chants, voice betraying her akin to a pack of cigarettes hidden insides teenager’s wardrobe, tremulous and desperate. Urging him to react, her nails dig into his sides, drawing a pained hiss from the man above, who is quick to grasp her by the calf and drape one of her legs over his shoulder, forcing a surprised cry from the brunette below.

As if on some grotesque command, all of the purpose air leaves her lungs, refusing to get back inside, insides clenching around him uncontrollably, to the point where he suspects he might have overestimated her for quite a bit – a matter that she is quick to rectify with the simplest of acknowledgments – a kiss, a slow, sensual kiss. Another mellow, feminine mewl slips past her lips, as if meant for him to swallow, something that still lies beyond her self-control field, and being honest here, she has been wishing to make it happen for quite a while – allow herself to be vulnerable.

The last liberty that this world tolerates.

While with him it all seems possible, at hand, licit when accompanied by him – foolish, silly lies, a factor that remains unnoticed for her own good. By any means, it is not sub rosa that she often find herself stuck within a constant dream, dream that considers aspect beyond her reach, aspects that do not fit the New Order by any means, but lead an ever-present life rooted deep within her consciousness.

Someone to love.

(Long live the idealists!)

Back in the temporal world, his lips detach from hers softly, drawing her back from the alien reverie, as they linger for a bit longer, brushing the plush bottom lip with such tenderness that it catches her off-guard for a brief moment. However, he is immediate to strive for the contrast, picking up the pace seemingly out of nowhere, eliciting a reedy whine from her that, in turn, makes him twitch in anticipation for more – a craving not willing to subside just yet.

While she writhes below him, attempting to match his pace, he takes his time to eye her once more that night, gaze fixated on the subtle swings of her breasts, desire-awoken flush covering her neck, all the way up to the glassy eyes, staring right at him. He maintains the contact, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips – a gesture that she subliminally repeats – as his grip around her thigh perceptibly tightens, fingers digging into the flesh, muscles flexing with effort.

She is able to sense the change lingering in the air – a prove that something is lurking in the shadows, just around the corner, waiting to be discovered, prearranged for her and her only – a notion that has never supposed to be awoken in the first place. Another shiver runs down her spine, as his pupils dilate even further – two pools of pitch black, surrounded by the thin rim of hazel – mesmerizing, yet malevolent – crossed by the protruding scar that has never appeared as more ominous before.

His vicious tendencies has always been quite obvious to her – nothing more than survivor’s traits that are incrementally developing as they descend further into madness, or as some prefer to address it – pursue with life. Nevertheless, the raging ardor, shadowing his gaze, evokes a wave of goosebumps upon her skin, to the point when she barely manages to fight the urge to look away, and it creeps her more than she cares to admit. The thought itself sends an excessive shiver down her spine, and while she is expecting the shift sooner than later, she sincerely doubts he is meaning to hurt her in a severe way, although is well aware that whatever is slinking within the deeps his soul lies beyond her comprehension.

However, the aspect itself might as well be labeled as two-faced, consisting of twain seemingly contradict components: trepidation that has never supposed to be a turn-on. It is ironic, indeed, but at the same time factual, more than she cares to admit, partly wishing it have never occurred in the first place.

(Some things are better left unsaid.)

(Craig?)

She would have to be blind to miss it – the glimmer hidden behind his gaze, sinister, ominous, maybe also be the closest to his true form she will ever get, the intimidating, dark, and mysterious alter-ego that might be just another prove of her dramatic tendencies.

She almost screams when he pushes her leg away and his hands settle on the junction where her neck meets the shoulder, more than certain that he is just about to crash her windpipe, and yet nothing like this happens. Instead, his mouth falls open, incoherent words rolling down his tongue, some barely audible, outshadowed with delirious passion, one of a kind and only for her to catch, to irk her ears in the most sinful way – a promise of what is just about to come.

He wishes he would be able to determine for how long he has been wanting to make it happen – another immoral craving within this rotten world – and truth to be told, he is barely capable of containing his rapacity, not only in the physical sense but also spiritual, excitement evident within his movements. Aside from that, he can sense how close she is, clenching around him rhythmically, hips raising on their own to meet his thrusts, and when their mouths collide, she utters a relieved moan, her insides spasming for the second time that night, seemingly more violently than before, which might as well be yet another exaggeration. Sadly, this is not the right moment to get lost in the sensation, since impregnating

(such a loathsome word)

her is the last thing he aims for, and accordingly so, he pulls out, painting her chest with a splash of whitish liquid.

Still lost in the delirious, post-orgasmic bliss, she barely acknowledges the change, lying boneless and spent on the old mattress, mind numb for the first time in quite a while, which might be the real reason why people are so attracted to anything sex-related – a moment of obliviousness – willing to pay even the most ridiculous, sky-high price for the shortest of intervals.

“Pretty auspicious bargain, isn’t it honey?”

* * *

A letter is all she left, a promise of a better world, carried within a fragile sheet of paper, last promise she wanted to verbalize – harsh words for such a tender lass. Ironically, she seemed secure for the first time in her life, blunt edges of defined characters burning into his skull, whispers of life that she had left behind.

They held no pain.

No, they were soaked in it, ‘hold’ is a mere euphemism.

For years he thought he could felt nothing, not a mere scrape of sorrow, fear, desperation, but also some distant felicity, distant calmness – something that she has brought upon him, priceless gift for all their years together. Still in the Old World, she used to claim ice-cream truck music was her favorite sound, always the one to stand first in the queue, while he never had that particular fondness towards the cooling treat, nevertheless accompanied her every single time in case she would hurt herself.

She was always so clumsy.

Not a fit for this world.

So similar – an explanation point,

Reason why he is fond of Fabienne.

Melodic voice, jade green eyes.

“What are you thinking about, Craig?”

The Downfall of Humanity.

Created: 07/26/20

Completed: 11/01/20

Edited: 11/03/20

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worstloki · 5 years ago

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hi i have a prompt: the hulk smash isnt enough to free loki from the mind stone, thanos/the other die with the chitauri. loki is still under the stones influence but his boss is dead, and being enthralled to No One In Particular is stressing him out so the stone decides to make the avengers his New Boss™ (bc while the tesseract is his one true love, All Infinity Stones Are Friends Of Loki (AISAFOL)). the avengers are Very Confused by lokis sudden and inexplicable desire to please them.

(This post got quite long, so I’ve put a barrier to stop unwanting eyes from having the travesty take forever to scroll down. You’re welcome.)

He suspected there were only two beings currently in the vicinity to toss him around like a ragdoll, and the mean green fighting machine was definitely the one he would prefer.

When the Hulk grabbed hold of Loki’s ankle he was hopeful that the Other’s hold on him would break, after all, hadn't ‘cognitive recalibration’ broken Barton from its influence? He did not try using magic to soften the blows as he was hit against the ground.

Loki felt the connection break, felt as the watcher’s eyes were pulled away and he could finally breathe without scrutiny. Which was fine, until he did a basic physiology check (to make sure he wasn’t hit too hard on the head) and found the mind stone still holding on to him. It was urging him to serve a commander he had no contact to and the irony of this was not wasted on Loki. The sceptre’s touch would soon fade. Probably.

He lay on the ground, savouring his victory: The Chitauri were mindless and would soon be easily defeated, the mind stone left near the portal to close, the fact that he would soon be back on Asgard, but most importantly, that Thanos was far far away from him. Loki would not be so easily captured again.

When he tried to pull himself out of the ground, (and yes, there really was a body-shaped hole were he had been left which was honestly impressive even for himself) he found the Avengers standing over him. Show offs.

This was fine though. Thor would not leave his brother on Midgard and wouldn’t have any way to get back to Asgard since Loki was the one with knowledge on how to use it. He would likely stand trial and be sentenced to death. Which was also fine (he knew several loopholes that he could exploit to avoid a death sentence).

Stark was the first to talk, “Alright you Ben Solo knockoff, get in the fancy handcuffs” he said. Perhaps not your best analogy, Loki was about to say when he felt his exhausted back straighten and found himself actually walking towards the man - something that he had in no way decided to do.

The fact that he had followed the instructions calmly just left everyone else more confused, if all 6 Avengers tensing up was any indication. So, it appeared the sceptre’s touch would not, in fact, be fading soon.

He felt himself hold his hands out for Tony to attach the handcuffs. They were Asgardian and would surely restrict his magic, which would definitely not be the best thing for him right now since he was trying to cut the Mind stone off.

The handcuffs were put around his wrists and, feeling his magic start to suppress as they touched his wrist he jerked his hands back out. He told me get in the handcuffs, he smiled at the thought, but he did not specify for how long I would have to keep them there.

He noticed after the Widow had caught onto his neck and slammed him to the ground that moving too fast would be seen as a sign of hostility, and was too busy figuring out how long he would survive on loop-holes before Earth’s heroes realised he was at their command, to resist being pinned to the ground. Thor placed Mjolnir strategically on Loki’s sleeve to keep him down - his sleeve, as if ripping through it wasn’t an option - the oaf either didn’t consider him a threat anymore (which was good) or hadn’t wanted to place it elsewhere and risk injuring Loki (which was also good), This amount of good luck was awfully suspicious.

“Why, brother?” Thor asked, as he stared down at Loki. Loki couldn’t exactly ignore the only thing he could see other than the ceiling and decided to give him an answer for the apparently sincere concern Thor had on his face.

“Because, Thor, I would rather he at least took me out to dinner first-”

Loki couldn’t see them but he knew at least Tony and Romanov would find the remark enough to smirk at despite the circumstances and Bruce and Steve would also find it amusing (even if they would not admit it). Barton’s sense of humour was a bit less dry but he could try something for that later. To Thor’s credit, all he did was act confused and turn away. He didn’t really care about Thor’s reaction. In fact, thinking about it, was finally being free putting him in a good mood, or was it the stone that was still doing something in his head? He was almost certain his sudden interest in what the Avengers thought of him was not natural… but he couldn’t say for sure, so mulling over it was pointless.

“I apologise for my brother, it seems his sense of humour took a hit in the fight” Thor told his team, “If one of you could hold his other hand I shall bound his wrists and mouth myself -”

“I don’t think you’ll need to do that,” Tony stepped forward, coming into view, which was awfully kind of him since Loki could literally only see Thor and the roof as he laid on the ground and wasnt bothered to get up, “He’s Loki, right? I read up on him a bit and he mostly avoids stuff because of the wording people use… combine that with the fact that he walked over to me when I asked, but then didn’t let me tie him it seems he’ s actually a pretty chill guy and wouldn’t object if I ask him to hold still long enough for me to put them on”. No one answered.

“That is a crazy outlandish theory, even for you man…” Hawkeye said, probably to break the silence. Loki considered his options and they were to either a) Not do anything and let Tony test out his theory (which would be true and then the Avengers would realise that he will do whatever they wanted happily and not end well for himself) or b) say something now that could convince Tony not to try it (which, considering Tony and his curious streak, would be pretty hard to pull off…).

He found an uncomfortable position in which he could hold himself up and face the Avengers while keeping his left arm pinned down. He settled for option b and hoped the norns were feeling kind today.

“Hello, I’m Loki, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced but long story short I was tortured and then forced into trying to subjugate your planet - sorry about that by the way - but I’m mostly back now and would rather not put the handcuffs on for the previously stated reason but also because I’m healing up a serious head injury at the moment and those cuffs restrict the healing.”. The injury part was a lie of course, he just didn’t enjoy his magic being meddled with (and was trying to get rid of the mind stone which refused to leave) and Thor wouldn’t leave him at the mercy of Midgardian healing knowledge… the rest of it was true enough, with the omission of Thanos, a threat Loki would only mention to the only one probably able to do something; the Allfather.

“I’m calling BS,” Clint said, barely after Loki had closed his mouth. Rude. “The guy is literally infamous for lying, and he also had that sceptre that he used to mess with peoples brains, and he was trying to bring an alien army through that portal thing, and he has no proof that he isn’t making this all up. So.” he finished off eloquently.

They all shufted to the other side of the room and lowered their voices, presumably arguing over whether or not to trust him. Typical. This is what good telling the truth does.

Thor still stood with him though, and was trying to attach the handcuffs. Loki decided to store them in his pocket dimension just to make sure Thor didn’t accidently succeed. Thor pulled out another pair. Loki neatly placed those in the pocket dimension too. Loki could do this all day.

The Captain, (their semi-leader? Loki was unsure how Tony and Steve had split the responsibility but it seemed to lean either direction at random) cleared his throat and addressed him, “We’ve decided the handcuffs… won’t be necessary since we don’t want to submit you to a hospital- ”

“And because you wouldn’t be able to eat without your hands,” Tony cut in, presumably inviting him to the dinner Loki had mentioned, and got matching glares from Steve and Natasha in returned.

“But, we have also decided to test out Tony’s theory on how you lie because there’s no harm in not trying. After that you’ll be questioned by SHIELD and sent home.” Steve continued. He failed to mention what would be happening to the tesseract or mind stone which Loki thought was funny; as if Odin would let them keep three infinity stones on this planet. The thought that Odin may not even know what the sceptre and tesseract actually were crossed his mind but he dismissed it.

Clint stepped forward and said, “Do a backflip,”. There was an expectant silence that followed as if they all thought he would obey the absurd command.

“You realise I am stuck to the ground, do you not? Even if I could do a backflip, I wouldn’t be able to like this.“ When the silence grew heavier and Clint’s ears had turned as red as they could get Loki decided to continue, “Also, I can’t do backflips.”

The silence grew even heavier than before - if possible - and Loki watched as Barton received glares from basically everyone.

He decided he should take advantage of this to suggest something that would be useful to himself and them. “How about you ask me not to attack any of you as we leave the tower?” He prompted.

Natasha decided to speak instead, “Do not attack any of us indefinitely. In fact, while you’re at it, why don’t you magic me up some coffee.”.

The request was simple enough. He hadn’t planned on doing anything to harm them anyways. All he wanted was to get on Asgard and wait for the mind stone to wear off. “Done.” Loki said, then, holding out a cup of coffee that appeared in his hand (it was from the café across the road, where ‘Nick Fury’, some guy whose lack of an eye reminded him of Odin, had been about to take his first sip) he offered the cup to her. He even winked and added a pleased to be of service thinking she would actually accept the coffee. Of course, she did not.

“I’m afraid I don’t like the way the Director takes his coffee.” she said, a dangerous shine in her eyes, “Why don’t you drink it instead? I’m sure you’d love to drink the whole thing in one go.”. Natasha smiled nicely, as he said “whatever you say” and did just that. He hadn’t had coffee in a while so he might as well take the chance to taste it while he had some on him anyways. It was hot, sure, but he could use magic to prevent it from burning him. He drank it in one go.

There was no sugar in it. Loki hates coffee. He knows he hates coffee but its not like he had much of a choice. It was fine though. As long as he willingly does everything they asked the stone wouldn’t have to come into play and take over for him. To hide their control he wouldn’t just have to do everything happily and for the purpose of ‘because I wanted to do it anyways’ but he would have to do it convincingly.

That’s not too hard. He was a good liar after all. He could easily answer SHIELD’s questions then get to Asgard without them figuring it out…

“I cant explain how but it appears your theory was right, Stark, he’ll do whatever you ask if he is physically able to do. Good job on figuring it out.” Natasha said, winking at Loki when she was finished.

If he manages to get away now they’ll stop believing the true story he told them before. If he confirms that the stone is still affecting him they’ll know for sure that he has to do whatever they say. He watches each of them as they go through the stages of confusion, awe, disbelief and then settle on ‘confusion but with an attitude that says we are going to take full advantage of this discovery’. He stares at them in silence because he knows the only action he could take that won’t change any ridiculous demands they make will only confirm him as guilty for the crimes he (technically didn’t!) commit.

Well, #$&*, he thinks.

#I cannot write very well but that wont stop me from trying #With the benefit of hindsight quotes would've been funnier #but also I felt like it deserved a bit of context?#Thanks for the suggestion!#prompt appreciated!!

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hermannsthumb · 5 years ago

Note

Please do 6 , bed sharing is my only (well one of them) weakness :)

6. we always carpool home for the holidays from college but a storm hit and now we’re taking the last room at the local b&b (bonus: bedsharing! we’re adults!)

from winter writing prompts here

bedsharing…..the trope of the gods…i could write this same scenario over and over again and never get tired of it. heres some vague professors au

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“Unbelievable,” Hermann says. “Bloody unbelievable. This is your fault, you realize.”

“How the fuck is this my fault?” Newt says. He slams the car door hard enough it shakes snow off from the other side of the hood and onto Hermann, which he derives a petty joy from. Not that it fucking makes a difference--they’re both already ankle-deep in it, both already shielding their eyes against it and squinting through it just to argue. “I didn’t will a storm into existence.”

“You made us late,” Hermann says.

“Bullshit!”

“I was all set to go—”

“Until you made us stop for coffee,” Newt says.

“I was tired—”

The rest of his words are drowned out in a howling gust of wind, which sweeps even more snow into their faces. Hermann slams his car door, too, and curses. Newt hears that without a problem. “Let’s just get inside,” he shouts over. “I don’t want to die of hypothermia because you decided to be a bitch.”

They trudge up to the front door of the Bed and Breakfast (Newt lunging away from Hermann’s sharp jabs at his ankles with the end of his cane all the while), the first one they could find on the literal shortest notice possible. Judging by the packed parking lot they’re not the only ones with that idea. Newt wonders how many of them are coming from the college, too, students or—like them—otherwise. “I hope there’s room for us,” he says.

“For your sake, I hope so too,” Hermann says, ominously.

The inside of the lobby isn’t very encouraging. There’s at least half a dozen other people shivering in line at the front desk, most of whom are toting suitcases, some of them even wrapped Christmas presents. A lot of exhausted college students, like Newt expected. One older couple in matching Christmas sweaters. “Yeesh,” Newt says.

Scowling all the while, Hermann muscles himself into line just as the door opens and more people come bustling in. “Unbelievable,” he mutters again.

Newt squeezes in behind him. He wishes he’d thought to bring their luggage in, too; if they manage to get a room, and that’s a big if, he’ll either have to go without pajamas and a toothbrush or brave the blizzard again. Neither option sounds appealing. Staying at the B&B doesn’t exactly sound appealing, either, especially not with the promise of Geiszler homecooked dinners and his actual (well, childhood) bed just out of reach on the horizon. He told his dad he’d be home tonight, too, damn it. “At least it’s warmer in here,” he finally sighs.

“Only just,” Hermann says, casting his scowl towards the door, which has opened again. He draws his coat tighter around himself and hmphs.

The good news, they discover when they finally reach the front of the line, is that the B&B has space for them. The bad news… “I’m afraid we’ve only got one room left open,” the receptionist says apologetically, “and it’s a queen, not twins. Would you guys mind sharing?”

“Sharing?” Newt and Hermann say.

“We’d be happy to give it to you at a reduced rate, considering the circumstances,” the receptionist continues, just as apologetic.

“Sharing,” Hermann repeats. He sniffs. “Are you certain you’ve got no other rooms?”

The receptionist nods. Someone behind them in line coughs; they’re not the only ones vying for that last queen bed, Newt realizes. And unless they want to keep trying to navigate the snowstorm, unless Hermann’s stubborn, stubborn ass wants to stay up in the B&B lobby all night long, they better fucking claim it now. “We’ll take the queen,” Newt says.

Hermann bitches at him all the way up the stairs to their room, and he continues to bitch at him while he strips out of his winter coat and hat, and he doesn’t even stop when Newt shuts himself in the bathroom to brush his teeth with the (complementary) toothbrush he got from the front desk. It has built in toothpaste. It’s kind of weird, to be honest. “We didn’t have to resort to this,” Hermann insists through the crack in the door. “We could’ve—”

“Camped out in the car?” Newt says. He spits out his toothpaste foam and wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist. “Turned around and driven all the way back to campus, which is also shut down because of the snow?”

“Taken a plane,” Hermann sniffs.

“Airport’s closed too, buddy,” Newt says. “This is literally our only option.” No lobbies for him, thank you.

He pushes open the door; Hermann turns a bright red and drops his eyes to the carpet quickly, like Newt’s done something terrifically scandalous. “Where on Earth is your clothing?”

Maybe Newt has done something scandalous. It’s just makeshift pjs, is all: the old t-shirt he’d already been wearing under his fifty layers of sweater and jacket, and his boxers. His wet jeans are spread out across the small radiator in the bathroom. “My suitcase is in the car, man, and I just wanna be comfy,” he says. “No way in hell I’m going back out there to get my pajamas.” When Hermann still looks disgruntled, Newt starts to tug at the waistband of his boxers. “I can go full commando, if you want.”

“No,” Hermann says. “No. That’s quite enough.”

Newt drops his hand, grinning. “Take off your stupid coat already. You’re sweating. Here—” He drags it off of a ragdoll-limp Hermann himself, then (after a second of consideration) does similarly with his blazer and sweater. He looks almost naked in just the button-up—it’s weird. Newt rarely sees him in anything that bare. “Take off your pants.”

“No,” Hermann repeats. “Absolutely not.”

“They’re not gonna dry otherwise,” Newt says. “Come on, just—”

Hermann swats him away twice, then raises his cane threateningly. Newt holds up his hands and takes a deliberate step back. “Fine, fine.”

Hermann lowers his cane.

Neither of them fall asleep very fast. Or at all. Newt, because Hermann is a blanket hog, and as a result he can’t stop shivering; Hermann, because Newt can’t as much so breathe without apparently annoying the everloving shit out of him and keeping him up. Finally (after Newt yawns, and Hermann hisses like an angry cat), Newt just rolls over and prods Hermann’s shoulder. “I’m gonna get a snack from the vending machine,” he says. “Do you want anything?”

He half expects Hermann to ignore him and pretend to be asleep or something, so he’s surprised when he’s answered with a quiet, terse “Pretzels.”

Newt smiles. “Got it.”

Hermann’s sitting up and wrapped in the comforter when he gets back. He shakes his head when Newt tucks his snacks under one arm and makes to turn on the light. “Don’t,” he says. “I’d rather it dark. Is it still snowing?”

“Yeah.” Pretty badly, in fact: the vending machine was in a small alcove across from a window, and Newt peeked through the curtains before he came back here. It’s a white wasteland out there. He can barely see the cars in the parking lot. “I don’t think we’re gonna be out of here any time soon.”

He nudges Hermann’s side until Hermann finally relents his grip on the comforter, scoots in next to him, and passes him his pretzels. Hermann wrinkles his nose at the package. “Peanut butter?”

“It was either that or the cheese kind,” Newt says. “Be grateful I got you anything.”

Hermann glares, but opens the package and begins munching away with more venom than Newt thinks pretzels strictly require. Newt, meanwhile, eats his M&Ms and drafts a quick text to his dad, just to keep him from having a heart attack when he wakes up tomorrow and Newt’s still MIA. not sure when i’ll be getting in. storm is rly bad. me and herm are stuck at hotel

Four years of carpooling up the east coast for the university’s winter break (Newt back to his dad’s place in Boston, Hermann just a short bus ride north of that, where he stays in his sister’s guest room), and this is the first year he and Hermann have ever been incapacitated by a storm like this. “Did you text you sister yet?” he says.

“Mm?” Hermann says. “Ah. No, I haven’t. I left my mobile in the car.”

“You left it in the car?”

“Well, it’s not as if I bloody well need it,” Hermann snaps. “The only person who texts me is in my bed.” He fidgets. “Besides. I never told my sister we left in the first place, so there’s no point..”

“Oh,” Newt says.

Hermann fidgets again. “Truthfully, Newton—if we never made it up at all, I don’t imagine I’d be too heartbroken. My sister will be hosting our entire family this year, and many of us...don’t get along.”

“With each other, or with you?” Newt jokes.

“With me,” Hermann sighs.

Okay. Newt made that five times more awkward than it needed to be. He supposes he should’ve guessed that there was a reason Hermann only ever seems to talk about his sister out of his immediate family of six, and even then he does like she’s his business partner. “Do you want to. Uh. Talk about it?” he says.

“Not particularly,” Hermann says.

They sit in mildly uncomfortable silence. Newt kicks his heel back against the bed. He’s about to say something very, very dumb, but if he’s lucky, Hermann might not mind. (Though, if he doesn’t, Newt can’t say the same for his dad when Newt breaks the news.) “We don’t have to go up at all,” he blurts out. “We can just stay right here.”

Hermann looks up at him sharply. “Here?”

Newt likes Hermann. He’s...weird. Crazy smart, and funny, with big brown eyes to die for, but most importantly, he’s bitchy, and he’s weird. He likes Hermann as a colleague, and he likes Hermann as a frenemy, and he likes Hermann in the sense that he daydreams about holding his hand and brushing his stupid hair out of his face more than is probably healthy. He would, frankly, love nothing more than to blow off all of his holiday plans to eat Chinese food and watch movies or something with the guy instead. “Okay, maybe not here-here, but if the storm clears we could just go back home. And. Y’know. Do something fun together.” He grins, mostly just to diffuse the tension. “And if it doesn’t clear and we’re stuck here, I did pack your Hanukkah present with me, so it’s not a total bust.”

“Ha,” Hermann says. Newt watches him worry at his lower lip. “I wouldn’t...mind that,” he continues. “Going back home. Or just staying here together.”

“Good,” Newt says. His mouth feels dry; his heart is racing, just a bit. “That’s...good.”

Hermann smiles at him, and ducks a little closer under the comforter.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous

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rainbows-fanfics · 5 years ago

Text

Two Dearest Friends (Chapter 19)

Summary:

Jack Skellington, the Pumpkin King of Halloween Town, meets Sally, a ragdoll created by Dr. Finklestein. A friendship blossoms between them as he introduces her to the world outside of her tower. Sally is falling for him as their relationship grows into something more, and Jack finds the same is happening to him.

A story where the Christmas incident never happens, and Jack and Sally find their happiness on their own.

Pairings: Jack Skellington/Sally

She shows no remorse for Finklestein after he scolds her and locks her up again. What sympathy should she have? It's all just a repeated game. His threats continue to fall on empty ears, and she's happy she's beginning to outsmart him. She's also chipper sweeping the floors as of late, constantly hanging nearby the door and discreetly watching it, waiting for Jack to burst through it any moment now, pick her up, and take her away with him. Away from this place she is forced to call "home". The Doctor discourages her closeness to the exit and demands she'd focus on her priorities instead. What he doesn't know is that she already has sorted her priorities, and he isn't apart of them. She is in the tower's restroom one afternoon, cleaning the cracked mirror when she hears two hearty knocks come from the door. She freezes where she is - rag in hand and spray bottle in the other. She sits there and listens for any voices. Then, she hears Finklestein exclaim that the door is open from the second floor, and when it slowly opens after, there is some sort of silence. A genuine laugh breaks the ice. "Jack, my boy! Up here!" Sally can't describe how fast she drops the cleaning supplies onto the floor. She attempts to leave the restroom as quickly as possible, but realizes she still smells of a mix of poison and bleach. She takes a moment to freshen up and gets frustrated at how long it takes to pamper herself. When she's finally done, she creeps down the halls with her head bowed into the shadows. Two voices are coming from upstairs, one belonging to her King and the other her creator. She finds both of them are standing right in front of her room. Finklestein is the first to see her, and he double takes the sight of his ragdoll as she creeps up from behind Jack. That's when the skeleton follows his gaze and finds her, perking up and smiling. The Doctor beings to sputter some words, attempting to form coherent sentences. "I- You see, my boy...what I meant was-" "She doesn't look grounded to me." He says, snapping him out of his fumbling. "She doesn't look asleep, either." "I - erm - well, she's supposed to be! Did you sneak out of your room again, Sally!?" Finklestein feels guilty as he shakes his fist as his innocent creation. He isn't happy that his fib is uncovered right in front of the King -- why couldn't she have stayed downstairs cleaning and save him the humiliation? He has a lot of planned for her today, and what Jack is describing is going to get in the way of everything. His pathetic attempts at avoiding such plans failed, and now he's just hoping to make his excuse more believable. Lying to Jack wasn't a very honorable thing to do as it is... He notices his struggle and tilts his skull with a smile. "Really, Doctor, don't worry about it. I'll have her safely back in your hands before you know it." As much as Finklestein knows he keeps his promises and his creation will most certainly be returned in time, he still shakes his large head. "I'm afraid the answer is 'no'. She IS my ragdoll, and I have a say in what she's allowed to do and not do."

Sally stands by idly in the background, watching the scene unravel with worry. Could the Doctor really stop their date from happening? That Jack will be unable to take her away from here? Her leaves swell as she holds her hands together, but then the skeleton turns to her and smiles endearingly. He has no worrisome features about his face at all - as if the whole situation is under his control.

"I'm afraid this isn't a matter of choice. I'm going to take her on the account that Sally is very important for Halloween this year." Finklestein is baffled. His creation? Important to HALLOWEEN? He cannot believe any bit of it - Sally has no influence on the town or its holiday at all; he made sure of that. The apprehension in his voice is very apparent as he replies, "-What do you mean, my boy?" "I've made some plans this year that involve her wonderful talents that I think can be executed to our advantage. With her cooperation, this Halloween will be better than the last!" He looks him straight in the eyes as he adds, "-Would you be the one to stop a horrifying Halloween from happening, Doctor?" His automatic reply should be 'of course not! Take her, my boy, take her!', for Halloween is the pinnacle of their existence, he knows no doubt about that, and his reputation in the town will be shattered if he shows anymore disinclination of helping the King with his plans...Yet, Finklestein simply cannot get the shaky feeling off of his shoulders that something about this isn't right. That he can't wrap his mind around Sally being important to Jack at all. "I show no disrespect, my boy, none at all, but...if you've been forced to the extremities of Halloween planning this year, then shouldn't you be getting someone more...sufficient? Sally is a hard worker, yes, but that's only in the kitchen! You can't believe she'll be cooperative; it's hard to get her to do anything useful around here." Jack doesn't like what's being implied here. But he's been playing his cards right, and he sees no reason to fold so soon. "Well I, for one, believe she will do a sublime job for Halloween. And once she does, well, Doctor, you'll be proved wrong." His posture deflates as the skeleton flicks his hand in his direction. "I'll be taking her, now. I'm still keeping my promise - she'll be back before sundown." Finklestein is quiet. What choice does he have? Weakly, he responds, "Yes, that sounds...most appropriate." Sally is swept figuratively off her feet as Jack turns and offers her his hand. Still in astonishment, she gently places her small one into his own and allows him to lead her down the ramps carefully. Despite the situation being so tense, the skeleton still turns and waves goodbye to the Doctor, who remains unmoved from his position above. He's staring at them without any expression. Jack turns and opens the door for her, and she is more than happy to go through them and wait for him to accompany her down. The walk down the stairs is easy, mostly because she has his help, but she is still marveling at what had just happened. How could he have...taken her away so easily? And why hadn't he done it before? Her mind is filled with all sorts of questions that they're all she can think about as soon as they are both down. She turns to him and narrows her eyes in suspicion. She means to ask him a proper question, but they all come out at once and she's left to say unsorted words. "Jack, how did you....when was....how?" He clenches his jaw and looks down regrettably. "I can imagine you have questions..." Her look confirms this, but he smiles regardless. "But don't worry, I'm not going to trouble you with Halloween. Not on our first date, anyway." "No, how did you just take me? And why did the Doctor let you?" He clearly wants to avoid the question, but this is something she wishes to remain persistent about. Not the most pleasant start to a date, but she wants answers. He caves in and replies with a sigh. "-I exercised one of my powers. I don't do something like this very often, but it was necessary in order to get you." "Exercised your what?" "See, we have this sort of, well, written rule here. I can take anyone away from their domestic or personal matters for Halloween-related duties, at my own wish." He exhales through his teeth, emitting a slight hissing sound. "I don't like doing that because it's intruding in many circumstances, but if the Doctor had refused to let you go just now, that would've been technically...well, illegal." "But why would you do any of that?" She asks him gravely. "And what if the Doctor finds out you lied to him?" "All questions I've already considered." His smile is uneasy. "I really wanted this date, Sally. And if I had to pull some strings and cause anything personal with the Doctor to get you, then so be it." He takes away her breath again as he says this. She is...worth the effort? Worth testing his long friendship and trust with Finklestein just to be with her? If she had doubted it before, she knows then he truly cares deeply about her. He hesitates before offering her his hand, and she feels like the hammering in her chest is about to burst through her ears. With a gentle nod of encouragement from him, she gives him her hand again and they continue to walk together, their fingers entwining. She's holding his hand. And it's not because he's helping her down stairs or even an awkward moment of contact when they both happened to stand too close together. Their fingers are touching each other's palms, and neither of them are letting go! Her hand starts to shake but he holds it down a little firmer, as if giving an assuring squeeze. A noise emerges from her chest, her knees buckle, and her arms feel like jelly, all which strike her at once. She can't help but look at her King with new admiration. She finds something new to love about him every day, and seeing him risking so much for her just so they can be together...like she has done for him so many times...it makes her feel special. Important. Not the rag doll whose talents are only in the kitchen, but are good enough that Jack believes she can make a holiday better if she wanted. He glances down at her to smile again, and she shivers. Everything about him is...so alluring. She shifts her gaze to look around, noticing they are still trailing around the Outskirts. "Where are we going?" "I thought we'd wander for a bit, if that's alright with you. I can show you around a little while I'm at it." She is sure she's known every way around town - the plaza, the town hall, the shops, the graveyard...there couldn't be anymore, could it? "-There's something I've never seen before?" "Oh, plenty. But that's just because this is sort of the central hill - there's a whole area of Halloween Town town dedicated to housing and more of, well, town aspects. Not so much as our area is with Halloween." More places? She's so curious to know, but before she can ask, a rock comes in her way, sending her body tumbling to the ground. Fortunately, because their hands are interlocked, Jack feels the fall before it takes her and quickly brings her back to him. She is sent rocking on her heels and places her other hand on his chest, trying to balance herself before she's sent backwards and possibly taking him with her. "Oh!" Once the world around her stops spinning, she realizes their position and shyly takes a step back. She's so embarrassed. How can she trip on their first date? She meant to be careful and courteous of her body today, yet she let herself get distracted. He gives her a patient smile, like the understanding man he is, and helps her back to both of her feet again easily. "It isn't a choice, is it?" He brushes the spot of dirt off from her dress. She gives him a confused look. "-Your clumsiness, I mean." "I know, it's embarrassing..." She squeezes her eyes shut tightly. "It's been over a year I've practiced walking, yet I still have trouble-" "Are your limbs uneven? Or are the stitches just unsupported?" He sees her frown, a troubled look on her face as she dwells about it. He feels a little guilty for imposing such questions. He hadn't meant to overwhelm her in any way - he's just curious. He assumed, for the longest time, that her unbalance was because she was stuffed with leaves; any weight she has to support herself isn't there, which is why being so light on her feet causes so many issues with walking for her. I've really been paying attention, haven't I? He wonders to himself. "I don't know." She finally confesses. She still looks uneasy about it and he doesn't want her to be. So, he's quick to find a brighter side to this situation. "I'm more than happy to help you when stuff like this happens. It isn't your choice, just the way you're made." His fingers trail gently along her own. "I think it's cute." He watches her eyes leave his own as a smile grows on her red lips. Her other hand comes to her chest, over the area where her heart would be. She closes her eyes slowly and rocks on her heels gently, the pressure relying solely on his grip of her hand. She should know this gesture compliments her even more, he thinks. As if she's unmasking some more beauty about herself. Then he notices the blush on her face, the delightful shade of pink on her blue, cloth-like skin. He's seen her flustered many times before, but now it's so appealing...where, without that rosy tint on her cheeks, he feels something is missing about her. "I'm glad I'm with you." She confesses, only loud enough he can hear. There it is again. Another thud somewhere in his chest. Whatever was in his mind vanishes as he opens his mouth, and he finds himself speechless the moment her eyes come into contact with his sockets. He takes a deep breath and manages to break away his stare from her, the ground looking nowhere near as interesting as her face. "I am, too." There's an awfully long period of silence afterwards. They continue walking down the path, with him pointing to anything notable in their surroundings. He tries to tell her a few stories or anything noteworthy, but he fails to say much because he feels so...nervous. Which isn't a feeling he has very often - he's been confident of himself and his holiday for years to come, but now that he's vulnerable enough to be on a first date with a woman he's grown fond of over such a long period of time...he can't help but get the jitters. He eventually finds she's getting tired after several minutes of walking. He stops and insist they'd take a rest. She's relieved at this suggestion and happily sits to the side with him, on the small stone fence that forms the trail. He sits by her side and gazes out into the hazy sight of the forest from afar. He listens as she grabs for something and turns his skull to look. She retrieved a needle from behind her ear, which she is now using to thread it with the spool she keeps in her dress pocket. He watches quietly as she fastens the stitches on her legs. He hadn't even noticed they loosened. That most likely explained why she slowed down after awhile. Some sort of impulse comes through himself. A feeling strong enough that he extends his hand out and asks her, "May I try?" She looks between the threaded needle and his face several times. "...Sewing me?" "Well, yes." She doesn't understand, but lends him the thread and needle, anyway. He takes it and goes on the floor in front of her, resting himself on a knee and re-threading the needle again. He hesitates a moment before puncturing her skin, and is surprised to see it doesn't hurt her. Not that he hasn't witnessed it before, but he still has this moment of hesitation when it comes to inflicting any sort of harm to her. Just the idea of it is very unpleasant to him. She notices his long pause and assures him. "It's alright; it doesn't hurt." "I know..." He murmurs. "It's a reflex. Needles hurt me whenever I prick myself with them." She leans forward in worry. "Please, be careful." "Believe me," He pauses to look up at her. "I am." She relaxes at his words, watching as he goes over her stitches perfectly. He is fast with his movements, his thin yet long fingers guiding the needle almost naturally. It takes only a minute until he's done. He cuts the end of the thread with the tip of his finger and leans back, giving her room to inspect his craftsmanship. She lifts her leg and stares at the new stitch in wonder. "Wow." Is all she manages. He rubs the back of his skull. "Not a lot of people believe me when I say I can sew." "It feels so secure, and the precision is amazing!" He smiles. "Then you won't mind me tightening the others?" She gives him her other leg out of nothing but gratitude. He's as quick as he is with the other stitch. She can barely register what he does before he's done with it in an instant. Every one he makes is straight and holds extremely well. She grins as he finishes the last one and takes the thread and needle from him happily. "They look so much better than mine...Is there anything you can't do?" "I could name a few things," He replies, sitting back beside her. "I feel so much better!" She demonstrates this by jumping up and walking around some more. She is well balanced this time, only stumbling once as she twirls around. His chest softens as he watches her. So content with something he rarely does. Sewing was just a "necessary" thing for him to do - nothing like the hobby it is for her. He rests his skull in his hands and watches her dance around, his bones tingling every time a giggle escapes from her mouth. There is something immensely joyful about her now. He'd seen her unhappy back at home and even witnessed her crying before, but seeing her in a brighter light makes him feel more contented. As if her happiness fueled his own. That's really all he wants from her, he learned. To see this wonderful woman treated in horrible circumstances truly be happy. "Jack? Are we going to go?" "Hm?" He notices she's waiting on him. He jumps up and joins her side immediately. "Ah, right. Sorry." The two continue on their way. Their walk is quiet but filled with smiles. The gestures back there lightened both of their moods from what had happened before. He completely forgets about the mess with the Doctor. All that matters to him now is Sally by his side, strolling beside him and clutching his hand tightly. For the first time in forever, he feels completely free from the stress that is most of his undead life. He tries his best to usually be happy, but the few things that tended to make him troubled happened too often for his liking. He'd unfortunately admit to succumbing to it a few times, but now it feels as if the role he has to play disappears every moment he's with her. Even the bare thought of the ragdoll is enough to bring a smile to his skull. He looks over at her and finds she's admiring their surroundings again. He only realizes he has an affectionate look on his face when Sally gazes back at him and turns a little red. He clears his throat and has to focus on where he's walking - guiding both of them on the right path to the residential area. He can't forget about their plans, as much as he wants to be swept up in her face for hours. On their way down the hill, he makes sure he's holding onto her tightly and helps her take one step carefully at a time. He feels her hand come onto his shoulder as she rests herself on him, her weight shifted onto his frame. He's the only thing supporting her at that moment and he feels elated at this trust. But when his eyes(or lack thereof) land on the buildings and streets they are soon to approach, a troublesome thought crosses his skull. He lets go of her hand once they are down and bites the end of his finger in thought. "Jack?" She asks, coming to his side He glances down at her and places a hand on his hip. "Hmm?" "Is something wrong?" He falls silent, contemplating his issue further. It's one thing when they were just friends, but it's another to be on a date in public. He can only imagine the jealous looks and scowls she'd receive as they'd pass by ghouls, and the unimaginable questioning he'd be getting from any familiar monsters that caught sight of them. Not that Jack himself can't handle that attention - it's what he does, after all - but he wouldn't wish for that much attention to get to Sally. She isn't as outgoing as him, and he was sure she wouldn't appreciate dealing with jealous admirers. Not to mention if any of them brought it to the Doctor's attention - that would stir drama he isn't ready to deal with just yet. He thinks about it some more. Can he imagine a future with this beautiful ragdoll by his side? Oh, most definitely. He can't remember a time without her - without the prolonging habit of going to the Graveyard every free minute he had and passing by the Doctor's tower while gazing at the window as he went along. It feels as if he's done that his whole death. And he can't imagine a future without her - she's brought him unfathomable happiness he wouldn't have if she wasn't here. And that's something he desperately wants to keep. He sucks at his teeth and turns to her, his gaze darting quickly behind him before focusing on the ragdoll he's concealing. "I'm going to be serious with you." She fears for the worst; he can tell by the panic in her voice. "Wh-what is it?" "Nothing bad, my dearest friend. Nothing bad." His chest aches using that term. "You know how much you mean to be, and how badly I have wanted this with you...but I fear that, with my admirers and your situation with the Doctor, we cannot exactly make this...well...known. Do you understand what I mean?" She does, but she takes it in the worst possible way. A tear escapes her eye and rolls down her cheek, and Jack panics at her reaction. He takes his handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes it off in one quick, smooth movement, and then guides her gaze directly into his. "No, no, no, Sally...You mean everything to me. You really do. I want to be with you and, by God, I'll do everything to be. But you need to understand...I do not want to ruin anything you have. The town is obsessive over me, and if they knew, they'd be jealous. I don't want to impose that on you - you'd be getting more attention than the Doctor wants, and eventually, word will slip to him..." She understands much better now. He isn't being discreet about their relationship...he is just keeping her safe. She's petrified just imagining how the Doctor would take the news, and what would come of it. She wants to be with him. Very, very much so. But to do it...they have to be quiet about it, for now. She feels a little of her insecurities bubble, and she fidgets with her hand as she slowly looks up at him. "But, Jack, would you...won't you...let others know eventually? If-if they tried to court you again, or-" "-Without a doubt." He interrupts, smiling. "As for letting everyone know, well, that's only when you're ready." The smile grows back on her face and he feels his chest warm again. He feels so much better to see her happy. The warm feeling becomes overbearing when the ragdoll leans on her toes and kisses him on the cheek, her lips finding her way to the edge of his stitched smile. His chest contracts as his body stiffens, and his jaw hangs slightly agape as she takes a step back to hold her head to the side. His body and mind then scream to him. Three words that have tantalized his brain for what feels like an eternity - screaming horrifically as they try to tear out from his skull. His eye sockets widen as he continues to stare at her, the words repeating louder every time he stands there in shocked silence. You love her. You love her. You love her. You love her. He can barely hear her voice over this pounding. "I'm ready to continue our date, Mr. Pumpkin King." It's then he wants her to stop. To stop being so wonderful and beautiful and shy. To stop being the only thing he thinks about at night and in the mornings, when he's laying in bed staring at his ceiling, wondering when he'll see her beautifully stitched face and blood-colored hair again. To stop being the reason he quit locking himself in his room and search the Graveyard, constantly wanting to see her black eyes and soft lips again. To stop being his whole world and the only reason he's happy anymore. He places a hand over his chest to try and get rid of whatever it is rattling behind his sternum. "I-I am, too..." She dips her head and motions for him to go, and he feels embarrassed when he has to take the hint and stands up straight. Both of their hands instinctively inch closer to the other's, but they both bring it back down to their sides as they head together into the rest of Halloween Town.

#long post #long #jack and sally #the nightmare before christmas #two dearest friends #fanfiction #jack x sally #jack skellington #tnbc #disney

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finestra-rp · 5 years ago

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Dear AMANDA ELODIE NOTT, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. You have 24 hours to send in your account and 48 hours after your follow is posted to be active!

Was that KRISTINE FROSETH I just saw walking down the hallways? Oh wait, no - that was ELODIE NOTT. The CIS-FEMALE is a 19 year old HUFFLEPUFF who is in 8TH YEAR. I heard the PUREBLOOD has chosen to STAY NEUTRAL which explains why SHE is BENEVOLENT and FAITHFUL, but also NAIVE and DEMURE. But who really knows? (ooc: it’s me beech! Amanda!!)

Please provide us with three headcanons about your character OR a short bio. Please make sure you mention anything important we should know about the character:

There isn’t much Elodie remembers from her life before she was a Nott. Her first memory is a flash of her mother, wearing all black and holding her hand as they stood in a somber looking room. Everything else she remembers from that night is what she’s been told. Her father died under suspicious circumstances, the funeral–however ostentatious it was–had been thrown together with very little notice and her mother was remarried fairly shortly after. Rumors were spread about the new widow and insults were muttered under people’s breath, but Elodie was too young to understand any of it. Her mother legally changed both of their last names to Nott, and though she never admitted it, Elodie grew to learn that this last name carried a better standing than both her late father’s name and her mother’s maiden name.

Despite her new last name, her step-father never considered her a daughter. She was just the baggage that came with his new wife. He left her to her own devices, doing nothing more than occasionally glancing at her when she entered a room or bringing up her name while he spoke of betrothals. To him, she was just another child he needed to marry off to get rid of. Because of this neglect, Elodie was left to her own devices, her own mother following her step-father’s lead in ignoring her. She had to learn everything on her own–the social cues she needed to follow, how to properly introduce herself and behave around others, and who was deemed worthy enough in her parents’ eyes. Unfortunately, having to learn this on her own meant that she often made mistakes. She’d befriend someone she wasn’t supposed to, or she’d make a fool of herself dancing at a gala, and she’d know then that her step-father’s negligence was far better than his anger. His anger wasn’t physical, but Elodie was a soft-spoken young girl who was far more used to the silence of the Nott manor than the loud boom of his anger-laced voice. Each time he yelled or her mother reprimanded her, she retreated to her room and sketched whatever her mind thought of until either she calmed down or her parents ignored her again.

Her only solace came in the form of her brother. Where her mother and step-father were negligent, Stefan stepped in to be support she needed growing up. While her parents had left her to learn things by trial and error, Stefan taught her what he could, he doted on her and allowed her to feel loved when her parents failed. He helped her break out of her shell and made her learn to protect herself among the crowd of Death Eaters their families were surrounded in. Though Elodie still has faith in the good of the world and those she goes to school with, she knows her brother has a more pessimistic outlook and knows that the least she could do to repay him for being her only companion growing up is to learn to protect herself and protect him in whichever way she is able to.

Boggart: her step-father, angry.

Patronus: Ragdoll cat - though, it’s difficult for her to conjure a patronus.

Quidditch: N/A

Clubs: Knitting club, Healers club, Art Club.

Prefect: N/A

Major: Healing

#elodie nott #kristine froseth #hp rp #hp roleplay #hp rpg #accepted #submission

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cheesiefoam · 6 years ago

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Fool Me Once, Shame On Me

(Also posted on AO3.)

---

Groggily, Kaito opened his eyes, regaining consciousness bit by bit. His muscles protested as he tried to sit up, body still sore from being lifted like a ragdoll. The Exisal’s grip had been far from gentle, and he was sure he’d see bruising within a few hours. However, when he looked down to check, he finally realized…

He was tied to a chair.

“What the fuck?” he mouthed to himself, beginning to struggle. “What the fuck?!” he exclaimed when the ropes around him held firm.

Then it hit him… Kokichi. The mastermind of the killing game. Kokichi had captured him with the Exisal, meaning he must’ve been the one behind this, too. Righteous anger flooded his veins as his efforts to escape redoubled, and he privately swore he’d make the bastard pay for all the humiliation and suffering he’d inflicted.

Suddenly, he heard the door being unlocked, and he braced himself for a confrontation. He eyed the doorknob as it slowly turned open, then lifted his gaze to see…

“Shuichi?” Confusion, but more importantly relief, filled his heart. Even though they’d barely been on speaking terms since the last trial, he couldn’t deny that he was glad to see his sidekick again. “What are you doing here? Where’s Kokichi?”

“How much do you remember?” Shuichi asked quietly. It wasn’t the response Kaito expected, but he shrugged it off.

“Kokichi exposed himself as the mastermind and mocked us, then I tried to attack him, but he used the Exisal to grab me. I think I knocked out after that.”

“Oh, so you didn’t hear what that came after…”

“Came after? What happened? Did I miss something big?” Kaito’s earlier unease returned as Shuichi approached him. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut.

“Well, to sum things up, Kokichi was lying again. He isn’t actually the mastermind.” Now standing right in front of him, Shuichi leaned forward, closing the distance between them until his face was just inches away. Despite the circumstances, he looked calm. Far calmer than Kaito had ever seen him. “The truth is…”

Then, with only three words, he shattered Kaito’s reality.

“I’m the mastermind.”

Kaito didn’t know what expression he made, but his feelings must’ve shown on his face, because Shuichi immediately started cackling.

“There it is! There’s the look I wanted to see! The disbelief, the betrayal, THE DESPAIR!” His eyes shone with wicked glee, reminiscent of Kokichi yet… indescribably worse. “Buddying up to you really was my best idea yet!”

“W-What the hell is wrong with you?!” Kaito snapped once he found his voice, still not quite accepting the situation, yet unable to ignore the other’s behavior.

“Nothing,” Shuichi replied, then tilted his head in thought. “Or maybe everything, depending on your perspective. Either way, I’m having fun, and that’s really all that matters.”

Fury and horror battled for dominance within Kaito’s mind, though neither did him any good. Even with the mastermind standing right in front of him, he was helpless to take action, trapped and betrayed by the very person he’d trusted most.

“It’s sinking in, isn’t it?” Shuichi smiled. “Everything you’ve stood for… all the good you’ve tried to do… meaningless, because you decided to believe in me.” Insanity swirled in his eyes. “What are you gonna do now, hero? I’m absolutely dying to know.”

---

“Shit,” Kokichi cursed under his breath. “FUCKING SHIT!” he repeated, kicking over a chair.

The others watched on with varying levels of concern, uncertain how to approach him.

“Calm down,” Maki finally commanded, grabbing him by the shoulder. She caught his arm when he tried to lash out, neither surprised nor bothered. “We need to come up with a plan.”

Unhappy being ordered around by someone who’d nearly killed him twice, Kokichi was very tempted to struggle. However, he knew it would be futile, not to mention a waste of time. The fact was that she was right. They needed to regroup and think of a way to save Kaito.

Kaito…

Kokichi felt like kicking himself. He’d miscalculated badly, and now Kaito was the one paying for it. How many people had to suffer before he could do something right? How many had to die as a direct consequence of his own plans?

“Kokichi,” Kiibo suddenly addressed him. “You were the one in control of the Exisals until Shuichi reclaimed them. Is there any information you can provide that might be of use?”

He pushed the worst of his thoughts away. Right now, they had to work together. With the true mastermind revealed, they had a common enemy, and at the very least he finally knew who among them was trustworthy.

---

“Look at you,” Shuichi crooned, brushing his fingers against Kaito’s cheek. “You couldn’t be any less heroic if you tried.” His face split into a grin when Kaito flinched. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“Don’t touch me!” Kaito barked, attempting to lean back, only to be impeded by the ropes coiled around him.

“It’s all your fault for believing in me, isn’t it? You overestimated your judgement, and that’s why people kept getting hurt. You contributed to this killing game just as much as I did.”

“SHUT UP!” Kaito finally shouted, only to trigger a violent coughing fit. Blood dripped down his chin and splattered against his shirt, even speckling the ropes with red.

Shuichi looked delighted.

“Hey, Kaito, you wanna live don’t you?” he whispered in his ear. “Why don’t you beg me for the cure to your illness? After all, I’m the one who made you sick, which means I’m also the one who can make you better.” He took hold of Kaito’s face, forcing him to meet his deranged eyes. “What do you think? Are you tempted?”

Kaito promptly spat in his face.

“Stubborn until the end, huh?” Shuichi mused, wiping himself with the dangling sleeve of Kaito’s jacket. For a brief second, he looked normal, just like the meek detective Kaito had known. Then his gaze sharpened, his hands clasped around Kaito’s neck… and he squeezed.

“Ghh!” Kaito choked, beginning to struggle as Shuichi strangled him. It wasn’t long before his lungs were aching worse than ever before.

“Well, aren’t you going to fight me?” Shuichi mocked. “You refused to beg, so I guess you don’t want the cure, but does that mean you’re ready to die?”

The realization that he was about to be killed… that the end was even sooner than expected… that the very last thing he’d see would be Shuichi- no, the mastermind’s demented grin…

In that moment, Kaito was truly afraid.

And then Shuichi let go.

“Did I scare you?” he asked, sounding almost pleasant. “You definitely looked scared.” Abandoning his seat on Kaito’s lap, he stood up and made his way towards the door. “Killing you right now would be easy, and I’m sure everyone’s despair once they found your corpse would be amazing, but… it’d be such a waste. Anyway, I’ve got some other business to take care of, so I won’t be back for a few hours. Try not to choke on your own blood before then.”

And then Kaito was completely alone, left only with his thoughts as company.

---

“You don’t think Shuichi’s hurting him, do you?” Tsumugi worried.

“We should hurry up,” Himiko frowned.

“I’m ready to go,” Maki stated, lifting up an electrohammer. “If Kiibo and I take care of all the Exisals, you’ll be able to handle Shuichi on your own, right?”

Kokichi nodded solemnly.

“I won’t let the mastermind get away this time.”

---

A long while later, though there was no telling how much time had actually passed, Kaito heard a commotion coming from outside. Physically and mentally drained from his extended confinement, he barely lifted his head when the door eventually swung open.

He sprang to life, however, as soon as he saw who was there.

“K-Kokichi!”

“Hiya, Kaito!” Kokichi greeted cheerfully. “Happy to see me?”

Kaito stared at him for several seconds, seeing but not quite believing, before his eyes welled up with tears. Kokichi instantly faltered, all emotion draining from his face.

“Uh, not quite the welcome I was expecting,” he reflexively quipped, only to trail off. Though he’d considered the possibility that Kaito might be shaken by the night’s events, to see his designated rival crying at the mere sight of him…

How was he supposed to react?

Gathering himself, Kokichi decided that releasing Kaito first would be the most practical course of action.

“I’m going to untie you, okay?” he reassured. He felt a twinge in his chest when Kaito squeezed his eyes shut, pushing out more tears as a result. “It’s… it’s okay. You’re safe now. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

Cautiously, Kokichi began untying the ropes around Kaito’s body, quickly freeing his arms. Once that was done, he got to work on the ropes around Kaito’s legs. The fact that Kaito didn’t say anything else only added to his discomfort.

“Alright, that’s all of them. Can you stand?”

“I… don’t know.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Kaito attempted to walk forward, only to stumble as the feeling of pins and needles overwhelmed him. Kokichi caught him before he could hit the ground.

“Guess that’s a no,” Kokichi sighed, helping him sit against the wall instead. “Whatever. I’m sure Maki won’t have any trouble carrying you out of here. She was demolishing the other Exisals earlier, so she’ll probably join us real soon.”

“What happened to Shuichi?” Kaito couldn’t help but ask. “Is he-” Kaito stopped, realizing he was about to ask if Shuichi was alright. Even after everything, he was still struggling to accept the truth.

The Shuichi he'd believed in had been a lie. Their entire friendship had been a lie. There was no point trying to help him anymore.

Kokichi scooted closer, bumping their knees together, seeming to understand what was going through Kaito’s mind.

“He’s alive. Unconscious, but alive. We’re going to interrogate him later.”

“Oh...”

An uncomfortable silence descended upon them, during which time tears continued rolling down Kaito’s cheeks. Wordlessly, Kokichi offered Kaito his scarf, only slightly surprised when Kaito actually took it.

He looked away when he heard sobbing.

#kaito momota #shuichi saihara #kokichi ouma #oumota #saimota #mystic writes

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iamapoopmuffin · 5 years ago

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Victims With Numbers

Fandom: Nanbaka/Corpse Party (crossover) Genre: Horror Characters: Hajime Sugoroku, Samon Gokuu, Kiji Mitsuba, Kenshirou Yozakura, Jyugo, Uno, Nico, Rock, Tsukumo, Liang, Upa, Qi, Honey, Trois, Musashi, Sachiko Shinozaki, Ryou Yoshizawa, Yuki Kanno, Tokiko Tsuji, Yoshikazu Yanagihori, Yoshie Shinozaki, Takamine Yanagihori, some OCs to take the role of Kizami later on instead of actual Kizami Includes major character death.

Chapter 10 of ?

Back in the main building, a man was making his way slowly across the hall, hands pressed to the wall to guide him. It was hard, navigating a strange place by yourself, not knowing the true extent of the dangers, not knowing anything to be honest. Walking blind, in every sense.

Musashi had not had much choice but to follow the wall around, upon realising he was no longer in Building 13, or any other part of Nanba he'd been to before. There wasn't a single living soul he could perceive nearby, and the only sign he'd had of others being here were the distant laughter of children that never got closer nor further away no matter where he walked, and the constant stench of blood. The only times he deviated from the wall were when he found obstacles or holes that meant he could go no further, at which point finding his way to the next place he could cross was a difficult task indeed. He'd noted several doors during his groping of the wall, but hadn't been able to open any of them. He assumed them to be locked. He was moving with shallow steps, not raising his feet, not placing them far. Baby steps, lest he find another hole without giving himself a chance to, well, not fall in. He wasn't sure how long he'd been here, or where here could possibly be, but it was unnaturally cold. Even he felt a constant and harsh chill over him that put him at risk of hypothermia. For that reason, he had been walking somewhat hunched, as if that would keep the cold off his skin.

For a small time, Musashi worried he was walking in circles, that he had explored every part of his confinement already. The patterns of the holes, the distance between the doors, the appearances of windows and papers on the wall, it seemed to repeat itself. The first assurance he got that this was untrue was the uneven board that sent him sprawling. Dust kicked up into his face, making him cough. As he picked himself back up, he reached a hand out for the wall, for something to help him, but pulled it back sharply when pain blossomed across his fingers.

He wasn't sure what he had touched, didn't have time to really register anything other than that it hurt and it was quite high up. He pulled his injured hand to his mouth and was surprised by how badly it seemed to be bleeding. Whatever that was up there, it was certainly dangerous, and he was pretty sure it wasn't something he'd passed before. Carefully, he went to place his hand on the floor, and found something raised. A little more groping around, and he identified the raised floor as a step. A staircase leading up. It seemed like the sharp object was suspended above the bottom step, but he couldn't be sure there wouldn't be more of them elsewhere. Perhaps the smart thing to do would be to try and pass the stairs, find the wall again and keep walking, but at the same time...could be get up them safely if he stayed on his hands and knees?

It would be undignified, but it also meant covering more ground. No matter which way he went, he would be going into the unknown. It made him nervous, thinking an unseen danger could be right in front of him, but, even though he was alone, he didn't really let that nervousness show. Slowly, he chose to crawl up the stairs.

Just as well. Had he instead tried to walk on, he would never have seen the plentiful piano wire strung up across a hall right in front of a large pit that went from wall to wall. He might have walked right into the trap without ever knowing what killed him.

Atop the flight of stairs, Musashi held a hand up above him to check for other traps before standing. The idea that there might be traps made it sink in that this was just as dangerous and unfriendly a place as it felt, and didn't help the shivers running through him. Finding the wall again, he began his tentative exploration of the upper floors of his new prison, and found it to be a very short corridor. Just long enough for the one door on the left side, and all there was on the right was a sheet of paper and an obstacle on the floor. If he didn't know any better, Musashi would say he'd tripped on a person lying there.

Back to the door, Musashi found it was the first one he'd come across that actually opened. It pushed to without any resistance and allowed him entrance to a room that smelled rotten, just as the rest of this place did, but there was another, more familiar smell present. What was it? Paper? Books?

A library?

More than just the smell, though, Musashi noticed something that made his heart beat faster. The sound of pages turning, a voice muttering quietly to itself, a book falling to the floor before another was picked up and pages turned again. Another person was here. After hours wandering through this place alone, he'd come across another person!

"Hello?" He called into the room, and was greeted by the sound of a book slamming shut. The person holding the book didn't say anything. "Uh, hey...could you help me with something? I'm not sure what's going on, but-"

"Shut. Up."

"Uh-"

"This...is a library. Keep your mouth shut."

"Sorry, man." The voice that snapped at him was high, nasally, and sounded vaguely similar to one he'd heard before. Somewhere between one of the building five guys, the elf, and some of the strange children’s voices he’d heard during his exploration. Definitely a guy, though. He dropped his voice to a soft whisper. "I can't really see, so...yeah. You know where we are? Other than the library."

"...No."

"No. Okay...is anyone else here?"

"Dead."

"Dead...?"

"They're all dead. Everyone here comes to die. You don't know that by now? Once you step foot in these halls, your fate is determined."

"O...kay..."

"You're loud."

Musashi opened his mouth to respond, to apologise again or point out he was whispering, but felt he shouldn't. Like the man stood before him was harbouring some serious murderous intent. Instead, he decided it would be best to leave this man for the time being. The guy clearly wasn't all that sane, after all. He turned and went to leave, only for his foot to slip on something on the floor. He pitched sideways and fell against something, he assumed a pile of books, with a loud crash. He groaned as he heard footsteps head his way. The man with the killing intent.

"Didn't I ask you to be quiet?!"

A hand grabbed his shoulder firmly. Nails dug into his flesh. Hot breath on the back of his neck.

Looked like he was in for a fight.

Uno was crying. He had been since they'd first entered this room, but by some miracle he'd managed to do so quietly. Jyugo wouldn't blame him if he did scream and sob, under these circumstances. If cheesy horror movies with obviously fake zombies put the guy on the edge of wetting himself, there was no way he would be able to deal with something as utterly terrifying as this.

At this exact moment, Jyugo was hiding underneath a table, unable to move, unable to make a sound, lest he be found by the man stood right by him. He couldn't see the guy properly from here, but he could hear what was happening above him. It sounded like the man had strapped someone down on the table, and was torturing her. Her screams were muffled and garbled, and Jyugo had seen blood fall from the table, or perhaps from the man, onto the floor. He'd covered his own mouth with his hands to keep anything from getting out, be it some noise of fear or disgust, or maybe vomit.

Uno had chosen to hide in a cabinet against the wall. Through the tiny gap between the door, he could see the man. He looked like a zombie. A hulking, grey-skinned figure, with torn and bloodstained clothes, who appeared large at first glance. Muscular, broad-shouldered. The analytical part of Uno's mind was able to identify that the zombie man was shorter than he was, and possibly smaller overall than, say, Rock. At least, he told himself Rock was larger, if anything to comfort himself. He could see every single pain the man inflicted on the teenage girl strapped to the table, had seen him carry her in and strap her to the table, handling her like a ragdoll. He could tell just by looking at this man, or maybe monster was more accurate, that neither of them stood a chance if they were found. Like Jyugo, Uno kept himself quiet by keeping his hands clamped over his mouth, and tried not to breathe too loud. It was hard. He wasn't sure he'd ever felt so scared before, didn't think he'd ever witnessed a brutal murder before.

It hadn't been as bad when they'd just woken up in this place, before realising what they were in for.

The two had woken together, in a cluttered room with walls made of earth. Some sort of underground structure, with wooden beams placed to prevent cave ins. The room was dusty and dirty, and the floor was littered with rubbish and building materials. In one corner was a stack of dusty, old futons, and in another was an old TV with the screen smashed in. The kind of 'old' that belonged in a museum. Recognising, at least, that they were underground, the boys agreed that they'd probably fallen quite far, and ultimately into a disused part of the prison. They could not figure out what it was originally used for, but it certainly wasn't for holding inmates. They figured, maybe, it was storage. Whatever it once was, it was now out of action.

They'd considered staying put and waiting to be rescued, but ultimately decided against it. After all, not only was this an opportunity to explore a part of the prison they'd not known to exist, but the others had fallen as well. Some of them could be badly injured. Plus, this clearly wasn't where they'd fallen, they'd obviously been moved after the fall, evidenced by the fact the ceiling above them was perfectly intact. Perhaps whoever had moved them was expecting them to stay put, but they chose to defy said expectations.

It was a mistake, in Uno's opinion. They didn't even get out the door before the first disaster struck in the form of Jyugo stepping on one of the many sharp objects on the floor - in this case, a rusty nail. It was to be expected when he walked around barefoot. Uno bid him sit on one of the futons while he tried to remove the damn thing, but Jyugo wasn't the most cooperative of patients. Every time Uno managed to get hold of the nail, Jyugo pulled his foot away, an instinctive reaction to the pain. It took a fair while and a lot of complaining on the victim's side before the nail was out and Uno was trying to find something to press to the remaining wound, just to clean it up or wipe away the blood. It was lucky the damage wasn't worse, and Jyugo was a lot more careful with where he stepped.

Once they actually left the room, Uno asked his friend when the last time he'd had a tetanus shot was, to which Jyugo replied that he didn't recall ever having one.

"Well, you're probably screwed then."

"Uh huh. That's not funny."

At least the ground in the hallway didn't have sharp things all over the place, though it was a dirt path. Undoubtedly, the cut on Jyugo's foot would get infected. If Uno were to offer his shoes, however, he would probably refuse. No point in both of them getting hurt out of pure stupidity.

They hadn't walked for long before they came across their first body. It was down a dead end path, where the far wall was completely boarded. The almost completely decayed body of a child was propped up against the wall, scratch marks adorning the wood beside it, as if he had tried to claw the boards off in some desperate attempt to find an escape. Uno felt his breath catch in his throat as he took in the sight, hand reaching for Jyugo's arm.

"Oh god..."

Jyugo took a step back, pulling his friend with him, trying to take his eyes away from the body. "That's not...real, is it?"

"Did he get stuck down here?"

"He can't have worked here, he's a kid...that's a school uniform..."

"He's not an inmate either..."

"What...what happened?"

Uno managed to drag his eyeline up, looking to the intact ceiling. "Are...are we really still at Nanba Prison?"

Jyugo followed his eyes and shrugged. "No holes, no rubble...I don't know where we are, but it...I..." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "We should go back where we woke up. Whoever moved us there might be back now."

"What if...no. You're right. Even if it wasn't a guard who carried us there, the guards'll be looking for us. For all of us. If we stay in one place, and stay in sight, they'll find us more easily. Plus, this place is like a maze. Worst case scenario, we get lost. We wander in circles. The guards don't find us, and we don't find them. Best case scenario, we find each other on the way back and this whole nightmare gets explained and ended." Uno too took a deep breath and turned away from the body. "Let's go."

The worst case scenario was exactly what happened. The boys kept close to each other, tense, aware their surroundings were unsafe. As Uno had said before, the place they were in truly was like a maze, with hundreds of twists, turns and fresh branches, it would take only one mistake to become hopelessly lost.

Once that mistake was made...

It wasn't hard to work out they'd made a wrong turn, but trying to retrace their steps just led them to even more unfamiliar halls, as though the path they'd come from had never existed.

They wandered, and were fortunate enough to not come across any more bodies, and at last came across the large metal door. It was locked, to begin with, but it was the only door they'd seen in a while, and by this point they'd grown tired from walking. Jyugo was willing to take any opportunity for a rest, and a room that could serve as a new common area or base of operations was not a thing to be sneered at. He made quick work of the lock, and together they slid the heavy doors open.

Immediately they were hit by the foul stench and heavy air. It was like a solid wall slamming into them at full force. The two staggered back, hands over their noses.

"That's disgusting." Jyugo muttered.

"Do we have to go in there?" Uno whined.

"No. Hell no."

At this point, it was completely dark inside the room. They couldn't see anything in there beyond vague shapes the dim hall light shined on. They turned away, thinking it would be better to find another place to stop, but then they heard the voice. The weak cry from within that begged them 'don't go, please don't go, please help me'.

Exchanging uneasy looks, the two approached the door. "Hello?" Jyugo called, as if what he had heard may have just been some form of hallucination. The person begging for help let out a pained groan.

"Okay, hang tight." Uno told the guy, his voice shaking a little still. "We'll come help you. Are you hurt?"

"Y...yeah..."

"What's your name?"

"Nnn..."

They stepped in, Uno in front, Jyugo behind, trying to figure out where, exactly, this person was. The room held a little bit of echo, making it harder to pinpoint, but if Uno had to guess, he would say further forward and to the right.

"Wh...where does it hurt? Jyugo, try and feel for a light."

Obediently, Jyugo reached for the wall. The wall was damp and slightly sticky. "Ew..."

There was a clang of metal and a splash as Uno kicked over a bucket. Flies, finding their nesting place disturbed, took to the air. Uno felt them fly up into his face, and staggered as he swatted at them.

Then the light came on. Uno had his eyes shut, so he didn't realise it at first. Jyugo hadn't found a light switch, and had he bothered to look for one in the light, he wouldn't have found one. He was distracted, anyway. Distracted by the red stains over everything. Over the walls, the floors, the tables and desks, the cabinet in the corner, the sink against the wall, and each and every blood-filled bucket on the floor.

"Oh...my god..."

"What, what is it?" Uno cleared his face of bothersome insects and opened his eyes.

"Don't look!"

"OH MY GOD!"

Recoiling from the sight, the Brit staggered back into his friend.

"What the hell, man? What is this place?"

"Uhh..." Jyugo's mind rushed for some way to explain all the blood. "Meat?"

"Meat?"

"Maybe?"

"Where's the-" He cut himself off as he spotted the boy who had asked them for help. Though he'd started crying before, when he'd seen the blood, this was what made him sob. The boy lay by an upturned table, brutally wounded. Bones were exposed, his eyes were unseeing, and he'd been mutilated. Things that should have been on the inside were on the out. How the boy was even still alive, still able to call out even in that weak, feeble voice, was a complete mystery. Uno lowered his eyes to the floor as he continued to sob, and noticed the pool of red liquid around his foot and on his leg. It must have come from the bucket he had kicked over. The liquid had lumps of meat in it, and had Uno chosen to examine them more closely (which he never ever would), he would find they were human tongues. A strange sound escaped his throat, midway between a cry and a groan of pain, and when he tried to look away, he felt Jyugo's hands on his head, keeping it in place.

"Don't. Look." Jyugo repeated desperately, voice shaking. Because he'd looked at the other buckets. Because what Uno had seen thus far was bad enough and he did not need to see this. Because in each and every bucket, there wasn't just blood, there were bits of body as well. Not just tongues, but hearts, livers, intestines, eyes, ears, teeth, bones, several weird bits that were unidentifiable, and one bucket stuffed with arms, each sticking up like they were waving at him. If Jyugo had felt scared before, it was nothing compared to the horror he was feeling now. Right here, right now, he was standing in a room where hundreds of people had lost their lives and been torn to pieces for some sick purpose he couldn't even begin to imagine.

"What is it?" Uno asked, not wanting to look at the meat lumps any more, but now scared to look away.

"You really, really don't want to know. Just keep your head down, and walk out of the room. We can't stay here."

Deep, shuddering breaths. "We need to go. Jyugo, we need to go!"

As they walked back toward the door, the dying boy in the corner tried one last time to call out to them, but could now barely make a sound. It hurt, but they had to accept there was nothing they could do for the boy.

"We're sorry..."

Clang. Splash.

"Did you...kick something?"

"I don't...think so..."

Blood washed across the floor in front of them. Jyugo recoiled from the touch of the curdled blood against his bare feet, and quickly realised which bucket had been knocked. All of a sudden, hundreds of human eyes were gazing up at them from the sea of red. Uno reeled back with a scream of pure terror, hitting another bucket with his heel, pulling away from his friend's hands, and catching sight of the things Jyugo was trying to keep him from. At this point, one of them was crying, one of them was screaming and crying, and both of them almost missed the sound in the distance.

Heavy footfalls. Metal dragging on the dirt floor. Inhuman grunts and groans. Screams of agony.

The sound registered, and the boys managed to swallow back the next sounds that tried to escape them. No more screams, no more sobs. Just an exchange of panicked looks.

"Oh god...Jyugo, what is that?"

Jyugo couldn't think. "Ah, uh...we need to hide." If the screaming was anything to go by, whatever was approaching the room - because that sound was definitely getting closer - was no friend to them. "Under the table. Quick!"

"Are you crazy?" Uno hissed, looking at the table, then at his friend in disbelief. "We'd be spotted instantly!" He looked around and found his eyes landing on the cabinet in the corner. He ran to pull it open, and found it empty on the inside. The thing smelled of urine, and had a stain on the bottom that was most likely more blood, but it would hide them. Or, one of them, anyway. The space would barely fit one person of about Uno's size, and nothing more.

"We can't both fit in there!" Jyugo didn't have time to argue his point much farther.

The man they could hear approaching was at the door now.

With a squeak of terror, Uno concealed himself in the cabinet, and Jyugo dived under the table.

That was how they ended up where they were now, in their poor hiding places, trying desperately to stifle any sounds from their lips, unable to interfere without undoubtedly losing their lives as well. Where Uno was hiding, he could see what the man did, and see Jyugo crouched underneath the table. The huge man had taken a box of tools, and was slowly using them to tear the girl to pieces, starting with her tongue, and throwing each removed part carelessly and clumsily to the appropriate buckets, all this while the girl was still alive. She squirmed and screamed as best she could, but it didn't take long at all for her efforts to weaken until she moved no more. It happened fast, yet seemed to carry on forever. Finally, the man stepped away from the bloodied mess that had once been a girl and walked out, shutting the door behind him. There was a loud thunk as the door locked, and Uno found himself collapsing onto the floor of his hidey hole. It hurt when his knees hit the door, but he paid that little mind as he cried over what he had witnessed. He didn't look up when he heard Jyugo make a strange sound, a reaction to the body on the table, or when he opened the door and crouched before him.

"Hey, Uno?" Jyugo asked, reaching out to brush a hand against his friend's shoulder. Instinctively, Uno brought him into a tight but brief hug, which he shakily returned. They pulled away from each other when the lights turned off again.

"This place is hell." Uno choked out as he got to his feet. "That monster won't be out there, will it?"

"I don't know...I think he turned the lights off."

"Maybe they're on a motion sensor." He waved his hand about experimentally, then shook his head. "No, you're right. The big zombie guy did it..."

"Hey, kid? You still...alive...?" They both looked to the corner the boy lay in, but heard no response. It seemed he'd lost his strength, probably now passed out or passed away. Unable to do much else, the boys tried to pick their way through the dark room, kicking over several buckets they had no way to see as they went, making their way to the door. Jyugo bumped his hip off the dissection table as he went. At least, he thought, the darkness hid the carnage from view. When they got to the door, he was able to open it without difficulty. Any lock to come within Jyugo's reach was easily dealt with, even in complete darkness, and this one in particular was a very simple one. If they'd had light, he probably would have been able to get Nico to pick it, it was that easy.

The door slid open and the boys entered back into the dirt maze, Uno leading the way, happy to get as far from that room as they could.

#Fun game: Guess who I'm going to kill off next?#Fun game 2: Guess how long it'll be before someone else dies #I am beyond tired now so y'all enjoy!#I've gone back into a bit of a slump so idk if the next update will be on time #I know exactly what I want to happen #the words just aren't coming right now #I think it's because I've not been sleeping much #and also work has been giving me panic attacks so I'm very very stressed out

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mrneighbourlove · 7 years ago

Text

Death and Emptiness, Hand in Hand: Part 1/2

"By god. It’s true."

Leere Dragmire walked through the construction sight of castle town. Whole buildings levelled and debris being moved away. She wasn't present in Hyrule for the recent invasion by threat whispered as Vul'kar. Her last day traveling through she had encountered an increasing presence of undead Stalfos and other monsters. They were attracted to darkness and death. And very landscapes had been torn apart. Seeing more and more destruction she only hoped her family was alive.

A guard stopped her from entering the castle. "I'm sorry. Due to recent circumstances no citizens are allowed into the castle until the bridge is fixed."

Leere raised an eyebrow and took out a locket, the Hylian Royal Family insignia on it. Just because she didn't happen to look like a princess didn't mean she wasn't one. "Princess Leere honey. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to enter my home."

The guard was confused, and on closer inspection, he wasn't Hylian. Had a darker tone and the smell of ocean. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize the royal family had another daughter. Still getting used to this. Please, follow me."

Leere nodded, grateful to see if her family was finally well. Three years was a little long.

"Zizi, you've already built nearly seventy temporary shelters today. Enough is enough, you need to go rest." Zarazu chided her younger sister gently as she held up some water. "You're exhausted. You only have so much magic to use each day and you're overexerting yourself. Several Zemljas and Kovinas are tired because of all of this. Just because you are my sister doesn't mean you have to do extra."

"Listen to her, Zi." Zolori was holding a basket full of fruits for Zizi to eat. "You've worked all day. You need a break."

"But... but some people don't have a shelter." Zizi huffed as she put her hands on her knees, sweat rolling down her forehead. "Where will they sleep?"

"It's called camping, one night under the stars won't kill them." Covarog assured his sister-in-law. "Besides, we'll have fires to keep everyone warm. Right now, they're handing out some food grown by the Zemljas for emergencies. We were able to salvage some of the fields, but not much."

"Yeah. Looked like everything was torched." Leere stepped into view. She had extremely beautiful pale skin with crimson eyes and dark flowing chocolate hair, while wearing common traveling gear. The second she laid eyes on her younger brother her composure had regained. She knew that he'd keep the rest of the family safe. "Good to see you Covarog."

"...! Leere!" Covarog internally felt a wave of relief. He never did see her among the captives when Vul'kar took so many hostages. He was hoping she was far away and safe. Hurrying to her side, he swept Leere up in a big hug. "Thank goodness you're safe!"

"...?" Zizi exchanged glances with her sisters.

"More or less obliterated by ancient monsters of the deep." Zolori wiped the soot off her hands by rubbing them together. "And you are..."

Leere hugged Covarog as he easily spun her small frame around like a ragdoll. Settling down she turned to the rather good looking blonde, arching an eyebrow after checking her out. "Leere Dragmire. Eldest daughter of Zelda and Ganondorf." She quickly winked to Covarog. "By two weeks against deer Rinku of course." She looked back at the three woman. "And might I know who you all are?"

"Oh..." Zarazu stood there, a bit confused. Covarog never mentioned another elder sister. Then again, there were extended family members and close friends that the Dragmires considered family. Maybe this term was just an endearment. "I am Queen Zarazu Slatki of the Lorleidians."

"Leere, this is my wife." Covarog gave Zarazu a small peck on a cheek. "We were married right before this disaster happened."

"These are my sisters, Zolori and Zizi." Zarazu smiled at Leere. "It is nice to meet you."

"We're just in the process of rebuilding." Zizi explained as she took a seat on a nearby rock, too tired to stand any longer. "It might take a while for Hyrule to return to normal."

"With the dragons' help, it shouldn't be too bad."

Leere processed all of that. She curiously studied them closely. From the look of mistrust in Zolori's eyes and her tight body stance, the dreadlocks in Zizi's hair and her carefree aura, to the tattoos on Zarazu.

She looked to Covarog a bit shocked. "You...you're married."

"Hitched, united, joined in holy matrimony, mated, take your pick."

"Zolori!" Zarazu blushed slightly at that last synonym.

"Just wait until you hear the story of how they met, that's one for the history books."

"Zizi, not you too!"

"What? It's a good story!"

"Actually, it is a good story, ironic too." Covarog chuckled. "What brings you back after three years?"

"You mean besides hearing that Hyrule went to hell? I was worried that Dad might have gone off the deep end or another apocalyptic evil may have hurt you guys. Sorry I was late."

"Apocalyptic? Yeah. Evil? Definitely. Defeated and out of this realm? Check." Zolori checked off her imaginary list. "All thanks to the efforts of my sister, her buff husband and everyone else."

"Princey-Pooh went down once but came back up." Zizi munched on her snack. "It takes a lot to keep him down."

"Zizi, we talked about the nicknames." Covarog sighed in exasperation.

"What? Kingy-Kun doesn't care."

"My father doesn't care about that kind of thing."

"Still. It's cute."

"Kingy-Kun???" Leere snorted. "I like that."

She looks at Zarazu again. The Queen was indeed a fine woman. Smiling she whispers to Covarog. "Popped your cherry huh? Was it everything you imagined?"

"Leere!" Covarog turned red all the way to the tips of his ears.

Zarazu blushed as well, trying to keep her composure.

"Just asking~"

She goes to Zarazu and shakes her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you Zarazu. I'm glad to have another sister."

"And one big scaly baby to boot." Zolori added.

"Yeah, Ba'puu won't leave Zarazu alone for long." Zizi took a sip of her water.

"It's always nice to have a big family." Zarazu returned the hand shake. "I'll have some others to introduce you to later, but first, maybe we should find you something to eat."

"Thank you. Because too tell you the truth I am famished." She looked to Zolori and Zizi, moving to politely shake their hands. "Nice to meet you two as well."

"Maybe you gained three more sisters." Zizi held up a piece of tangerine. "We don't have any meat at the moment, just fruits, veggies, and some bread. Hope that's okay."

"Pumpernickel or wheat?" Zolori offered a slice. "I think we got some sourdough somewhere."

"You can camp with Zizi and Zolori if you wish." Zarazu suggested. "Covarog and I will stay with Ba'puu."

"Can I say I love your outfits. Wonderful blend of elegant, free, and a dash of sexy~" She smiles at Zolori in particular. "You keep mentioning this Ba'Puu. He a brother of yours?"

"Glad you approve and if I liked the same team, you're easily a ten, but you might be better off approaching another lady." Zolori shook her head. "No, he's Zarazu's baby. Our nephew."

"Zolori jests." Zizi told Leere. "He's Zarazu's dragon."

"An extremely clingy, sassiest of sassy, giant water baby." Covarog described Ba'puu with a roll of his eyes. "Refuses to be separated from my wife for too long."

"Now, now, Ba'puu isn't that bad. He was raised by a human, not a dragon so he's bound to be a little..." Zarazu stopped when Covarog gave her look. "... okay, he's a little attached to me at the hip."

Leere picked that up again. "Dragon? You have a baby dragon as a family member?"

"He's an adult now, I took him in as a baby." Zarazu clarified as she put a blanket on Covarog's shoulders. The night's chill was already blowing across the hills. "And growing all the time."

"More like she has an army of dragons." Covarog assured his sister. "Good dragons though. No human eaters. Actually have human riders."

"Huh...I'll go bunk with Zolori and Zizi as I'm guessing my room is probably rubble."

"Everything is rubble." Covarog sighed. "The castle, the town, even the port. It will take a lot of building and patience, but we'll get Hyrule back to its former glory."

"Zizi sleeps in a hammock, so I'll roll out a sheepskin for you." Zolori told Leere. "Unless you prefer a hammock."

"I'm fine with either. Slept in crypts before." She turns to Covarog. "I don't want to wake up being dragged out by you, Ral, or Orana into the crying arms of Kanisa or Tebby Bear."

"Better go say hi after you finish eating then." Covarog told her as he pulled his wife in closer for warmth while the two of them nibbled on food. "Make sure you don't scream if you see dragons anywhere. It will just annoy them."

"Like you screamed around the Redeads~"

"Heh, not much to be jealous of. We have more to the family for you to meet." Covarog was ready to rest for the day. After trying to clear a lot of rubble and talk to the people, he was all for some sleep. Of course, he and Zarazu had no privacy, so there would be no nocturnal fun. "Get some rest, Leere."

"Sure thing 'little' brother." She leans up on her tippy toes to give him as kiss on the cheek. Patrolling the castle she found the rest of her family relaxing with the latest grub. "Hey! How you doing!"

It took some explaining and a couple of laughs, but Leere was able to meet her new family members. Cass was proud to introduce little Ukuri, who was already a few months old. She was a happy baby, did not cry much unless she was wet or hungry. Ralnor seemed a bit lighter instead of the usual doom and gloom. Corsaire, the pirate captain, was less of a surprise to Leere. She always knew that Orana would seek out that pirate from the books she loved as a kid. What was surprising was how the two of them took on a kraken together and lived to tell the tale. After saying hello to Kanisa and Tebanam, it was time to sleep.

Leere dotted over little Ukuri. "Awwww. I'm your Aunt Leere. You ready for sleep? Need a sucker for the little sucker~"

"She's still on the breast, no sugar." Ralnor turned his sister away from the baby. "You can coo over her tomorrow. She has a sleep schedule and it cannot be interrupted."

"He's very strict about the sleep schedule." Cass told Leere with a brief chuckle. "No interruptions."

"Still picky over the tiniest things. Never change Ralnor."

Later that same night Leere was groaning in her sleep. She felt restless like this. Having gone to what was left of her room she was disheartened to find her favourite blanket torn in two, along with most of her possessions torn into pieces. Lucky she was able to grab fresh clothing of hers before going to bed for the morning.

Waking up she felt incredibly groggy. "Need. Caffeine...."

"Good thing I grow coffee beans." Zizi was hanging upside down outside of Leere's tent. There was a huge tree, full of swinging vines that Zizi and Skull Kid made a home in for the time being until the forest was healed. She made sure to situate it near her and Zolori just incase she needed. "Zolori can roast them for you."

"Thanks monkey girl..." Leere rubbed her eyes as she got up, putting a clean bra and shirt on. "Don't worry, I can get a kettle or something."

"Good luck finding one in the rubbish." Zizi held out a motar and pestle. "This works just as..." Her sentence trailed off when she noticed the dark magic markings on Leere's back. While Covarog's family still had hints of dark magic usage, it still unnerved her, especially since this one was dealing with necromancy. She recalled Klinge saying something about how he didn't like to be controlled. Maybe this was the person who did such a thing to him. "Well."

"Thanks, I'm pretty handy." She notices the way Zizi is looking at her. "What's up?"

"Nothing, just admiring the ink." Zizi wiggled her left leg, thinking fast. "Got some myself. Zolori is fixing some breakfast too, so help yourself."

Leere smiles to defuse the tension best she can. "Of course. Hope she good at cooking as she is good looking."

Leere gets up and heads out to have some food, waving nicely to Zolori. Too bad she wasn't gay. "Morning."

"She hasn't killed anyone with food poisoning yet, but has a tendency to burn things."

"I heard that!" Zolori yelled from the cooking site. "I like it burnt!"

"Normal people don't!"

"Says you!"

"Says everyone!"

"Oh, go kiss the pranking undead kid!"

"You go kiss Vul'kar's ass!"

"I'll burn your eggs!"

"I'll go find more!"

Zolori handed Leere a leaf, placing some eggs and bread on it.

"Coffee will be ready in a minute."

"Thank you, I'm sure it's fine." One bite into the burnt eggs and Leere's face scrunched up. She contorted a smile as she kept eating it. "V-very nice. Maybe a more rare in the future?"

"... sorry. I think it's a Vatra thing." Zolori switched the eggs out with some ones that were less burnt, taking the burnt ones for herself. "We like things burnt."

"So where's your flint?"

"Flint? Don't need it." Zolori held out her hand, and snapped her fingers. The fire appeared in her palm, swirling there. "Just like Zizi doesn't have a green thumb, she literally is the green thumb."

Leere's eyes glowed with the fire, memorized by the flame. "Elemental magic? Are all Lorliedians capable of magic?"

"Yeah, all of us are. Just appears at different ages." Zolori shrugged her shoulders as she munched on a piece of toast. When the coffee started boiling, she then took it off the flame. Pouring an amount into a clay fired cup, she offered it to Leere. "I was a teen when my flames appeared, Zizi was around seven when plants sprouted, and Zarazu was... three I think? Water first, icy talent came later." Taking a sip of the coffee herself, Zolori then counted on her fingers. "Water, fire, wind, earth, metal, lightning, and spirit. So that's Voda, Vatra, Vjetar, Zemlja, Kovina, Munja, and Dusa. Take your pick."

"That's amazing. So much life in your magic. So in tuned with the Earth." She takes the coffee and smiles. "This is damn good coffee."

"Glad you like the coffee." Zolori extungished the flames with a wave of her hand. "You think that's something, just wait until you meet an elder. Much more impressive stuff." Standing and stretching, she then said, "Might want to check with Covarog to see where you can help. I'm stuck with helping Kovinas salvage metal. If you need anything else as far as food goes, just check with Zizi. And watch out for Mask-For-Faces, he's gotten wind that you're back."

"Skull Kid? He's just mad I seduce everyone he likes~" After the coffee she sets her cup down. "Thanks. I'm going inspect the castle and later the countryside for damages."

"Well, more specifically casualties."

"Heh, let me know when you and Rinku save the date." Zolori sighed and then frowned. "We found most of the bodies, but feel free to knock yourself out and dig through rubble for any belongings."

"Yeah. I'm sure you were very precise." She walks to the castle and lays a hand out on the rubble. Concentrating she closes her eyes. The cold flesh buried underneath, alone and, for now, preserved by rock and wood and metal.

"I'll start digging. I want to talk to your sister sometime. Get a better feeling on her."

Zolori felt a chill travel up her spine. Dark magic, Lorleidians were super sensitive to it. The sole existence of the Lorleidian people was to balance the light with the dark. Still, even after all this time of combating it, the magic still gave her the creeps.

"Zizi? Or Zarazu?"

"The one who's married to my brother honey." She starts crawl around the rubble.

"Zarazu?" Zolori wondered what Leere's intentions were. "Anything you wanna ask that you think she might not answer?"

"That's for her, not you. No offence." Leere gets close to a buried body and starts digging.

"If you wanna know how much they fuck, that's easy, like... oh I don't know. Every day?" Zolori was trying to think of a number and found she couldn't, but it was in at least double digits. "Though you should know, Zarazu's a kind soul until you mess with someone she loves. That's all I can really say. Otherwise, feel free to question away."

"Good. Then you won't mind getting her for me."

Leere tore some wood beams away to discover a young girl. Just a poor little maid. Taking a deep breath she laid her fingers on the frame of the deceased's skull.

She saw the darkness over taking the sky, felt the fear that the young girl felt that turned into utter panic when she saw an Abyssian. It was such a contorted creature. She ran away as fast as she could, only to look up as the ceiling came down upon her.

Sighing Leere remained neutral, closing the girls eyes. "Be at peace...."

"Zarazu's helping get some fish right now for eating, but you can talk to her after that."

"Very well. Tell her I'll be waiting by the courtyard."

And that she did. For two full hours. "I bet Zolori didn't even tell her. Freaking blondes..."

"Zolori did tell me, though there is such a thing as having to cater to your people." Zarazu finally appeared in the demolished courtyard. She smelled like fish and had her hair pulled back from her face. After distributing the food to her people, she took the leftovers to the dragon mothers who were unable to hunt because of watching their hatchlings. "I apologize for taking so long. Is something amiss?"

"No. No. I just wanted to get to know you a little better is all. After all, you're married to the man who I had to read bed time stories to."

"Heh... well, I'm not occupied for the next couple of hours." Zarazu was exhausted and simply sat down on a free patch of grass. "I'm sorry I'm not more presentable."

"That's alright. You look fine to me. It wouldn't be inappropriate to ask for your tailor would it?" Leere sat beside her.

"We actually make our own clothes and patterns." Zarazu laughed softly. "Let me know which pattern you like and maybe when I get my hands on some materials, I'll show you how."

"Thank you. It has a much more elegant belly dancer look to it." Leere took a breath of the air. "Thank you for protecting the people of this land to the best of your ability. I regret heavily not being here."

"To be honest, I was at odds with Ganondorf at first but... sometimes, it takes two people to right the wrongs of the past." Zarazu had nothing to hide. "Slowly, but surely, this became a new home where we could grow and... surprisingly, I found love."

"Yeah. How did you meet my brother?"

"That's the ironic part actually..." Zarazu admitted sheepishly. "We tried to kill each other at first at his birthday party when I took back the artifacts Ganondorf took from my people. Then when he followed me to Lorleidi, we um... were better known with each other during a week or so. Got past the bias, and talked... then Vul'kar happened."

Leere snickered loudly at the party. "That's too funny. I'm sure it was a very romantic first impression. So Vul'kar. Big scary demon I'm guessing?"

"Abyssian." Zarazu was not sure how much she should elaborate. "Locked away wrongly for loving someone and creating the first mixture between light and dark; the Twili. Went insane, attacked the whole world for what happened to him. Wanted it to be swallowed in the darkness he knew."

"Good job on stopping him. How about a lighter mood." She grins from ear to ear. "You got to tell me, did you make the first move for nocturnal activity? I couldn't see Covarog being brace enough to move in on a woman of your caliber~"

Zarazu's face turned redder than a strawberry.

"... yes." She couldn't look Leere in the eye.

Leere tips Zarazu's chin to look at her. "Cute. Very cute~ Can see easily why he fell for you." Tickling her chin Leere leaned back with a chuckle. "So I guess you and Covarog will be the new sovereigns in a few years? Maybe a couple kids?"

"I... suppose." Zarazu really was not sure how ascending the throne worked in Hyrule. "When Ganondorf and Zelda are ready to retire, we'll take over of course, but... as far as children, we're waiting for Hyrule to be stable again. It wouldn't be fair to a child to neglect it over the needs of a kingdom. I know Zelda has her ways, and has spoken of nannies, but in Lorleidian culture, the mother cares for the babies unless she's unable."

"Very noble. Must be a little hard though, what with Cass taking the lead."

"No, I'm happy for Cass and Ralnor." Zarazu smiled. "Covarog is delighted for his brother. He swears Ralnor smiles more often now, and there's actually a light in his eyes. I'm in no rush. Besides, I have Covarog to focus on right now. A baby will come later."

Leere nods in happiness. "Wise for such a young woman."

"You raise two sisters and a baby dragon, you learn some things.”

"I bet. So as Queen of the Magic Islanders, got anything cool?"

"...? Anything cool?"

Leere shrugs. "You know. Relics, magic, other worldly powers?"

"Oh! Well... I'm a Leden Voda." Zarazu held out her hand, touching Leere's coffee cup. The liquid instantly turned to ice before returning to a normal liquid. It sloshed around a bit before resuming a calm state in the cup. "I can control water and ice. Most Vodas only control water and can move ice, but cannot form it."

Leere takes a sip. "Your iced coffee is something to be desired. Anything else? How'd you get your tattoos?"

"This is a tattoo of a whirlpool that I had done myself." Zarazu pointed to her stomach. "The ones on my arms are from the Seven Siblings, the spirits who granted us these abilities. Each tribe has their own type of tattoo to honor the spirit from which has blessed them."

"May I feel them?"

"Of course." Zarazu held out her arm. "Don't be alarmed if they glow. It's normal."

"Better then my tattoo." Leere felt them, surprised by how smooth her skin was. "Very moisturized. I like that. I can tell you'll be naturally young for years to come."

"Thanks. If you want a tattoo later, I'll hook you up with Kolkov. Looks like a brute, but is the best one we have at tattooing." Zarazu offered. "Lorleidians usually live long lives anyhow. Current age to beat is 131."

"Impressive. I'm sorry you lost your home, but I'm glad your culture survived. Your sisters told me that your magic covers all the elements of the Earth. I respect the light in that type of magic you have."

"Lorleidians exist to keep the balance. That's what I've always been told." Zarazu then asked. "I'm glad that you returned home safely. I know that when a family member is away from others, it makes them worry about you."

"Indeed. My work and quest for knowledge keeps me far from home. They also bring me hope when I need it the most."

"Now you're making me feel like an old sage." Zarazu knew that wisdom came with age but she supposed her experiences resulted in her gaining some earlier than normal. "

"You're not old yet. Take it from me." Leere looked around her surroundings. "How do your people deal with life and death?"

"Life and death? We do belief in the afterlife and death is just another part of the journey, if that's what you're asking." Zarazu clarified. "We have the God of Life and Goddess of Death, stories going back as old as Hylia and Demise."

"Interesting. What are their names?"

"Heh... ironically enough, Ba'puu and Zarazu. My father had a... twisted sense of humor."

Leere held her hand gently. "I understand. My birth father named me after emptiness. I'm not actually Hylian."

"I could kinda tell that from the skin and the hair... and the eyes." Zarazu remarked with a slight chuckle. "Not Hylian, not Gerudo... maybe... this legendary Garai tribe that Tebanam insists exists?"

"Did some tracking down, but part of a people called the Mortuus. Very vague though on who they are, except the name. Don’t think it matters though." Leere took a deep inner breath. If she was family now, she'd need to know.

"How do you see dark magic, especially around death?"

"Dark magic is, was, the sole purpose of why my people were created." Zarazu regretted to look on Leere's face. "Lorleidians are here to keep balance. Our job is to eradicate dark magic, especially if it is a threat to others. Since joining the Dragmire family, I've gotten used to seeing other sides of dark magic, but... some of my people..." She sighed. "Since Vul'kar and his blackness, they're more on guard than ever. I understand that some dark magic can be used for good, it's just... when you see it being used for evil so much, it's difficult to accept. I hope you understand that I'm trying my best not to be biased."

Leere nodded understandably. Was going to be harder then she thought. She stood up and looked down at her. "How much do you know of necromancy?"

"I haven't had much experience with necromancy." Zarazu was honest. "Most of Vul'kar's magic was just... brute power. Mind tricks, nightmares, controlling against the will, even necrosis."

"Do you know what necromancy is?"

"The use of the dead... to..." Zarazu thought about how to word it. "Carry out said person's wishes?"

"Very textbook. Necromancy allows you to control flesh, blood, muscle and bone once the soul has passed. It lets you connect with wandering souls on a spiritual level. Construct and summon creatures, sometimes demons of the dead and darkness. And if you are willing to sacrifice, bring back those that have long since been gone."

"And I'm assuming that bringing someone back is a big risk?"

"If you aren't willing to sacrifice other lives that is."

"A life for a life... it makes sense."

"It's a cost I'd never take..."

"I don't think I could either if I had that sort of magic." Zarazu thought of all the people she lost in the battle with Vul'kar and old Pojiji. "There are many people I miss... some I didn't even know that I wanted to. Though the only comfort I have is that one day, I'll see them again. No pain, no tears... just joy."

"I hope I get that chance, if my soul isn't dammed." Leere held her heart. "Zarazu. I'm a necromancer. Hyrule's strongest, and most knowledgeable. Even able to perform taboo blood magic."

"... in my culture, a soul isn't damned unless they’re willing to turn to evil." Zarazu thought about her words before she spoke. "So unless you're planning on raising an undead army to conquer the known world... in my book, I think you have a fair chance."

"I could do that. Even have the knowledge to transfer souls. It's about a willingness to do so. You aren't...weary of me are you?"

"I'm not weary, just cautious of your power." Zarazu admitted. "I've dealt with a lot of dark magic before concerning Vul'kar and his lackeys. I've seen what dark magic can do."

"Of course. Wise Zarazu. I can do much, but my specialty it summons. Used to place zombified heads around to scare my siblings. Would you like a quick demonstration?"

"I think I'm good with the demonstration of zombie heads." Zarazu quickly dismissed that idea with a weak chuckle. "I could deal without a scare."

"It's not too bad. I could range from a few Dead Hands, or less scary spooky skeleton warrior. Also have a pet Wall Master I nicknamed Lefty." Leere gave a warm inviting smile. “Just to show its not entirely bad.”

"Let's just do whatever is less... scary."

"Skeletons it is!" Leere took a few steps back and grinned. Raising a hand she effortlessly summoned a few skeletons. Their bones cackled as they rose from the earth, but were clear white. With additional effort she got them to dance. "Does the fair Queen like her show?"

Zarazu jolted, unable to help her reaction. Experiencing Vul'kar was one thing, but this was a whole new area of dark magic. Try as she might, the queen was still unable to be completely at ease. While the dancing was... impressive, for lack of better word, Zarazu knew she would feel much better once the skeletons were back in the ground.

"I think---"

Before she could deliver an answer, Ba'puu made his presence known. He was never too far from his mistress. Zarazu told him she would be by the lake for a visit after a meeting with another member of Covarog's family. However, it looked like she was in trouble with dark magic. He could sense it. He could sense her unease. Vul'kar came close to killing his mistress. Never again would he allow someone to hurt her. As long as he was alive, the water dragon was going to ensure his beloved human lived to see old age and be happy with all her years. With a roar, his mighty fore paw slammed the woman into the ground.

Leere felt bad for Zarazu, could sense her discomfort. The poor thing must have been through a lot. She was about to release her grip on the two jolly skeletons when her body was slammed down from behind by an unknown force and her small frame was easily knocked out as her head cracked against the ground, bleeding her forehead from the impact. The skeletons crumbled away back into the earth as her mind momentarily slipped away.

"BA'PUU!!!" Zarazu shouted at his sudden attack, standing over the exposed portion of Leere's pinned form. "NO! No, no!"

"It's dark magic! Undead magic!" Ba'puu roared. "I won't let it hurt you!"

"She's not an enemy, good spirits, let her up!"

"What do you mean she's not an enemy?! I saw the skeletons! She was going to attack you!"

"No she wasn't, it was just a demonstration!"

"What?!"

"She's the other sister that Covarog was telling me about!"

"That's not Orana or Kanisa."

"She's adopted! Let her up!"

"... are you sure? I could crush her right now."

"NO! No crushing, let her up!"

Leere's magic started to stir her awake in an unconscious state, a protective safeguard against sudden trauma. A few dead hands rose from the ground, albino white with patches of blood and unnatural finger tips, and they clawed and nudged him to let go, others trying to get a grip and pull him off. Luckily they only scratched at his scaly and well protected arm. Leere groaned heavily in a concussed haze. The hands kept slowly rising, their only will to protect their injured master.

"... fine... but one wrong move, and she's a pile of ash."

Ba'puu reluctantly lifted his paw and easily crushed the hands, still too paranoid about the latest events.

"Leere! Oh my spirits, I'm so sorry!" Zarazu helped Leere roll over and looked at the bleeding gash on her forehead. Taking the sash from her waist, the queen used it to press against the cut. It was all she had here and was not sure if her healing magic would help since it was light magic. It was better to be safe to avoid an adverse reaction. "Are you okay?! Do you have any broken bones?! Can you understand me?!"

Leere looked around as her vision was blurry. Her hand lowered the Dead Hands to retreat back into the Earth, at least for now. "What...the fuck...happened....Was I…stepped on???"

My dragon happened." Zarazu shot Ba'puu a look.

"I was protecting you, I'm not going to apologize." Ba'puu chuffed, still standing with his tail flicking back and forth angrily. "What the hell is that woman?"

"If I knew you practiced dark magic I could have told him but I didn't know---damn it, I'm so sorry about this."

Having met a Hylian Dragon once she learned about the telepathy of Dragons and their kin. This particular one had an annoying arrogance in his voice. "You...asshat. Go fly into a hornets nest. What kind of child attacks a woman from be-" Leere lurched up and threw up some bile. She needed immediate medical attention. Magic preferably. "Fountain....take me to the fountain south of the castle, under the cave."

"Too big for a hornet's nest, dumbass." Ba'puu snorted. "I do whatever is necessary to protect my mistress."

"I can heal but it's light magic?" Zarazu then heard Leere's instructions. "A fountain? I can summon water here!"

"Or I can dunk her in the lake."

"Ba'puu, hush."

"Fuck you fatass. I can see you eat too much to be small." Leere put her arm around Zarazu for support. "It's a healing spring. Hidden. I think you'll like it."

"... never mind the lake, I'll just take her to the deepest depth of the ocean."

"Ba'puu! You're not helping!" Zarazu apologized for her dragon. "I'm sorry, he's usually not like this at all, he's just spooked by the dark magic."

“I’ll take your word about him with a grain of salt for now.” Leere groaned as they made their way. "Should have adopted a Dinosaur. So much cooler."

#Another Crossover!#ridersoftheapocalypse #Glad to collab with her once again!#Leere #Covarog #Zarazu #Zizi #Zolori #Zelgan Family

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