#writings.

[feminurge]

"dany boy!", comes the exclamation the second he steps foot into the room; the eery atmosphere blamed on the stranger sitting atop his couch, cross-legged, even though a keen eye would pick up the fact that every piece of furniture has been moved a few centimeters to the left. "i was fixin' to go, thinkin' ya weren't comin' home." a grin on the lips of the young woman; twenty-five at most. blue eyes if blue was white and electric and nearly translucent. kitten fangs on display. "so. that book of yers." she tuts, like an adult would at a disobeying child, "not yer smartest move, gotta say." @pluresque

[beauforte]

it   is   no   secret,   painfully   obvious   &   for   everyone   else   to   see   :   a   hating   game   between   the   two   of   them.   he   couldn’t   stand   the   sight   of   her.   she’s   brilliant,   yes.   powerful,   intelligent.   she’s   fast   &   strong.   she’s   beautiful,   a   smile   to   kill   for.   one   of   a   kind.   and   yet   .  .  .   she’s   everything   he   despises.   even   the   angelic   sound   of   her   voice   did   things   to   him.   things   he’d   never   quite   felt   before.   he   couldn’t   stop   it,   couldn’t   control   it.   he   tried,   countless   of   times   before   but   it’s   a   never   ending   story   with   them.   even   now,   when   she’s   sitting   next   to   him   during   another   interesting   class   of   defence   against   the   dark   arts,   he   feels   tensed.   like   there’s   electricity   running   through   it’s   entire   body.   he   doesn’t   know   if   he   wants   her   far   &   far   away   from   him,   or   to   have   her   awfully   close.   such   terrifying   thought.   sigh   rolls   down   his   tongue,   blue   eyes   travelling   to   her   side,   instantly   locked.   ‘’   out   of   all   places,   you   decided   to   sit   here.   why?   do   you   need   something?   ‘’   evil   smile   follows   through,   not   leaving   her   out   of   his   sight.   ‘’   or   did   you   just   miss   me?   it’s   okay,   you   can   tell   me.   i   won’t   judge.   ‘’

[johnnparsons]

Summary: How different times in his life made Johnathan grow to hate Polly Pocket. He definitely did not watch the Barbie film.

A heavy door swings open and silences the room. A dark, detached stare lifts to acknowledge the locals enjoying their afternoon at The Tavern – a seedy, rundown pub in Walthamstow – then to the pub owner, Pete, standing behind the bar. Firm nods are exchanged between the men, and similarly to a conductor’s cue, after a few beats, the pub springs back to life.

“Y’alright, John?” “’Ey up, John.” “Howay, man” “John, mate!”

Griggs, Marmy, Thick Boy, and Jim. Four men Johnathan could rely on, to be the eyes and ears on the streets, and report back to him with anything that could be important. All they needed were some strollers and glasses of rose to fit in with the stuck-up bitches in Chelsea. Probably lose a couple of stone, too.

Johnathan drags a seat across the pub towards the end of the bar, in his usual spot, where he can lean against the wall, eyes cast downwards as he picks at the torn skin over his knuckles. Marmy appears next to him and grabs the tray with four pints. It’s the only type of reward that satisfies them. Wordlessly, Johnathan puts down a ten-pound note.

“Cheers John,” Marmy says and turns to leave, stepping over the shattered glass. Johnathan only responds with a grunt. It’s clear his mind is elsewhere. The men let him go wherever he needs to, they’d all been there when they were starting off.

“Why don’t you just go round, you fuckin’ pillock?” Thick Boy, ironically, the smartest of the bunch, though hard to tell from his harsh Geordie accent, shouts across the pub from his seat. “You’re makin’ more mess, like.”

“How about you get off your bloody arse for once, eh, Thick Boy?”

“To be fair, mate—” Griggs chimes in, then Jim finishes his sentence, “He’s right.” There’s a nod to the floor, and all eyes fall on the red stained footprints covering the loose wooden floorboard. When one starts laughing, the rest of them follow.

The men argue over who will do the mopping: Marmy created the mess but Marmy cleaned up last time, Jim is usually the one to always clean up, Griggs never leaves much mess, Thick Boy rarely moves. Whilst they’re distracted, Pete calls Johnathan over quietly, “Jonno, over here.” Pete is a short, chubby man with a round face and friendly features, but it doesn’t require much intuition to figure his patience shouldn’t be taken for granted. He is the kind of man you’d expect to run the local’s favourite, family friendly pub, rather than hosting men who have made bad decisions and in return have nowhere else to go.

Johnathan sighs, pulling the bottom of his shirt upwards to wipe the specks of blood off his face. “Not today, Pete. I know. Alright? I fuckin’ know.”

“You took it too far—" “Yeah, I know.” “He had a—"

“I said I fuckin’ know,” Johnathan’s voice booms, but the chitter chatter can still be heard in the background, “Didn’t I, mate? I fuckin’ know, and I can’t fuckin’ take it back now, can I? So what do you fuckin’ want me to do?”

“Listen to me.” The switch up in Pete is always too fast to catch. He has his hand wrapped round the collar of Johnathan’s t-shirt, pulling him up so their eyelines meet. There’s no room for pity here. “Last time, was the last time. This time, is your last chance.” His words are measured, balanced, but most of all, fair. “Don’t make an enemy out of me, lad.” Pete glances towards the men in their booth, then back to Johnathan, as if to say: or you’ll be getting a visit from them.

Out of pride, but not quite anger, Johnathan shoves Pete’s off him, “Fuck off, mate.” Pete’s grip becomes loose only because he allows it. He can see that John’s temper is reduced to a simmer and that his words are being heard. There’s a silent understanding, which Pete acknowledges by fixing up a glass of whiskey. “Merry Christmas Eve, lad.”

The first time Johnathan met Pete was around twenty years ago. He was a skinny boy with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, tears streaming from his eyes which was stinging the deep gash along his cheek. When are you going to learn your lesson, John-Boy? Unless you’ve found your fuckin’ mother, fuck off, his father had yelled at him, after having abandoned him for a week to drown his sorrows at The Tavern. It was then, when Griggs and Jim picked up a shaking Johnathan off the floor, and Marmy, Thick Boy and Pete did whatever they had to do. One blocked his view, the other covered his ears. To this day, Johnathan doesn’t know what that was exactly, and he never cared to find out. But it hadn’t stopped him from seeking out his father and it hadn’t stopped his father from taking out his grievances out on his son. All it did stop, really, was stop his father from enjoying The Tavern, which in return gave Johnathan a place to run to. If it wasn’t from his father, then it was after his fights, personal and criminal, until he grew into a man with a rabid sort of ferocity that no longer needed a place to hide, but a place to keep his secrets. Like today.

“Oi John,” Marmy calls out from the booth, and Johnathan barely looks over his shoulder. “We’d been talkin’, yeah—”

“And really, well, we were just waiting for the right time, weren’t we, boys?” Griggs says, then Jim and Marmy both nod, mumbling ‘aye, aye’. Thick Boy sits there like he’s surrounded by idiots, but he’s the only one without a pint in his hand, instead both hands are kept beneath the table. Jim brightly continues, “But we got something, something small, init, but it’s actually well nice.” A beat, then Marmy says, “We only just went and got your little girl a fuckin’ Christmas present.” Begrudgingly, Thick Boy brings out a box. It’s pink, or purple, or somewhere in between.

“What the fuck is that,” Johnathun grumbles, but it gets him out of his seat. He’s laughing, as he throws the box up in the air like it’s a football. There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes, which the other older men could’ve probably related to back when they were his age, at thought of maybe, just maybe, his parents would let him see Zoe for Christmas. All he had to accomplish now was to not turn up drunk.

***

“What do you mean, you don’t fuckin’ play with Polly Pocket anymore?” Outraged, Johnathan’s hands go to his hips.

“I’m thirteen,” Zoe says, eyes narrowed. Her walls are full of posters of bands he doesn’t recognise, pop stars who look like gimps and probably wear makeup, and the toys on her bed have narrowed down to one: a teddy bear he didn’t get her.

“Yeah, and? I’ve got Polly for you every year!” It’d been ten years since Johnathan first gifted Polly Pocket to Zoe for Christmas. Since then, although he didn’t get to stay for long, he made sure she always had the newest edition in her possession. It had been worth it, to see the smile on her face. “This is from Porto! Do you know how hard it is to find one of these out there?”

“Uh... No?” She might as well have said: and I don’t fucking care.

“Christ, you’re a fuckin’ nightmare, you are. Nan and Granddad know about this?” Who, technically, were her great grandparents.

“Mhm.”

“Fuck me…” Johnathan blows air from his cheeks and takes a sip of his tea. It’s painfully silent. He can feel her staring at him, not particularly wanting him to say something, but maybe making him uncomfortable enough so he leaves. This isn’t exactly how Johnathan imagined their Christmas to go, however, so he slowly walks around Zoe’s room, pretending to keep himself busy whilst thinking of a conversation starter that might get more than three words out of her. But then:

“Johnathan?” “Dad.” “Johnathan.” “Dad.” “You know what—” “Alright, fine. John, then.” A beat. He’d be an idiot to mess up the one-time Zoe has ever asked him a question. “What is it?”

“Do you really want to give me a good Christmas present?”

“’Course I do. More than anything.” Something good to remember him by. Anything that might outweigh the bad.

“Can you tell me about your parents?”

The warmth and softness in his features quickly harden into something sharp and rough, visibly shutting down. “Zoe.”

“Please? Nan talks about her all the time. She only ever has good things to say.” It’s the first time Zoe has sounded so earnest, but Johnathan remains unwavering.

“Yeah, well, nan and granddad weren’t there, and you don’t need to know,” he says tersely. Not to fucking forget, they were her parents.

***

“Alright, alright. I’ll give it to her.” Johnathan gives in, and the guys cheers in celebration. “You sure kids like this shit, yeah?” He doesn’t need further persuading, but they reassure him anyway. A Christmas with your child, especially when they’re young, is special. They all know that.

An hour or two pass. Johnathan has returned to his seat, finding solace in somewhat solitary, with the Polly Pocket box placed to his side. Suddenly, and rather unusually, the pub door opens and he hears the sound of heels clicking against the floor. He could tell it was a woman from the whistling and the low coos heard from the other men, but he pays them no attention and keeps to himself. Any woman with an ounce of self-preservation would’ve walked straight back out the door, but the clicking of heels grows louder and it’s only when she sits next to him that makes him look up from his drink.

She exhales nervously and runs her hands down her skirt. It’s low, goes past her knees, ironed. From her hands, he can tell she’s older than him, closer to Jim’s age, but he can’t be sure.

“Hiya,” she says. Softly spoken, definitely smokes or smoked, poorly dyed hair but definitely not the type of person to enjoy this kind of pub. There are lines on her face that suggests a long and hard life lived. He could even see it in her eyes. It looks like she’s come straight from work, not an office so deep in the city but an office, nonetheless. Did she not want to be with her family, after working on Christmas Eve? “What a lovely welcome,” she laughs quietly.

Johnathan goes to look over his shoulder, as the crudeness from the guys were audible from where they’re sitting and tells them to shut the fuck up. He used to join them, back in the day, before he was legally able to drink and before he knew better, so their taunts of calling him a bore and acting like he’s better than them rolls off his back. “Your, uh—your label,” he points towards the tag sticking out of the woman’s blazer.

Mortified, her hands fly round to tuck the tag back in. The redness of her cheeks might’ve been attributed to the cold weather but now the tips of her ears match. “Oh my god, thank you.”

“You’re alright.” “That’s so embarrassing.” He shrugs. It wasn’t that bad. Worse things have happened in this pub. “I’m—I just, I must’ve forgotten to take it off,” she scrambles to explain. “It happens." “I hope I didn’t walk all the way over here with it out.” “Doubt anyone saw. No one here really cares anyway.”  “God, I’m so silly. I don’t know why but I always do that.”

An almost silent sigh. Way to fucking bang on about it. He could understand lying once, he was happy to play along, but lying again after he let her off easy was starting to piss him off. She was taking him for an idiot. “Want me to tear it off?”

“Oh, no. No, that’s alright. I wouldn’t want to bother you.”  “Wouldn’t bother me.” “Oh,” she laughs. “It’s okay. Thank you, though.” The corners of his lips quirk upwards, but only faintly. “What’s good here?”

Johnathan returns a blank stare, though underlying the pause there’s an apology, then he responds coolly, “If you’ve come here for a good drink, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Oh,” she laughs again, and it’s clear it’s a habit to just fill the gaps. “What are you drinking, then?”

He inhales sharply. Strangers, small talk, he was in no mood for bull shit, so he replies curtly, “Whiskey.”

“I’ll get you one of those, love.” Pete interrupts before Johnathan can speak again, and fixes him a look, as if to remind him it’s Christmas, and Johnathan responds with a look of his own that reads: Eve. The drink comes quickly and the woman looks up at Johnathan, hesitant, almost as if she wants to clink their glasses together, but it could’ve easily have been something else entirely. She simply smiles then takes a sip of her drink. “It’s very nice,” she says timidly, like she’s aware he never asked, “My dad used to drink this.”

Johnathan looks up then, twisting in his seat slightly, and lips part as if to say something but he decides against it. Smacking his lips together, he mutters, “Glad you like it.”

“Is that for your daughter?” She asks, tipping her glass towards the Polly Pocket box, smiling sweetly.

“Yeah,” he replies, turning to glance back at the present. “Yeah, something like that.” “How many kids do you have?” “Just one. A little girl.” “What’s her name?” “Zoe.”

“Zoe,” she repeats with a smile, but this time it felt like the smile was for herself, as if it meant something to her, to be saying the name for the first time, “that’s a beautiful name.”

A small crinkle forms between his brows, as the memory of picking out the name with Melissa comes flooding back to him, and he resigns by taking a large gulp of his drink. “You? You have any?”

“Kids? Oh, yes. I have, um, I have four.” “Bloody hell.”

“I know, it’s a lot.” She laughs quietly. “They’re lovely, though. Here, let me show you--” she digs into her bag to find her purse. She fishes out several photos, slightly crumpled, because maybe she tends to show them off to strangers in pubs. One is a family photo, must have been a birthday, they’re all surrounded around a cake and two of the kids are pretending to blow out the candles which hadn’t been lit. He spots the big smiles, tall windows and clean clothes, and can see why she would carry this photograph with her. Then she moves to the next photo, it’s her and three of her kids, on a beach. A family holiday, she says, and talks about how funny that moment had been and how grateful she was that her husband caught it on camera. The more she speaks, however, the more bitter he feels, and whilst he knows the deep resentment is misplaced he can’t quite help himself. So, when she moves to the next photograph, he abruptly cuts in, “Alright, I get it.” She looks up at him, wide-eyed, but seems to understand her mistake. “Your kids are lucky,” he says, less aggressive.

“I’m- I’m sorry.” Quickly, she tucks the photos back into her purse.

“Why are you here, then? Shouldn’t you be with them?”

She pauses, trying to be more careful with her words. “Oh, I was. Earlier. But I told them, I mean, they know. Well, I’m here to meet someone.”

“Meet someone?” He repeats incredulously. Who could she possibly be meeting, here, at The Tavern, that wasn’t here already? Another lie, he suspects.

“Yes, I know, I’m—well, I’m a little late. Oh, nevermind.” Despite the look she receives, which was one that didn’t hide how unconvinced he was, she holds her drink like she intends to finish it and continues the conversation as if her company is welcomed. This makes Johnathan think that she’s either incredibly stupid or incredibly lonely, or quite possibly both. “So, what do you do?”

He looks up at Pete with a look in his eyes that reads: save me. Pete responds with a small shrug, clearly holding back a laugh. It’s either the alcohol, or the fact that he is also incredibly lonely that makes him respond, “I work in construction. You?”

“Wow, that’s impressive.” “…Are you havin’ me on?”

“No! Not at all,” she protests. “I take it that explains your..?” Her gaze drifts downwards, nervously, from his ripped shirt to the stains and his battered hands.

After a beat, he replies simply, “Sure.” He wonders how long ago she’d noticed all the things she’d pointed out, what kind of explanations she’d come up in her head, and whether or not he needs to be concerned. The look in her eyes, though he may be reading her wrong, seems to be filled with worry, even more so as he catches her staring at the scar on his cheek. “Nosebleed,” he says, tugging on his shirt that has blood stains from earlier in the day. She lets out a sigh of relief, then her gaze returns to his cheek, concerned.

A deep sigh, and before she asks, he offers, “Uh, cut myself. When I was kid.”

Her hand goes up to cover her mouth. Fucking dramatic, he thinks. “How old were you?”

“Nine, ten. Something like that. Wasn’t a big deal, to be honest.”

“Oh god,” her hand twitches, almost as if she wants to reach out to graze it. Thank fucking god she doesn’t. “It must’ve been bad, if the scar’s lasted this long.”

“Yeah, well.” Johnathan finishes off the rest of his drink, unintentionally slamming the glass against the wooden bar top, which catches Pete’s attention and without a word, Pete refills Johnathan’s glass. Even without looking at her, he can tell that she wants to ask more questions. It’s Christmas Eve, he reminds himself, and maybe he’s trying to build some good karma for tomorrow, so he turns to her and asks, “What do you do, then?”

“Oh, me?” She tries to quickly gather herself, which is the only reason why he doesn’t quip back with ‘who the fuck else?’. “I’m just a secretary.”

“Right. You use one of them computers and all that?” She laughs, albeit meekly. “Yes, yes I do.” “Not doing too bad yourself, then. You work in the city?” “Oh, no. Well, thank you. But no, I work just outside of it. It’s, um, I work at Wilkinsons.” “Do ya?” He groans. “I hate that place.”

She doesn’t ask a question this time and simply takes another sip of her drink. They sit in silence, like this, for a while. But he couldn’t quite get himself to enjoy it. The woman seemed upset, for reasons he didn’t care for, but it was getting late and he figured this wasn’t the kind of place she should be at right now.

“It’s a bit rough round here, you know,” Johnathan says. “Shouldn’t come this way by yourself. Not this late.”

“I—I know, it’s been a while, since I’ve been around here.” He could tell from her voice that she’d been crying, or at least trying to hold it back. “But thank you.”

He shrugs, and he decides that this is all he can manage. He looks behind him, over at Griggs, Marmy, Thick Boy and Jim, who all quickly look away in unison and act like they’ve been talking this entire time. He wonders what would be more painful, to sit here or join them. He doesn’t think too long on it and decides to get up, but before he can leave his seat, another question shoots out from from the woman’s mouth: “Would it be okay,” she starts, which makes him stop, and she pauses as if to muster up the courage to finish her question, “if I asked you, what you were like as a kid?”

“What?” He blinks at her. “Sorry, I just—“

“Trouble,” Pete says, with that warm smile of his, and joins them on their side of the bar with a drink of his own. “Like you won’t even imagine, love.” Johnathan rolls his eyes, but Pete continues, “The number of times he’d come in here with all sorts of cuts and bruises.”

“Alright, Pete. Settle down,” Johnathan says, disgruntled.

“He was always crying and getting into some kind of shit,” Pete says, and though his eyes were on the woman, his words were for Johnathan, “And I was always getting him out of it.”

Tears began rolling down her cheeks, and she runs the back of her hand beneath her nose as she sniffles. “Where was your dad?”

“Left him!” “Pete.” Johnathan warns.

“His mam too. Then one day, he stops crying and he’s all grown up. Turned into a right little cunt, mind you. But look at him, doing what’s best for his kid. Better than all of us in here, I’d say.”

“I—I should go,” she says unexpectedly. Johnathan only notices now how her makeup has run all down her face. All of a sudden, she’s in a hurry to leave, as she finishes her drink and slips out of her seat. “I’m sorry, I—you’re right. It’s late.”

“You alright?” Johnathan asks, confused but also a little concerned.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry, it’s been lovely.” She puts on her coat and collects her things. Then, she pauses and brings out her purse again. “Can I leave these with you?” She asks, holding the photographs of her family.

His face twists in bewilderment and looks to Pete for some help. To which, of course, he offers none. “I—”

“Please,” she says, and pushes them into his hands. “This is a bit fuckin’ weird. They’re your kids.” “I know, I know, I just—” “He’ll have ‘em,” Pete says, unhelpfully. “You sure you’re gonna be alright? How’re you getting home?” “I know I seem a mess but I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll take a taxi.” From her purse, she takes out some cash to pay for the drinks. “Here, for both of us.” “No, no. On the house,” Pete says, and waves the money away. “Please, take it,” she urges. “It’s Christmas Eve,” Pete says, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. “I can’t possibly—” her hand has been pushed away so the cash goes back into her purse, but she makes another attempt to pay.

“On us,” Johnathan says, putting his hand on top of hers so she puts her purse away, but this makes her drop it. There’s a small thud once it lands on the floor. Some money, a card and another photo has fallen out of it. Johnathan reaches down to pick up her belongings, but when his eyes land on the photo, his whole body stiffens. Slowly, he stands back up, holding the photo between trembling fingers. There’s a glint in his eyes that Pete hasn’t seen since Johnathan was a child. “What’s this?” Johnathan asks, voice low and seething.

The photo is of him as a child, playing in the park with a woman and a man. He only recognises himself, from having dropped Zoe off at his grandparents, and they’d showed him pictures of himself as a kid, along with his parents, who were the woman and the man in the photo. The woman in the photo, which he can see now, having a resemblance to the woman standing before him.

“Johnny,” she whispers under stuttered breaths, “I can explain…”

***

The atmosphere quickly grows uncomfortable and tense. Johnathan, who had promised to himself to never lose his temper in front of Zoe and to only show her the good parts, was clenching his jaw and pushing his thumb into the palm of his hand. Unfortunately, however, Zoe had already seen it all. She stood tall and unphased, because even if he were to blow, she was desensitised by it all. It’s too much of a burden, for a thirteen-year-old, Johnathan recognises this and he tries his best. But every time he’s around her, he can’t help but feel that it’s never enough.

“She was here, earlier,” Zoe says bluntly. “What?” “She’s been coming every year. With her kids. They’re nice.” “What the fuck are you talking about?” Johnathan says.

Zoe sighs. “She gave me this.” She opens a drawer and pulls out several photographs. They’re ones he has seen before that night, in the pub. A few of her with her new family, and one of the one she abandoned. “They won’t tell me everything. They said she was sick and now she’s doing better. But I overheard them talking, her and Granddad, and they said you--”

Then, suddenly, Johnathan cries out, “I’m her kid!” A lump quickly forms in his throat, and then breathlessly, he says, barely audibly, “I was her kid.”

Zoe’s eyes are as cold as her mothers, and she looks at him like he’s weak for letting his emotions get the better of him. “You should go.”

“No, Zoe—” “Nan!” Zoe calls out, “Granddad!”

That evening, after being escorted out of his grandparents’ house and being told to never come back, Johnathan was arrested on a charge of assault and manslaughter, after getting into a fight with the first group of men he’d bumped into and beating one of them to a pulp in a fit of rage. It was in the news, and he’s sure Zoe heard about it at some point. Luckily, Andrew pulled some strings and he was released, but even then, she didn’t seem surprised when he next visited her.

***

The funeral chapel is small but there’s not an empty seat in sight. Johnathan can’t bring himself to believe that this many people have turned up. Every single one of these people, at some point, knew his mother and they had enough of a relationship to pay their respects. All of these people knew her better than he did. He sits three brows behind the four kids who, until today, he’d only known from a few photos. From what he can see, they’ve grown up to be the kind of kids she’d be proud of. They spoke to him, welcomed him, and thanked him for showing up. Johnathan, now nearing fifty, returned the respect. He carries himself better than he used to, whether that came with age, or money, or power, it didn’t matter. He could tell it’d caught them by surprise, however. He'd arrived in a range rover with tinted out windows, a driver who opened the door for him, and behind him was another car full of men in black suits who were sat at the back of the chapel. They didn’t ask questions, and they suspect it’s because they knew not to.

The service was described to be a celebration of life. Her husband and her kids all did well in staying strong and delivering speeches that made people both laugh and cry. They opened the floor up to anyone who wanted to say their final goodbyes. People from all walks of life stood at the front and spoke from their hearts or shared funny anecdotes, which Johnathan thought was a bit stupid, if he was being honest. Surely this could’ve been done at the wake, he had things to do, and if he was being honest, he was only here because Zoe had mentioned it to him and he wanted to see her. The husband, who weakly still held a smile, asked if anyone else wanted to go. Johnathan flicked his wrist to check the time, and Zoe bumped her leg against his.

“Sorry,” he whispered, but with a turn of the hands, as if to say, I’ve got places to be. “No,” she whispered back, “You should go.” “What?” “Go. Say something.” “Zoe, no.” “You’ll regret it.” “I won’t.” "Dad." But if there’s anyone he caves to, it’s his stubborn little shit of a daughter, and after some more badgering, he rises to his feet. The husband looks surprised, shocked even, then looks to his children. Johnathan could only see the back of their heads, but he assumes they gave him an approval of sorts considering the husband’s reaction.

Once he’s at the front, Johnathan clears his throat and gently tugs the collar of his shirt. “Hello everyone. My name is Johnathan,” he pauses, and rubs a hand along the brim of his jaw. “Laura… was my mother.” Several people look surprised. “I was her son. When I was eight years old, she left me at an Wilkinsons. She told me to wait there for five minutes, and if she wasn’t back then to go home. I didn’t know how to tell the time and I didn’t know what came after ten, so I had no way to know when five minutes would have passed.” That, surprisingly, earned a couple of laughs. “I stayed there, in the same place, until the shop was starting to close and I didn’t see Laura again.” Johnathan presses his lips into a thin smile, he supposes there was no point in telling people what happened after that. “Until, around twenty years later, she showed up at my local pub, dressed in this blazer that was too big for her with the tag sticking out. Mind you, it was probably the first woman that’d entered that pub in about twelve years. So, from the get go, I knew she had issues.” Another few laughs. “We spoke a bit. She told me about her family, her kids,” he nods towards them, sitting in the front bench, shedding a few tears, “She asked lots of questions. It’s a bit of a blur, now, if I’m being honest, but one thing I remember clearly is she asked what I was like as a kid,” he says, rather solemnly. He didn’t know it at the time but now he knows she was just trying to get to know him, and she was trying to show him that she was doing better, that she knows how to be a mum. A memory flashes in his mind, of when the photo of them had fallen out of her purse, and how he’d slapped her before she got a chance to explain. It hurts now, knowing everything. “I wish…” The words are caught at the back of his throat. He’s not confident he’ll be able to say what he wants to say. “I wish I could forgive her. I don’t know if I can, but I understand her better now.” He looks at Zoe, someone who probably won’t ever understand why he’d done the things he’d done, even if it was for the best. “I’m glad she got another chance,” he lies.

Suddenly, the doors burst open, and an old drunk man wobbles in whilst yelling profanities. Gasps and whispers fill the room. Johnathan nods towards the men sitting at the back who promptly escorts him out of the room, and he makes an effort to settle the chaos in the room and bring the services to a smooth finish.

As groups of people leave the chapel and transition to the wake, Johnathan waits outside.

“John?” Zoe calls out. “I’ll be there in a sec, love.” Johnathan nods, urging her to go along.

A black range rover pulls up outside the gates of the funeral chapel. From there, they could see the top of the hill where the service was held. Sat on the drive is the old drunk man, who somehow had managed to get a hold of a bottle of vodka. The window rolls down and Marmy pops his head out of the window, “Oi oi, what we do we have here?”

“Ahh, Marmy, my fuckin’ saviour, you,” the old drunk man slurs his words and gets up from his seat.

“Aye, get in here.”

The old drunk man opens the door and climbs into the seat, rambling about what a fucking day he’s hard. Wordlessly, Marmy locks the doors, then says, “Have at him, John.”

The old drunk man turns to his side, and only then notices a larger figure sitting next to him. “John Boy?”

Slowly, Johnathan looks up at the man with a cold stare, fixing his knuckle duster on top of his leathered glove. “Been a while, dad.”

[siocbit]

“  you should be scared of me. i like that you’re not.  ”  <33

a solemn look etched onto the ice queen’s face as quentin spoke, gentle hands moving from her lap as they raised to cup his face. “ quentin . . “ the word ghosted past emma’s lips — eyes shining, like a diamond itself, as they gazed into the man’s own. it was true . . lots of people were afraid of him, of mysterio. but . . that was the territory when it came to mutants, no matter how much she wished it were not true.

the pads of her thumbs rubbed gently against quentin’s skin as emma sighed, leaning forehead so her forehead rested against his own. a comforting gesture, intimate. “ i could never be afraid of you, sugar. “ the words soft as breath ghosted against his own. “ i’m afraid i am in it for the long haul, despite what the world may think of you. “ emma teased softly, trying to lighten the mood as lips raised- pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his nose.

” i love you, quentin beck . . nothing in the world will ever change that fact. “

[athasliath]

larys uses his hand to tip theon's chin up, blue eyes peered into the greyjoy's. "you are a terrible liar."

the man's touch under his chin made a soft chill go down theon's spine, blue grey eyes staring up into larys's own. the man was much taller than he, despite the hunch he typically had. his words made the greyjoy let out a soft huff of breath. he wanted to laugh, to tell him to piss off and go who knows where.

instead, he simply narrowed his eyes- a wolfish grin turning up against edges of lips. " i may be a terrible liar, but at least some may be stupid enough to believe it. " not larys, though. never larys.

" that is a skill some may use to their advantage, no? “ words sharp against his tongue as sly grin got bigger. the kraken took a step forward, eyes crinkling softly as theon tilted his chin up more to meet his gaze. “ someone like you, lord strong, perhaps? “

[growstrong]

[ DANCE ] — sender pulls receiver into a dance, but not on a dance floor ; in the midst of somewhere unconventional ( such as a kitchen or balcony ) , for a quiet, private dance, that may be more of gentle swaying than proper dancing

the night was still young as margaery looked over the balcony, admiring the sights and sounds of king's landing once the sun was down. auburn curls loose around her shoulders as her hands smoothed down the material of her evening gown. it was nights like this where the tyrell woman felt as if she could relax, to just . . watch.

she could hear someone walking up behind her, head barely turning to address whoever it may be before her hand is grabbed at gently. body pulled towards the person's chest as icy hues looked up at aegon. a small smile registered on margaery's rosy lips as their hands locked together- feeling aegon's hand finding home against the small of her back.

the two began to sway gently, the woman's free hand winding up to rest upon the royal's shoulder. " well hello to you too, your grace. " margaery had hummed, eyes crinkling as her smile reached them. the action was unexpected, but not unwelcomed. shifting her stance, margaery rested her head against aegon's chest as they swayed in place- eyes shutting briefly as she enjoyed this shared moment between them. " i do not know what caused this, but . . it is nice. "

[svnfyres]

what if remi cradles his face in her gentle palms, hm? strokes her thumb under his eyes? peppers his face with tender tender kisses & loud, audible mwah! sounds? “so handsome! so intelligent!”

the feeling of remilia's hands resting so gently on the sides of his face made the prince pause , violet hues staring down at the dragonborn in surprise. the soft caress of her thumbs under his eyes made them shut briefly - aegon could feel himself leaning into the touch. he had never been treated so . . gently. like he was a fragile little thing to be cherished. like he was delicate glass.

but before he could even speak , the woman began to pepper his face with soft kisses - the prince being pulled down at the action. his eyes flicking open as remilia's lips came into contact with his skin over and over again. aegon sputtered softly , lips pursed tight as violet hues widened. handsome . . intelligent. the words made his face start to flush a soft hue , gulping gently at the sudden affections.

" i do not thi- " the prince began to reply , his words cut off as the woman's lips connected with his own - his thoughts drowned out completely as he sighed. caving into the touch , aegon pulled remilia closer towards him - hands resting on her waist. " you have certainly done it now , zaldrizes. "

[vmprre]

he    wears    the    smell    of    blood    and    death    like    a    perfume.    she    should’ve    known.    should’ve    seen    it    coming.    DANCING    WITH    THE    DEVIL.    his    hands    covered    with    blood.    the    same    hands    touching    her.    comforting    her.    warm,    gentle.    kind.    not    knowing    it’s    the    same    hands    that    killed.    he    who    takes    and    takes    -    it    is    never    enough.    hunger    for    power    and    so    much    more.    but    little    does    he    know    .  .  .    it’s    him    who’s    stuck.    him    who’s    not    under    control    anymore.    him    who’s    close    to    lose    everything    he    once    upon    a    time    wanted    and    longed    for.    and    all    because    of    her.    not    realising    she    had    been    his    weak    spot    all    along.    he    likes    to    neglect    it,    the    devil    within    him    trying    to    convince    himself    of    the    fact    he’s    only    doing    this    because    of    her    magic.    strong    arms    wrapped    around    fragile    body,    bringing    her    closer    to    his    chest    as    a    smile    curls    up    fleshed    lips.    ‘’    hey,    beautiful.    ‘’    a    moment    passes    by,    taking    her    in,    dark    eyes    fixated    on    the    girl,    knowing    all    too    well    she’s    not    been    herself    lately.    he    sees    it,    feels    it    :    the    fear,    the    anger,    the    pain.    mystic    falls    has    been    DANGEROUS    lately    &    he    thinks    it’s    swallowing    her    whole.    ‘’    are    you    okay?    i    heard    about    the    girl    . . .    she    didn’t    make    it.    i’m    sorry,    bon.    ‘’

[feminurge]

@maemen in the dream eryri burns-- bones become charcoal. there is no escaping the pleas of her tribe; they engulf her as surely as the waves of the sea. she is drowning, then. drowning in fire, blasphemy and pain. drowning until she is choking on the ashes. wakefulness takes the form of a gulp of air… which finds no respite, for the hands around her neck are tightening with each second it takes her to realize that dream and reality have become one.

it is no surprise that it is his hands that keep air from her lungs. they have touched every part of her; they have caressed every curve, clawed into every piece of flesh available. they have made her blush and bleed and scream and wail. under the hunter's moon she had made herself prey & predator, willing to be swallowed by a god's mouth if it meant coming undone. and now? well, the difference is thin. fingers grip what they can, grass next to her bedroll, one of his horns, anything to make the monster relent on his attempted murder. it is not pleasure, but it is not pain either- a secret third, more complicated thing.

she knows what is happening, the same way she knows that the spell she utters through gritted teeth will force him into backing away, a wall of wind rising from her hands to smash into his stature. she knows that bhaal has taken hold of his mind, can see it in his eyes, in the deranged glim that does not seem to recognize her. "golden boy", she breathes with wicked reverence, and it is amused… it would seem almost fraternal, would it escape from anything but a sore throat. and perhaps it would hold more sentiment, were it not followed by laughter... soft, then loud, louder, until it is almost hysterical.

although let it not be said that she is reckless. in less than a second she has risen from the ground and she is positioned to fight. "you owe me a better death than that." that, however, is a taunt, vulgar and mocking, as she fires her first thunder bolt. it sizzles out of her arm like an extension of her being; girl ripped open to birth a storm.

[beauforte]

stay here with me. vanessa

all   suffering   originates   from   craving,   from   attachment,   from   desire.   and   he   hopes   she   knows   how   hard   he   tried.   he   did   everything   he   possibly   could   to   make   her   better,   to   do   better.   it   was   simply   out   of   his   control.   his   reputation,   his   money,   his   resources   .  .  .   nothing   could   FIX   her.   for   a   long   time,   he   accepted   it.   he   couldn’t   tell   her   what   to   do.   she   was   his   best   friend,   nothing   less,   nothing   more.   but   oh,   he   did   love   her.   loved   her   like   no   one   else.   loved   her   more   than   he   was   supposed   to.   he   still   does.   but   that   one   night,   the   accident   by   the   pool,   it   pushed   him   over   the   edge.   for   the   first   time   in   life,   he   threatened   her.   she   would   either   fix   herself,   or   she   would   never   see   a   glimpse   of   him   ever   again.   and   here   they   are   :   in   the   middle   of   nowhere,   stuck   in   his   car,   in   front   of   the   world’s   leading   &   discrete   luxury   mental   health   treatment’s   building.   he   inhales,   avoiding   her   gaze,   jaw   tightly   clenched   together.   he   can’t   look   at   her,   because   he   knows   he’ll   give   in.   HE   DOESN’T   WANT   TO   LEAVE   HER   BEHIND.   he   wants   to   keep   her   close,   wants   to   take   care   of   her.   make   her   feel   better.   but   they’ve   been   there   -   he   tried,   countless   of   times   before.   it   didn’t   work.   ‘’   go   inside,   vanessa.   we   talked   about   this.   ‘’   he’s   cold,   distant.   moment   passes   by,   blue   eyes   travelling   up   just   to   find   her   very   own.   he   reaches   out   for   her,   tucking   a   strand   of   hair   behind   her   ear,   head   tilted.   ‘’   you’re   strong.   you   can   do   this.   i   know   you   can.   ‘’

[violenthunted]

the case ends early, without any flourish. a rather straight-forward situation, with a child recovered early enough that he will probably find a way to get past the traumatic events. his parents are overjoyed, and reid has to turn away from their cries of relief. not from disgust, exactly — more like envy. a crude feeling he does not wish to study in any way, shape or form. their work trip ends well. something that does not happen often, which of course calls for a celebration. the place they have left their stuff at is nice and clean and relatively welcoming. the town is small enough that the party will not be invaded by outsiders. most of all, they desperately need a break — a break from the restless succession of cases and corpses and violence. spencer does not remember the last time he went to get a drink with his colleagues instead of collapsing on a bed that is not his, shirt half-opened and shoes barely taken off.

the night off is clearly necessary, but the fact that they all gather around beers and cocktails is a happy incident. at first, all morgan had asked for was for a game of cards. he knows the danger of playing with reid, of course, so the shift happens quickly : from game to magic tricks to drinks. the night goes smoothly, with laughter and jokes about events that they have collected along the way like precious stones, greedily, for they were too rare not to.

spencer isn't drunk exactly since he hasn't consumed anything except a beer. but alcohol on an empty stomach gets the job done anyway : he feels slightly buzzed, happily drifting away from clear consciousness. he is happy just to sit and listen as juno recalls events and stories that david seems happy enough to ask her about. one by one, his friends leave : morgan and garcia, his arm around her waist as she babbles about codes and programs that would make the job "so much more fun". derek's smile is so sweet spencer doesn't even have to wonder what is hiding behind it. emily, rossi and hotch end up leaving together, all discussing quietly. the only true mark of levity is the absence of lines between hotch's brows. david's enigmatic smile hasn't faltered at all. only emily's behavior seems slightly off in the tame light of the bar — with the way she tilts closer to them in order to capture the softly spoken words. garcia tried to outdrink her, and lost — but not by far, it seems.

spencer and juno are the last to leave. he caught their friends leaving one by one, but only through snippets ; most of is attention is on juno as she speaks of a book she read in the plane. if it were up to him, they would never leave the place — but here she is, taking her jacket. there is nothing more to say and he finds himself lacking in questions, his brain too hesitant to speak of anything at all, so they have no choice but to depart. on the way, he wishes for a distraction ; for her stomach to make a sound, so that he could take her to dinner. for something to happen, anything that would force them to stay together. just one more hour. one more minute. but nothing happens and soon enough, he has taken her home, which is to say he has wallked her all the way to her hotel room.

perhaps it is that his state makes him braver than he usually is. perhaps it is that he has been thinking of it for years now. if a thousand things have always been between them, preventing any evolution in their dynamic, these things have come crumbling down with the passing years. he thinks of morgan's hand around garcia, the smile she sent his way. he thinks of jj, the way she threw herself in the arms of her husband knowing he'd catch her. he thinks of the kid's parents. how they held each other through the horror, and never faltered. not until their child was brought back to them, anyway. he thinks of his mother and how he will have no one left the day she dies. how, even now, he only has parts of her. loneliness gnaws at his bones, and his mind only knows quiet hours when juno is close.

maybe he is not any braver today than he was yesterday. maybe he is simply more desperate. more aware of the fact that she is going to get away from him and he will not survive it. maybe he wants her in unspeakable ways and can no longer find it in himself to pretend otherwise. all that matters is that, when their goodbyes have been spoken and the soft click of the door has rung out behind him, spencer does not move. twelve steps would take him to the elevator. five more and he'd get to the stairs. it would be terribly easy to do as he has always done, shoving his feelings down his throat and walking away from her. he knows that with a painful clarity. he could leave and never speak of the hesitation again. he has done it before, he could do it again in a heartbeat.

and yet. his knuckles tap against the wooden door. slowly, at first, and then faster. he won't be brave for much longer and he needs to do this right. (meaning if he doesn't do it now, he never will) the door takes a moment longer to open, and he finds juno a little more disheveled than he left her ; shoes off, her jacket abandoned somewhere in the room. spencer has never had any doubt whatsoever about juno's beauty but once again he is in awe. he knows that there are geometrical theories and mathematical equations to explain why she is so pleasing to the eye. yet despite this, he cannot help but believe that some of it is simply juno — she is beautiful as nature or art is beautiful. not for reasons exterior to itself, but simply because it exists in its own unique ways. he could spend an eternity watching her and he would not get bored, not even grow restless. in fact, he has spent countless hours following her every move, and he has always found something worthy to admire. she is a strange creature. one he wishes he could study closer, closer, not just with eyes but hands and mouth. his own desire is a monster he does not know how to destroy.

his humanity always comes as a surprise ; how he can hunger and thirst for such trivial things. even other people seem surprised of the fact that, at the end of the day, spencer reid is just a man. yet in juno's presence, reid has never felt like anything but. he wants her. he wants her the way he wanted her when he was younger, badly and excessively and sometimes even jealously. tonight he is tired of pretending otherwise.

she must have a question on her tongue, perhaps wondering what he is doing, if he has forgotten something, but it cannot be spoken before he moves forward. her face is captured by his hands, a soft hold. spencer leans toward her, his shadow eating away all her personal space. a few steps are taken, so he can close the door with the back of his heel.

he knows it is surprising. he knows that she might have not realized the effects she has on him — the way the flush on her cheeks makes him yearn, how when she speaks of something he doesn't know, he wishes she would whisper the pieces of information against his throat. he knows this is all in his head but god — years of fantasy and he is tired of abandoning her at the end of the night, not knowing if she regrets it as much as he does. for a moment, he thought juno and derek... well, a stupid conclusion that had saved him from admitting to himself what he actually felt.

now, though, spencer is willing to be brave. he even is willing to admit he is so stupid when it comes to her. "tell me," he starts, his breath probably smelling a little like stale beer. he'd apologize, except his hands have moved from her cheeks to her hair, and the long curls have him already weak in the legs. whatever the painters thought of when they talked about beauty, spencer knows they thought of her. like this. face flushed, lips slightly open, surprise and something else... something he cannot name. "tell me if you don't..." but then the thought dies on his lips, and he simply does what he has been dying to do for years. he leans forward, captures @suarcz 's lips with his, and prays she won't try to shoot him in the chest for invading her personal space.

[foradio]

❛ you are being so fucking weird, man. ❜

the demon chuckled lowly as tara spoke , crimson hues staring down at them as alastor’s head tilted slightly. much like a curious animal , the noise bubbling from his throat sounding staticky and warped. “ why thank you , my dear. i’ll take that as a compliment. “ the demon’s form bowed slightly , lowering so the two were now eye to eye. “ what’s the fun in being . . plain? “ the man added , tsk’ing softly to themself as they gazed at their companion.

“ so , my dear tara- “ the static spoke up once more , alastor’s big grin still plastered on his face. “ to what do i owe the pleasure today? “

[growstrong]

[ SHELTER ]  sender and receiver must find shelter from a storm  . (even a little rainstorm idk i think of garden walks)

the gardens of king's landing had always been one of her favorites. it was almost as if she were back home in highgarden amongst the flora and fauna. margaery twirled a single rose in her hands as she strolled through the grounds, taking in all the sites and smells before hearing that familiar rumble of a storm brewing. oh how she hated storms . . they were too harsh and if too much water came, it could drown out a garden.

before she could even register where she could begin to leave the gardens, margaery felt the first few drops before the pour- cursing softly as she began to pick up her pace. soon enough, the woman was now drenched as she rushed through the isles. hands clasping at the bottoms of her dress as she hiked up the flowy material, not wanting it to get all muddy and dirty.

huffing gently to herself as she finally reached one of the gazebos, dark curls stuck to her face as she wiped some water from her eyes. sensing she was not alone- margaery turned her head slighty as she spotted larys also seeking shelter, the tyrell woman clearing her throat. " apologies, my lord. i had not seen you there. " the woman nodded curtly, gently trying to wring some of the water from her dress. " it is some weather . . i did not expect so much water in king's landing. "

[vmprre]

salvatore    brothers.    everywhere    they    go    to    .  .  .    destruction,    grief    &    pain    follows.    she’s    stuck    in    the    middle    of    it.    caught    between    monsters.    no    way    to    run    from    it,    impossible    to    escape.    HERE    COMES    A    FEELING    YOU    THOUGHT    YOU’D    FORGOTTEN.    longing    for    a    shred    of    hope.    hope    that    his    brother    is    still    alive.    fighting    for    his    life.    fighting    for    everything    that’s    right.    damon    despised    him,    hated    everything    his    brother    stood    for    and    yet    .  .  .    here    he    stands,    eyes    locked    with    the    girl    who    would    go    to    the    end    of    the    world    for    his    brother.    ironic,    is    it    not?    the    good    brother    slowly    turning    into    something    hideous    when    the    evil    one    is    slowly    beginning    to    care.    oh,    leaving    town    crossed    the    mind    multiple    times.    but    leaving    her    here    to    die    -    it    was    just    something    he    couldn’t    do.    and    truthfully,    he    hated    it.    ‘’    just    get    some    sleep,    elena.    ‘’    sigh    full    of    defeat    follows    through,    dark    &    empty    eyes    slowly    finding    her    very    own.    ‘’    i    can’t    focus    on    finding    my    brother    and    babysit    you    at    the    same    damn    time.    ‘’    words    full    of    annoyance    escapes    the    vampire,    instantly    regretting    it    -    knowing    she’s    doing    the    best    she    can.    ‘’    just    .  .  .    get    some    rest.    okay?    i’ll    be    here.    you’re    safe.    ‘’

[feminurge]

a possessive kiss in front of a jealous third party . / WAIT IGNORE THE FIRST ONE I SENT, DELETE IT, THIS IS IT

in the house of gods, they float away. around them, the weave is near omnipotent. it is electrified, buzzing on the tip of her tongue. light swirling like water around the fake boat, inviting them for a lethal yet divine swim. oh, it was not what she had expected when he had told her that he could show her the weave; it had been an arrogant invitation at first. most certainly made as proof of his ability to channel it on a whim. still, she had come back, later that day (victoria had told her to play nice, and so she was) abrupt demand without a question mark to soften the blow. perhaps it was pride that had forced him into accepting the terms of that exchange, or perhaps victoria had asked him to play nice as well. whatever it was, it had led them here. bickering on a boat, floating in the cosmos.

the bickering was at least familiar. a day didn't pass without them throwing insults at one another, as wizards and sorcerers were bound to do. it had started the day istar had joined their merry little team, and hadn't stopped since then. there were moments of peace, of course: she never stayed in the camp itself, preferring to sleep in trees away from prying eyes. it felt safer that way, not to relish in the easy habits of community life. she knew she meant nothing to any of them, except for victoria… and that, too, was its own can of worms. wyll and karlach knew better than to extend any ounce of trust towards her. shadowheart was far too busy with her godly drama to care and lae'zel wouldn't be caught dead trusting a random newcomer. as for astarion, his red eyes followed her around long enough that she knew herself to be nothing more than a possible snack. getting comfortable was well out of the question. so, moments of peace, yes, when she remained at a safe distance.

still, she remained with them. she let herself be sent on small quests to get pieces of information from the darkest corners of baldur's gate, especially ones where people like the merry troupe wouldn't be able to navigate. they all had that clean hero-type face. grim and dirt weren't enough to make them appear as strays. only the vampire spawn fitted that description, and it seemed the price on his head made him too much of a liability. istar, on the other hand, looked perfectly at home with dishevelled hair and a bright, toothy smile that would have gotten her thrown out of any respected ball. she knew how to talk to the poor folk, knew how to swindle the drunk and to charm the gambling. she had an air of confidence that could carry her through any situation, and though her petite silhouette seemed rather frail, she had more than proven her worth in a fight. if a thunderbolt wasn't enough to knock out her opponent, she'd do it with a fist.

anyway. the boat. the weave. the smug-looking wizard.

it all comes back to her when the swirl of water quickens, forming waves upon waves. she knows what that means, even though istar is not completely aware of the origin of such knowledge. (a god shall come and thou shalt not be afraid) no need to be a genius to guess who could want to have a talk: the crown looms in the near distance, an object that they are planning to take. that mystra wants it delivered to her doorstep is irrelevant, and gale said as much-- istar overheard his conversation with victoria on that specific subject.

still, she can see the worry in the eyes of the wizard; does the worshipper find it uncomfortable to have no space for kneeling? does he despair not to find words to welcome his deity? she is coming, the weave trembles with it. good thing istar isn't made of weave. gale, on the other hand… she looks at him, but his glassy eyes are enough to tell that they have two decisions: either to panic or to act. and the sorceress is not the panicking kind. in the house of gods, mystra has all the power. moreso even than on their plane. angering her would be idiotic. and yet...

fingers find the lapels of his robe, and they tug. the wizard isn't small, but he is malleable, and with just enough force he stumbles down to meet her. he didn't expect it, that at least she knows, but it matters not. "trust me", she murmurs before impact, and she finds it interesting that she means it. he is victoria's, after all. sharing the same master they must share the same collar. the familiarity of it is tasted with an open mouth. a kiss that is all spit and teeth. whatever power is lodged in his chest it thrums under her hand when she presses it against his heart. she bites his lip when she feels him moving away, a warning, and she doesn't know if it is the shock of it or simply that she holds him too tight, but he goes willingly when she straddles him to get better access. the longer she kisses him the more the boat rattles with the waves of light.

for barely more than a passing thought, she wonders if she made a stupid choice. if mystra is in fact the type to fight for what she lost, rather than sulk about it from a distance. still, she holds him where she wants him and kisses him within an inch of his life, marking him for all to see. if they are bound to die drowning in an ocean of weave, lost to mystra's storm, she would rather remind the deity that she had to kill her dysfunctioning toy, unable to bring him back to her.

he is victoria's. and for now, for a moment, he is istar's. mystra can go fuck herself.

(a god shall come and thou shalt not be afraid)

perhaps the goddess gets the message loud and clear from all the noises they make. terribly mortal of them to be panting into each other's mouths. after a rather violent wave, it all stops. silence, defeaning, settles over them. istar lowers her face to his neck, her loud breathing echoing in the vast space of nothing that surrounds them. after a moment, just long enough to get some oxygen back in her lungs, she presses her teeth to the thin skin of his throat. the lovely red shade blooms with a little suction of her lips, and the wizard must be too out of it to stop her. good. she presses the flat of her tongue against the mark she left, soon followed by a sigh that could be mistaken for longing had anyone actually heard it (save for the wizard, yes. but what could he possibly say that anyone else would trust, hm?)

perhaps the polite course of action would be to leave his lap, but she is feeling a tad too comfortable and kiss-hazed to do so. he'll throw her out soon enough anyway. "mmh, went better than i expected." a chuckle, too light to be rehearsed, the cloud of looming death making way for the sun-lit realization that they survived another brush with danger, "glad you were mystra's boytoy and not shar's, or we would have been in big trouble."

@victo1re, @netherill