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retvenkos · 4 years

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he smiles // mordred

Merlin (BBC) - Mordred x Fem!Reader, fluff

A/N: 8.1k words!!! i didn’t think it was in me, but i clearly love mordred more than i should...

Summary: There had been time for them to bask in each other’s presence, to feel their souls intertwine as their paths converged onto the same road. For, in those days, few as they were, Mordred and (Y/n) shared a common destination and their fates were one.

brother, you could never understand the beauty in his eyes and the pain reflected there. i have found legends of the most desolate of places with the most gruesome of histories and none of them compare to the look in his eyes. he has been rubbed raw of everything he’s loved and has been chipped away of everything he once was.

but he is beautiful, brother, when the stars are resting in the black night of his hair and when the ivy climbs his skin like a statue of marble.

and when he smiles…

is there beauty that could compare?

ii.

Laughter, warmth, and wine filled the Banquet Hall. Knights celebrated, feasting and drinking to good fortune, speaking with one another in their usual, rowdy tones. Music played and merriment filled the hearts of every soldier and guest in the room.

Instead of sitting at the high table where his father had sat before him, King Arthur was amongst his people, Guinevere at his side, speaking to the man that was cause for celebration; Mordred. An old acquaintance and new ally, this young man was knighted earlier that day and the newest recruit was being honored the only way Camelot knew how.

Mordred was smiling, disbelief clinging to the edges of his mouth, hope blooming roses on his cheeks, underneath his skin. His joy was more subdued than that of those who surrounded him, but it seemed as though the happiness that clung to him was the most pure and full joy he had ever experienced in all his years on Earth.

(Y/n) had yet to meet Modred when Gwaine grabbed her arm and took her over to where his fellow knights were huddled together, in the center of the hall.

“Gwaine,” (Y/n) huffed, following her older brother, despite her initial reaction of refusing, “what is it, this time?”

“You haven’t greeted the King and Queen! Guinevere was wondering if you had gotten holed up in the library again, archiving histories no one’s ever going to read.” Gwaine’s voice bubbled with glee, the mead he had drunk already taking effect on his mood, making him even more playful than usual.

“Are you sure it wasn’t because you didn’t want me talking to the ladies at court? I heard a pretty blonde knows you better than I.”

Gwaine grabbed another drink from a nearby servant and took a swig of it. “If she knew me better than you, she wouldn’t have talked to me the way she did.”

(Y/n) scoffed. “Apparently she spends quite a lot of time in your chambers, as well.” (Y/n) raised an eyebrow and stole her brother's mead, taking a drink of it herself.

“We’ve been getting better acquainted.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes and Gwaine laughed, taking his drink back, only to find it empty. He nudged her in the ribs with a playful scowl before letting go of her arm and nodding to the Queen. He disappeared into the crowd after that, leaving his younger sister to bow and exchange formalities.

“My Lady.”

“(Y/n),” Guinevere smiled, laughing at the title she now wore. Her spirits, too, had been lifted by the contents of her goblet, and the candle-lit hall seemed to be painted in rosy hues. “You know you can call me Gwen.”

“But that isn’t nearly as fun.”

(Y/n) bowed once more, her eyebrows raised in jest and Guinevere shook her head. “Have you met Sir Mordred?”

“No, I’ve not.”

“Well, then,” Guinevere led (Y/n) a few paces deeper into the throng of knights and very quickly found who she was looking for. She smiled triumphantly when she did and put a hand on the shoulder of a man turned away from her. “Sir Mordred, this is Lady (Y/n).”

The knight turned around, (Y/n)’s gaze met his, and the world around them slowed. Her heartbeat quickened and her breath caught as his blue eyes shook her to her core, seemingly looking right into her soul, finding the pure gold that lay at the heart of her very being. In that moment, which stretched into infinity for them but never left the stream of time for others, (Y/n) could see the most beautiful sky form in his eyes.

And she knew the poets to be right in their rambles of beauty and desire and all that fell in between.

“Sir Mordred,” (Y/n) bowed low, long lashes kissing her cheeks and allowing her a second of relief from his intoxicating gaze.

He breathed her name and it sounded like a forgotten memory; like something that was all at once fondly missed and discovered anew.

“I see you’ve met my sister!” Gwaine’s strong voice shattered the still moment efficiently. The knight clapped Mordred on the shoulder with a strength that could have made mountains crumble, but Modred did not move. “She works with Geoffrey of Monmouth in the Royal Library.”

“She’s the brain to his brawn,” Guinevere supplied with a grin, a twinkle in her eye.

“And the beauty,” (Y/n) teased, earning a laugh from Guinevere and a protest from Gwaine. Through the laughing, (Y/n) caught Mordred’s keen eye as it lingered on her.

iii.

brother, i cannot describe it, but there is a kindness in his bones. it is so deeply rooted in the fabric of his being that it cannot be separated without destroying him - picking him apart piece by piece, excavating his soul until it becomes a cavern, stripped of it’s jewels and metals.

the heavens treat him as though he is a part of them. the sun haloes around his head like a crown, like he is an angel on earth.

and, brother, when he smiles…

the skies above clear just for him.

iv.

(Y/n) walked through the castle, purpose quickening her step, her mind stuck in days gone by, those scholars called the Great Purge. She had been translating history texts written in languages that had died with the Old Religion, and had come across a mention of a sorceress she had not heard of in her many years of learning. Geoffrey of Monmouth, the keeper of the library, had told her to take the name to Gaius in search of more information.

“If the sorceress does, indeed, exist,” Geoffrey had told her, “then there is great reason to believe she did not perish in the Great Purge and the king must be warned.”

(Y/n) understood the danger that a sorceress could present to the kingdom, which fueled her haste in going to Gaius’ chambers, but hesitation pricked at the back of her mind, making her avert her eyes from those around her.

Was a sorceress inherently evil? It went against all her beliefs to concede to that idea. She had always been taught that evil was a thing to be cultivated, it was not the natural state of mankind. Then how could it be justified, slaughtering her before she has committed a crime? All men face hardships that poison them with the potential for great evil, yet they are not senselessly killed. But with times being what they were - with Morgana threatening everything Camelot stood for…

The sound of swords clanging disrupted her thoughts, and (Y/n) stopped to calm her mind.

The world was a hard place to navigate through and come out unscathed. There were times when (Y/n) thought it just might be impossible. Sometimes, it seemed that humans were made to bleed. Skin was made fragile for a reason, after all.

Swords clashed together once more, and (Y/n) turned to the source of the noise. The knights (just as she has suspected) were honing their sword fighting skills, the men engaged in one on one combat. Her eyes immediately found Gwaine, who was sparring with Percival, both of them clearly taunting the other. (Y/n) rolled her eyes at their antics, chuckling when Percival was able to get the jump on Gwaine, delivering a harsh blow that her brother was only just able to block, stumbling backward.

Her eyes drifted, then, to Mordred, who was sparring with Elyan. As she gazed at the pair, (Y/n) found herself under his spell once more. His brow was furrowed in concentration and his jaw was set; he looked lethal, like a dangerous poison had been unleashed in his bloodstream and was ready to consume everything in its path. (Y/n) looked deeper into his eyes, expecting a hurricane to be raging within but found no animosity there.

Mordred; like all men; like the sorceress who’s name she had on a scrap of paper, tight in her fist; had the capability to be cruel in this harsh world, but it was not in his nature. She could see that in his soul, and the fact that she could see it from such a distance was a testament to that goodness and beauty she had seen in the Banquet Hall, only a day prior.

King Arthur called for his men to cease their training. Swords no longer clashed. Mordred’s eyes locked with (Y/n)’s.

She smiled politely and he nodded to her, his own mouth curling upward, slightly; a look that was meant for her, and no one else. (Y/n)’s breath caught in her chest. The ache that lingered there was pleasant and bearable, when she remembered who had left it.

Gwaine saw his sister and called to her. (Y/n) snapped her attention to him and waved.

Then, with one last glance at the knight who had caught her attention, she continued on her path to Gaius’ chambers, her thoughts straying from the sorceress at hand, her cheeks warm and heart hammering.

brother, there is a knowledge in his voice that could drown the world in sorrows. he speaks and his words are heavy enough to bury us all alive. but that is not who he is. for, brother, when he looks at me with eyes like diamonds forged far beneath the ground, i see a light that he has created within.

it is warm and kind and believes in the world this one could become. how has he fallen in love with this world when it has come to him broken, already in shambles?

i do not know, but when he smiles…

could the world really be this way?

vi.

The gossip ladies shared while dining was, for the most part, colorful but frivolous. Most of the time it was rumors about a prince who couldn’t banish his feelings for a commoner or a princess who couldn’t hold her tongue while in the presence of men. It was spoken of in tones that made it sound more interesting than it was, and it was passed through the table like another dish they were being served.

(Y/n) listened and engaged with it at yet another banquet, thrown in the aftermath of yet another victory over sorcery. The music played energetically, and as the wine flowed, the painted lips of women loosened and their words came freely.

“That Sir Mordred,”—(Y/n)’s ears perked at the sound of his name—“he’s grown awfully close to the King, hasn’t he?”

The lady who spoke tilted her head and her friends urged her to continue - to finish the thought that was stewing inside her head.

She smiled wickedly, lowering her voice and leaning in, “I’ve heard nasty whispers about where he’s from - no one really knows, but some think he’s a slave-trader, and others…” she paused for affect, and when the music played loudly again, she divulged, “others say he might be a Druid.”

The ladies gasped and (Y/n) felt bile rise in her throat. Suddenly, she wished the gossip to stop - for the music to become so loud that the lady who sat across from her wouldn’t be able to finish the vile thought that she was already speaking.

“If he hadn’t saved King Arthur’s life… Well, we know where he would be.”

(Y/n) stood up in a flash, her jaw set, her eyes angry and frightened, her nerves a mess. The ladies startled and turned to her, but the rest of the celebration carried on. The music still played, the instruments now shrill and jarring, the voices of men suddenly harsh and cruel. (Y/n) was suddenly overwhelmed by the crowd - their fanged grins and ravenous eyes, the hate and anger that lay in their hearts.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves.” (Y/n)’s lips quivered, but her words rang true. The women at the table looked at her, their mouths working soundlessly.

With no further ceremony, (Y/n) left, walking through the castle, letting the sounds of the Banquet Hall fade behind her. Unsure of where she could clear her racing mind, (Y/n) let her legs take her where they pleased.

She stopped in the middle of the balcony corridor, the gentle wind calming her mind, the moon above reflecting a soft, steady light that played against the stone beneath her. The only sound here was her skirts grazing the floor. The stillness calmed her. She sighed and leaned against the stone wall, turning her face to the inky night sky.

What had angered her? She looked at the stars scattered across the sky and wondered at her own actions. Had it been the ladies questioning who Mordred was? No, people were always questioning from where people hailed. It was a way to understand a person without ever knowing them - it was an easy way to allow comfort when in the presence of a stranger. Had it been them accusing him of being a Druid? Perhaps. But, then again, it was not the Druids that had angered her. What had brought her to stand was the implication of what could befall him if he were, indeed, a part of them.

It was dangerous to be something more than just flesh and blood. For there to be rumors, there had to be doubt - and if there was the smallest ounce of doubt in the hearts of those most adamant in the war against magic…

It was not fair - none of it: the rumors, the fear, the suspicion, the deaths of innocents. There was no crime in being born. There was no evil in having been created with skills that few understood. Nothing was inherently wicked, so then how could magic be persecuted as such?

(Y/n) sighed. Perhaps she cared too much. What good could she do, at the end of the day? Being a magic sympathizer only passed suspicion on those you cared for. Was it wise, then, to speak the way she did, to let her feelings be known?

“(Y/n),” a voice called from the shadows, disturbing the silence that had given the woman peace of mind, only moments before. (Y/n) spun around, feeling guilty, her heart beating louder.

It was Mordred, dressed in a knight’s finest, his expression impassive in the moonlight. (Y/n) calmed when she saw it was him who had called for her, but heat rushed to her face.

“Mordred,” she smiled, despite herself, and the dim light played against the curve of her mouth. “I didn’t hear you come. Is the celebration over, already?”

“No,” he answered, walking over to stand beside her, a respectful distance between the two, “I doubt it’s going to end anytime soon.” (Y/n)’s hands itched to be nearer to his, and she folded them together to occupy them. “But what brought you out here?”

“Some of the women I dined with are not as kind in their hearts as they should be.” (Y/n) gazed into the never ending sky, wondering how the stars burned so bright in such a dark expanse. Did their warmth, too, come from within? Did they see Mordred below and feel the same heat fill them so completely? She couldn’t imagine feeling any other way, in his presence. “They may be at court, but they are not nearly as deserving as others.”

Mordred’s eyes twinkled with mirth, like tiny stars igniting in blue skies, although (Y/n) did not seem to notice, her gaze still searching the night around them. He looked at her admiringly, his eyes tracing the curves and dips of her profile - that serene face that drew him out of himself and towards her.

“None of them have any idea of what it’s like to be an outsider, but their judgements of others are swift and cruel.” She turned to him, hesitant to see his reaction.

(Y/n)’s words, so sincere, so carefully chosen, turned Mordred’s face into something softer - something (Y/n) had only seen once before, but felt like she knew more deeply than anything else. “Nobility knows nothing of the suffering they can inflict.” He held her gaze when he spoke, and his words were a melodious lament - almost a siren’s call, pulling (Y/n) deeper into his depths. He sighed, his eyes averting from her own. “But everyone pays for their soul, in the end.”

“Then let ours be pure of heart while we’re still here.” (Y/n) leaned heavier against the stone before her, her shoulders falling deeper, her forearms bearing her weight. She tilted her head to look at Mordred beside her, and he relaxed in a similar manner.

“This world needs more people with your ideals.” Mordred complimented her and heat flooded (Y/n)’s cheeks. He regarded her with a smile - small and conspiratorial, like a soft embrace.

“You can thank my brother for any beliefs I hold. He was the only man to teach me how to rise above what I am.”

The wind visited them once more, weaving through their hair, twisting Mordred’s cape and twirling (Y/n)’s skirts. (Y/n) leaned into its caress, her eyes closing for a brief moment, her entire being becoming one with the heavens above.

“You’re lucky to have each other. Being alone isn’t easily shaken.” A shadow came over Mordred’s eyes, heavy and dark.

(Y/n) turned to the man beside her, her lips parting as she moved to say something.

She was untimely interrupted by Gwaine calling for her. She held Mordred’s gaze for a moment longer, as though debating whether or not to stay and say something more, but when her brother called again, she obeyed.

vii.

brother, he lives with such gravity. every breath is a gust of wind, every step is a tremor in the earth. he is so heavy on this earthly plane, the world presses down on him as though he were made to carry it upon his shoulders.

and yet, when he is still and the world stops around him, he looks weightless, as though he could fly. and brother, when he soars above me he is an angel out of reach, a dream beyond imagining.

and then he smiles…

is there freedom such as this?

viii.

(Y/n) held her skirts in her hands, running through the castle’s corridors, taking the familiar path to Gaius’ chambers. Weaving in and out of people who were in her way, her mind raced faster than her legs. It was only by luck that the gossip of the servants reached her, and she hadn’t a moment to lose.

The King had gone on a patrol to the Black Mountains that morning, and when they had come back…

The servant’s weren’t clear in what had happened, but Mordred was wounded - carried into Gaius’ chambers by Arthur and Merlin.

To be wounded was one thing; but to be carried into the castle by the King, himself? (Y/n) didn’t know what to think, but she feared the worst. Her heart was beating faster than ever, a drum to which her anxieties chanted inside her skull.

Still running, her feet slapping the stone incessantly, she turned a corner and stumbled headlong into someone walking the opposite way. (Y/n) muttered an apology as she started to dodge the obstacle, but whoever it was moved in her path once more, grabbing her shoulders with a tight grip.

“(Y/n), what’s the matter?”

It was Gwaine, his brows furrowed in worry.

“It’s not me you need to worry about,” she all but snapped, her tone clipped from worry. “Were you with Mordred?”

“He’s with Gaius, now.” Gwaine’s worry started to melt away, seeing his sister unharmed by the day’s events, but (Y/n) shared none of his relief. “He’ll be fine,” Gwaine repeated, trying to reassure her by catching her eye.

“What happened?” Her voice and lower lip shook, her nerves frayed and unable to settle. “I - I heard rumors, and—”

“—And you won’t settle down until you see for yourself. I know.” A smile slowly grew on Gwaine’s face, and he wrapped an arm around (Y/n)’s shoulder, walking with her to Gaius’ chambers. In all their years together he had become the father his younger sister never had, and learned her better than any lesson he had been given in his entire life. Gwaine knew his sister, and he knew she wouldn’t be able to still without absolute confirmation.

He slowed her eager pace, trying to soothe her before she saw what lay within the physician’s chambers.

“So,” he began, a grin already plastered onto his face, “you’re that worried about Mordred?”

(Y/n) felt herself burn from embarrassment.

“Not not, Gwaine. He could by dying!”

Her brother laughed and allowed her to see the knight she fretted over. She rushed to his side, and the pallor in his cheeks made her stomach twist in knots. She brushed his raven hair off of his forehead, feeling his fever. She looked to see if his eyes moved behind his lids or if his chest rose as he breathed inward, but he didn’t seem to respond to life at all. She whispered a prayer under her breath before turning to Gaius, already questioning what was wrong and what could be done.

“There is old sorcery at work - knowledge beyond my understanding.” Gaius’ words were uncertain and he shook his head just slightly, as though he had already concluded the worst. “The Disir were said to be a most sacred court with power unimaginable.”

The Disir. (Y/n) knew their name from stories she had translated from dead languages to that which was spoken, now. If Mordred had been stuck by a force so revered and entrenched in the Old Religion...

“But there could be a cure?” (Y/n)’s tone was adamant in their desperate hope - far more so than her thoughts. Gaius looked at her as though he saw something deep inside her gaze, and eventually conceded.

“Perhaps… in the texts of the Old Religion…”

(Y/n) was out of the physician’s chambers and racing down the hall before he could finish. She had no practical skills in medicine, but she was an archivist. She knew languages and history, and due to her position, she had unlimited access to the Royal Library. If there was an answer between the pages Camelot stored, she would find it and use it to save him.

The candles in the Royal Library burned brighter than usual, lighting the shelves that lay in dark, unused corners. (Y/n) situated herself amongst the shelves she knew had to keep the secrets she so desired, choosing books from the rows. She lost herself in piles of ancient texts, her hands careful and precise as they skimmed down page after page, searching for an answer. Volume after volume was pulled from its resting pace, meticulously scoured, and replaced once more.

Geoffrey of Monmouth allowed the candles to be burned all night long, eventually retiring for the evening and leaving (Y/n) to her search, giving her a fond, supportive squeeze on the shoulder before shuffling away. Servants still gossipped out in the corridors, their voices drifting like ghosts to where she sat. Gwaine came to her before his nightly rounds of the castle began, and found her sitting on the floor, her skirts pooled around her as she continued her search. She was desperate for some kind of news, but Gwaine had none; Mordred’s condition was unchanged and dire, still. Tears threatened her eyes and he had taken the time to embrace her, rubbing her back soothingly, promising her things would be alright.

(Y/n) clung to his faith, feeling the crushing weight of gravity bearing down on her. How could people live with such pain?

She felt herself grow tired. She opened more books. She felt herself grow tired. She flipped more pages. She felt herself grow tired. She sought more answers, feeling them slip through her fingertips - elusive and intangible. She felt herself grow tired.

The candle burned lower until she could no longer feel it’s warmth - until she could no longer see it in her mind’s eye.

In her dreams, she could see pages before her, with drawings of three women in robes of black, with writing that was slanted and almost unable to be read. (Y/n) reached out to grab the page, hold it in her grasp and learn it’s secrets, but her body was heavy like stone, unable to move - unable to save him.

“(Y/n)...” Mordred’s voice called out to her, so full of life, so full of love. She stirred. “(Y/n)...” She moved.

(Y/n)’s eyes opened, and she was lying against a shelf, a volume open on her lap. Light from the morning sun spilled from the nearby window, and when she looked up, she had to blink to believe it was real.

Mordred smiled down at her, his cheeks pink and flushed with beauty, his eyes bright. He was something out of a dream, in that moment, the sun’s rays casting the shadows away from him, bathing him in golden light.

His name slipped from her lips in wonder, and she repeated it once more, euphoria filling her tone with something akin to a song.

“I was told I could find you here.”

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from him long enough to hide it.

ix.

we could never see it, brother, with our lives painted in such rosy tones, but his world is drenched in stormy, blue waters. it is salt rubbed into wounds and waves battering stone until they erode away. it was not a crucible that forged him, but an ocean that drowned him and left him washed on shore, gasping for breath. brother, his story is one that we whisper at night, voices low in fear of giving those wayward souls power over us all. if he so desired, we could be crushed and left. the crows would pick us clean.

but he looks at me and his ocean eyes cradle me, rocking me back and forth with the tide. and i am safe, in his embrace. i am loved, wrapped in his arms.

and when he smiles…

our story has yet to unfold.

(Y/n) looked at the wares of different vendors, strolling through the streets with no real destination in mind. The day was beautiful, with the sun partially covered with thick clouds, the heat emanating from it just enough to be comfortable and without chill. The people around her were happy, for the most part, their worries few and their good fortune abundant.

There was peace in Camelot, and (Y/n) wished - foolishly, perhaps - that it would last.

Stopping to search for coins to buy a loaf of bread, (Y/n) readjusted the basket she held and a book she had been carrying fell out. Before she could lean down to grab it, the book was already in someone else’s hands, being wiped clean. “I’m sorry about that.” (Y/n) looked up to see who had helped her and found Mordred before her. He had a grin on his face, lopsided and pulled to the left, his teeth just visible beneath his lips.

His sharp eyes were on the small volume before him, reading the title with interest (Y/n) had not thought she would find.

Mordred shrugged off her apology, instead turning his interest to that which he had recovered. “Poetry?” (Y/n) shifted under his teasing gaze. “Is it for the King, perhaps?”

(Y/n) scoffed, well aware of the joke that had been floating through the palace - Merlin and King Arthur learning poetry by candlelight. Was the Queen impressed with her husband’s talents? Leon had been given extra training for two weeks when word of it reached Arthur.

“The King and I have very different tastes in poetry, I believe. He’s more of a romantic.”

Mordred snorted, flipping through the worn pages. “These poems…” Mordred’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, his tone still gentle when he spoke, but his countenance changed nonetheless. “They’re about magic.”

(Y/n) bowed her head, training her eyes at her skirts brushing the ground below.

She had been caught.

It was just literature, and she didn’t believe there was any harm in it. Poetry could not teach her sorcery. The knowledge that lay in those poems were not spells that she could wield against Camelot and those she loved, and yet, she knew, deep down, that such things would not matter to those who would wish to persecute her for harboring such knowledge and allowing it into her home.

“They’re just poems. Just stories written in beautiful languages. There’s no harm in it, only understanding.” (Y/n)’s words were low but spoken with conviction and heart. “I only wish to understand that which I am to fear.”

“And I admire you all the more for it.”

(Y/n) looked up into Mordred’s eyes where she held his tender gaze. Her worries were put to ease by his serenity, and she idly wondered why she has ever been nervous in the first place. Even now, she could look into his gaze and see the kindness that lay deep within his heart. Within those blue eyes, she could see his sympathy for magic, not dissimilar from her own, but more deeply sown. She could see, deep in his soul, that there was something he knew and had not shared.

She wished to tell him she wouldn’t tell a soul. (Y/n) wished to hold Mordred and whisper in his ear that he could bare his entire soul to her and she would regard him the same. She wished to let him know that she knew him deeply and irrevocably, that in those still moments when they walked with one another or locked eyes from across the room, she felt their souls were one and she could not distinguish where one began and the other ended.

“Would you like to hear some?” (Y/n) put her hand on the book lightly, her fingers brushing his, warmth igniting where they touched. “The old way of speaking… it’s beautiful.”

Mordred smiled and she slipped the book out of his hands, starting to leaf through the pages, searching for the right sentiment she was looking for.

He spoke, then, his words soft and with a lyrical lilt, whispered between the two of them. (Y/n) gazed up at him, and it took her a moment to realize that he was reciting a poem - a variation of one of the poems inside the book she had in her hands. She listened to him, allowing his language to captivate her senses and pluck at her heartstrings. The poetry spoke of magic - it’s ubiquitous power and intentionless existence - and how the world, whether it wanted to be or not, was gifted with it.

When he finished, (Y/n) realized that the warmth that had spread through her body had made her lips pull into an expression of awed wonder. She tried to regain control over her features, but Mordred had already seen her beauty and wouldn’t forget it for all his days.

Mordred took (Y/n)’s hands in his and closed the poetry book, placing it back in her basket. “Keep that safe,” he said. “It’s not wise to have poetry about magic in Camelot.”

(Y/n) started to grin, staring up at him challengingly. “And to have it committed to memory? Is that just as guilty?”

Mordred chuckled, but after a moment, his face turned grave. “In Camelot, I believe so.”

“Then Camelot is too harsh with matters of magic.”

Mordred did nothing but nod.

xi.

there is a ferocity deep within him, brother. it has the strength of a bear and the loyalty wolf; baring its teeth and tearing out throats. he keeps it deep within himself, burrowed beneath the ground, hidden amongst the trees.

it is strong, brother, but he is it’s master. he has run with the wolves and become one with the pack. he has faced the bear and made peace with its power. he has a strength inside of him that cannot be changed, and it protects this world from what he could be. and i stare at him, in awe of the power which he possesses within.

and when he smiles…

he is nothing i could not love.

xii.

The forest around them teemed with life - birds singing from the treetops, the undergrowth shaking from the movement of small animals, and the nearby brook babbling. (Y/n) breathed in deeply, the smell of the fresh air clearing her mind and filling her senses with a feeling of calm. Absentmindedly, she fiddled with the bad slung around her shoulder, the books inside of it slapping against her thighs as she rode her horse forward. Mordred, riding alongside her, looked at her from the corner of his eye, but she did not notice his gaze through her pleasant sigh.

They were riding to Carleon - Sir Mordred escorting the Royal Archivist - to meet with the genealogist that worked for Queen Annis. Geoffrey of Monmouth found a discrepancy in their bookkeeping of the old, noble families and needed to compare his records with the other kingdom, but at his age he was far too old to undertake such an adventure - especially at such a critical time in Camelot’s history. (Y/n) had been sent in his place, her expertise growing with every day that passed, the old librarian sharing his knowledge and legacy with the woman so that she might one day succeed him.

It was to be a fairly safe journey. Carleon was an ally of Camelot, and the two kingdoms were not far from one another. King Arthur had allowed Mordred to escort the woman, his warnings minimal - only that Mordred not forget his duty while protecting (Y/n).

Gwaine had been there to see the pair off, teasing (Y/n) of her feelings for the young knight.

“I believe your love life is the one we need to keep an eye on, Gwaine.” Her brother had laughed at that, and she told him to behave while she was gone. The last thing she needed was to worry about him while traveling to another kingdom.

Their journey so far had been a peaceful one. The two had time to talk about all that had happened in Camelot - from the gossip of what happened in the lower towns to the battles that the knights had waged in the name of the King. After that, there had been time to talk about the histories she had been translating and scribing; the worlds that she learned about on weathered pages were vibrant in their age and charming in their customs and habits - all of which had betweitched her, ensnaring her attention.

Mordred had deep interest in what had come before him - those millenia in which magic reigned, free - and (Y/n) was happy to share her passion with someone who listened and cared.

There had been time for them to bask in each other’s presence, to feel their souls intertwine as their paths converged onto the same road. For, in those days, few as they were, Mordred and (Y/n) shared a common destination and their fates were one.

Now, there was less than a two hour ride left, and with the end in sight, (Y/n)’s anxieties started to claw their way into her heart. She closed her eyes and focused on the world in front of her, this forest of bright yellows and deep greens, this sanctuary where she and Mordred were together, close enough to get lost in each other’s eyes for eternity.

“How much do you think Gwaine has worried while we’ve been gone?” (Y/n) smiled at the knight who rode beside her, her tone fighting to be as light and cheerful as the words she spoke. “I saw him talking to you before we left. What did he—”

A high-pitched scream that was not their own erupted into the sky. With a flash of metal, Mordred had unsheathed his sword and was riding for where the sound originated. (Y/n) followed, and when they burst into a clearing, they found it to be full of bandits surrounding an elderly man and his daughter. Without a second thought, Mordred sprung into action.

(Y/n) grabbed a sword from one of the bandits that Mordred felled and joined him in battle, her strikes proper and effective, although unceremonious and without the craft of a true swordsman. Mordred spared her an impressed glance before engaging with the rest of the marauders.

Surprise was their biggest advantage, and the two of them were able to dispose of four of the bandits quickly. The rest of the men ran, reasoning that the spoils weren’t worth the risk involved, now that a knight of Camelot was among them.

After the last of the men disappeared into the trees, (Y/n) dropped the sword she had been using, looking over the scrapes and minor flesh wounds she had received. Mordred walked over to her, his own eyes scanning her for injury, and she reassured him she was fine, her eyes moving to search him.

“Where did you learn to use a sword?”

(Y/n) scoffed, the adrenaline still buzzing through her veins. “Gwaine. Who else would arm a young girl against her will? He said I would need to one day.” A grin tugged at her lips. “I suppose he was right.”

Mordred smiled briefly and the two of them turned to the people who had cried out for help. The elderly man thanked them, taking their young hands in his own and blessing them good fortune for days to come.

“Such kindness is lacking in the world, today, when it is most needed.”

“We are just glad we could be of assistance to you and your daughter.” Mordred dipped his head low, and his voice echoed with past transgressions - moments of his past where he was a victim to circumstance, just as they were. “No one deserves such violence and pain.”

The old man peered at Mordred with years of wisdom, and he squeezed his shoulder like a father would. “You have such good souls”—he looked at (Y/n), as well, with a kind twinkle in his eye—“both of you.”

“Good souls are hard to come by.” (Y/n) agreed, gently. “They’re a rare treasure, indeed.”

Mordred looked at her, his eyes like the sky on a cloudless day. She regarded their bright brilliance with a warm glance and roses of the most vibrant pinks blossomed beneath his cheeks.

Later, after the travelers had gone on their way, and the two were riding for Carleon once more, (Y/n) found the courage to speak something that she had been thinking on for a while, but had only articulated just then.

“Mordred, when we were fighting those bandits…” her words trailed off, but Mordred was patient as he waited for them. “I know we’re only human - average and simple - but when I’m at your side, I feel stronger than that - better, even. It’s almost like…”

Silence didn’t stay between them, long.

“Like you have magic.”

xiii.

brother, we live such violent lives and meet such violent ends, but his life is precious in it’s softness and should never die on the end of a blade. this world has rubbed his edges with stone to sharpen them to fine points, but he wraps himself in soft down and refuses to be changed.

this life he lives deserves to be full, brother, with none of the emptiness that has surrounded him for so long. so much has been taken from him, so much of what he owns has been displaced. and so he holds me as though i am already gone.

but when i am resolute beside him, he smiles…

could the world bear to tear us apart?

xiv.

“All I’m saying is that Mordred is a lucky man to have caught my little sister’s eye.” Gwaine held up his hands in mock defeat as the two of you walked down the castle steps and into the Citadel. “How many people have you turned down over the years? I vividly remember at least three…”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes at her brother’s teasing, quickly shooting back, “And for every person I turn down, you lead another to your chambers.”

Gwaine feigned hurt, but a grin grew on his lips all the same. “I have more honor than that, (N/n).”

“More tact, you mean. If Arthur were to see you—” Gwaine nudged (Y/n) in the side and she laughed good-naturedly, elbowing him right back.

“But, truly, (Y/n). Mordred is a fine knight and if the two of you—”

“Gwaine...” (Y/n)’s face was hot with embarrassment and her brother smiled down at her, affection in his gaze.

“I would be happy, is all” —he tilted his head, then, his lips pulled into a thoughtful frown— “and a bit proud.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes. “Exactly what I always wanted.” The two laughed, and once the moment sobered, (Y/n) turned to Gwaine, her expression genuine and earnest. “But really, thank you.”

Gwaine put a tender hand on her shoulder, squeezing it strongly. He opened his mouth to say something, but the clapping sound of horse hooves hitting stone caught his attention, and both siblings turned to see who was approaching.

An entire patrol of soldiers burst into the Citadel, many of them leaning over, their expressions drawn in pain and suffering. (Y/n)’s eyes searched frantically until they settled on Mordred, his expression grim and worried, but the rest of him seemingly okay. Gwaine walked over to him and he dismounted, both Knights meeting each other half-way.

“What happened?”

“We were attacked.” Mordred’s blue eyes flashed dangerously. “It was Morgana.”

“And you got away?” (Y/n) walked over to them, her eyes scanning over the injuries that the patrol had sustained. Almost all of them had a bruise or two, some of them with gashes on the head or sides. What had she done?

“It’s the King she wants,” Mordred sighed. “She’s just trying to draw him out.”

Gwaine nodded deftly, his brow furrowing as his entire disposition changed. “I’ll let Arthur know,” he assured Mordred, putting a hand on his arm before leaving.

(Y/n) watched as Mordred turned back to the men behind him, checking their wounds and sending them to Gaius if necessary. She watched his face contort with worry as he passed over each man, his eyes filled with care and legitimate attentiveness to each of their circumstances. The soldiers smiled gratefully at him, as though thanking Mordred for showing them that they were seen. In such a large military, it was easy to get lost in the sea of hundreds; people stopped becoming human and were just another sword in combat, just another body left on the battlefield. But here, under Mordred’s worried gaze, they were human. Bleeding, battered, and bruised people with hearts that were broken and minds that were screaming in the silence.

The love that resided within Mordred was quiet, but (Y/n) could see it from any distance and behind any facade.

When the last soldier was tended to, Mordred made his way over to (Y/n) and she looked at him deeply, with a soft care that made him feel entirely known and wholly loved. “Are you alright?” Her voice was low and pleading, careful but firm. “Morgana didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m alright.”

(Y/n) looked at him, her eyebrows still furrowed as she searched his expression for something to tell her the contrary. Finding nothing, she sighed and reached out to embrace him, holding Modred close to her beating chest.

He melted against her slowly, then all at once. His arms moved to wrap around her more securely and she responded to his touch, her hand getting lost in his hair. The pair stayed like that, enveloped in each other’s arms, until their hearts synced together and beat as one.

“Things happen so quickly Mordred,” she spoke without pulling away, her breath hot against his ear, “I don’t want you to be someone that passes by without me ever telling you how much you mean to me.”

Mordred hugged her tighter, until he felt he couldn’t breathe from her love. “Nothing can happen to me while I have you to live for.”

(Y/n) pulled away slowly, her eyes questioning whether or not he meant what he said. Mordred’s smile was in full bloom, adoration and love pouring out from him with no end in sight. She stared into his deep, blue eyes and her question died before ever making its way to her lips.

xv.

brother, you could never understand how the world has wronged us all and the poets exist only to make amends, but when i feel his heart against mine, i know it to be true. this existence is strife and heartache and nails tearing into flesh, but there is consolation in the arms of a lover and there is peace in their kiss.

and, brother, you may not understand his depths, but my lover is good. despite how he bleeds and breaks, he is whole when he lays beside me, his hands lacing with mine, his features carved by the artist we know as Time.

and when he smiles…

is there love that could rival mine?

xvi.

His lips were rough against her own, hot and wanting, pushing all thoughts that weren’t of him to the recesses of her mind. His arms were steady as he held her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other planted firmly on her waist, pressing her against him. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her hands trailing up his chest as they reached for his dark hair, thick and soft beneath her fingertips.

She kissed him deeply once more before parting to take a breath, her forehead resting on his, their noses bumping together, gently. Mordred’s eyes fluttered open and the world was extended to (Y/n), begging her to take it in her soft hands and make something beautiful from it’s fraying edges and tattered bits.

She didn’t know how to tell the world that it was already beautiful, when she looked through his eyes and saw its glory reflected there. If everything could be crafted in his mind’s eye this existence could be a much softer way of living.

“I love you,” she breathed the words, and even though they were her own, they made her heart race in her chest. She could feel his speed up as well, and placed a hand over his chainmail, where she knew his heart lay beneath.

Mordred sighed, “And I love you.” Their lips connected for one sweet, brief moment, and when their eyes met once more, he was smiling, his iris’ twinkling with the light of the sun. “I could love you for the rest of my days and it wouldn’t be enough.”

(Y/n) giggled at his charming words, unable to contain the love that filled her so completely. He kissed her again and it felt like a cloud - downy and warm, like what she imagined heaven to be like. For a fraction of a moment, his lips hovered over her own, and it was she who chased after them, her lips divine as they pressed against his.

A knock at the door pulled them apart, and Mordred looked at her with sympathy, unwilling to pull away from her embrace, not wanting to venture into the night when all of his world was right here, in front of him.

(Y/n) put a hand to his cheek, rubbing the smooth skin with her thumb. “Be careful out there, Mordred.” Her voice was still ragged, her breathing slowly finding its normal state, and the sound of it pushed on his resolve, begging him to stay.

“I promise.” He kissed her once more, and when he walked out the door, sword in hand and a smile on his face, she believed him.

xvii.

and when the sun has not yet come up and he is wrapped in my embrace, he is mine.

#merlin bbc #merlin #mordred #mordred merlin #bbc mordred #x reader #reader insert #imagine #one shot #fic #long fic #fem!reader #fluff

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anonymous0writer · 4 years

Text

Saving You III JJ Maybank

Part Two: Toeing the Line

Author: @anonymous0writer

Summary: You and JJ had been best friends for as long as you lived. But the feelings that would change your status haven’t been said. Will the words ever be said?

Warnings: Parental abuse/abuse, (more in detail..) swearing.. Going into detail about emotions? I don’t know...

A/N: This one is really long bc I went back to edit and added a shit tom of detail and angst ig. Also, I tried to edit it the best I could.. Anyway, I really like this series, and I’m gonna be so sad when its done even though I’m on the second part, lol.

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There was something in the air. Maybe it was the tang of rain just before it hit. Or maybe it was the way the clouds looked a little darker than the hour before. Whatever it was, it was there. Twisting and churning feeling that sat in his gut, making his face twist in sickness. It was like stepping off a plane, the indescribable feeling of you not begin right. Like you were meant to be in the air, pressure against your ears and flying in the sky, not dropped to the ground, heavy and lost. But no matter it was, the foreboding was there. Settled into his stomach like a lithe creature, ready to strike when the moment came.

He didn’t know what it was, but it was like the calm before the storm. The crispness of the air, the sharp tang of rain about to fall, and then it hits. The consuming, hoard of dark clouds, rolling over the sky in a furious march. Clouds that left the bone quivering, earth shaking booms of thunder and the wicked crack of lightening that light up the world for a second, before plummeting it into darkness.

The storm that brought destruction and havoc and sorrow. But so elegant in the way it destroyed you didn’t even think about it until you were left with the pieces of its aftermath.

It was like a hurricane. Blowing and whipping furiously, making it way to you, eating up the miles in its path, determined to destroy everything. It was hurtling toward you, and you were powerless to stop it, only able to hunker down and let it happen.

Whatever it was it was going to bad, and it made him sick. It was a knot in his stomach that tightened and made him sicker. He leaned forward, eyebrows pressed together in worry. What the hell was going to happen today?

---------

Y/N batted her friends grabby hands away, laughing at the same time. JJ smirked, able to get a loose fry with his agile fingers. Y/N squawked, her lips tugging into a frown as she watched the boy munch on the food happily.

“JJ!” She called, her agitation masking the way she melted and loved that he felt so comfortable to do the simple act of stealing a fry.

The boy smirked. “I’ll let you beat me to a wave today,” The boy winked, trying to make it up to her.

Y/N hide her smile as she moved her head so her long hair slid off her shoulder, dropping in front of her face. However JJ feared that he had actually made the girl mad at him, and leaned forward, fingers subconsciously brushing her hair back, tucking the loose stands back in place.

“Are you mad at me?”

Y/N gasped softly at the feeling of the edges of JJ’s fingertips ghosting her cheek and tucking her hair behind her ear. Her throat bobbed, and her eyes flickered to meet JJ’s. But Y/N was good at recovering fast, and she giggled, pushing the boy away again,

“JJ, stop!” Her lips split, revealing a full smile that lit up her face and made the edges of her eyes wrinkle. JJ loved that smile with everything he got, and always hated the way it disappeared. So, trying to get the smile back, his fingers reached out to attack her sides in tickles.

Soon enough, Y/N was laughing madly, head thrown back and hair in her face, as she tried to take a much needed breath, her hands pushing away the relentless ones of her best friend. JJ grinned, blue eyes shining as he continued his playful assault, coaxing gasps and squeals from his best friend.

“Alright, alright! J!” Y/N gasped, and the blonde let up, allowing her to catch a breath.

Across from the best friends sat the rest of their group. Pope was staring with eyebrows raised, and John B. was smirking at the pair, while Kie was cleaning up their mess so her father wouldn’t get mad.

“You two are on crack, I swear.” John B. muttered, popping a fry in his mouth as he leaned back in his chair, tipping it slightly.

“Shut up, John B!” Y/N yelled, a mischievous smirk plastered on her sunlit face. She reached into her basket of quickly diminishing fries and hurtled one at the tall boy across from her.

A thud sounded as John B.’s chair dropped and he retaliated with a fry in Y/N’s face. The revenge blew into a full on fry fight, and the friends were laughing and ducking from the onslaught of fries headed their way.

As JJ chucked a ketchup soaked fry toward Pope, he felt so happy. His eyes wandered to see Kie and Y/N huddled together, battling away the fries raining down on them with loud rounds of laughter. He took a split second break to admire his best friend since he was eight. She was beautiful, with her laugh that made everyone join in, with her kind words and big heart and her smile that had every person that met her falling in love.

But the fun was ended by Mr. Carrera and his sharp yell through the empty restaurant.

“Hey, knock it off.” He frowned, eyes landing on his daughter. “I thought I told you not to waste my food.” He grumbled, soon focusing on cleaning a spot on the counter.

“Sorry dad.” Kie winced, and smacked Pope’s hand with a glare as he tried to pick up a fry. “It’s getting late,” She comments, looking out the window of the Wreck, watching the sun sink lower into the horizon. “If we want to catch some waves,”

“We gotta go now.” Y/N finishes for her, hands scrambling to clean up the table now littered with grease soaked fries and splotches of ketchup and mustard. “John B, come on!” She chided as the boy waited a second too long to join in the collective work to clean up.

He jumped in, but JJ held back, struck frozen by the sinking feeling in his gut. His stomach knotted, giving him the feeling he woke up with this morning.

The calm before the storm.

“JJ?” Y/N prodded, eyes finding his as her eyebrows pushed together. She stood, brushing off her cutoffs with harsh wipes of her hands. Her eyes fixated on her friend, confusing pulling her eyebrows together. “Hey, J?” Her voice cooed, calling out to the blonde.

“Shit,” The surfer muttered, taking his hat off to run a hand through his messy hair. His blue eye seemed distant, but they were wide, like a child who forgot to do a chore and their parent was soon to catch them. “Fuck, you guys I gotta dip.”

“What? Where are you-” Kie started, but the boy was already off, spiriting through the Wreck’s door. His figure jumped on his bike, and soon he sped away, gravel spewing and the blue shirt he wore fading into a small speck until it was gone from sight.

Kie sputtered, eyebrows pulling down as her lips curved into a soft frown. “What the hell was that?”

Y/N takes a second before pulling her eyes away from where JJ ran off. Worry churned in her gut, as she finally lets her eyes tear away from the scene.

“I don’t know.” She breaths, trying to quell the bad feeling.

But she knows it hopeless. She’s always had a sixth sense when JJ was in trouble. Yet this time, that horrid feeling is coupled with another. It feels like her fear of something bad happening, but you have no control of it.

To Y/N, it felt exactly like the calm before a storm.

--------

“You worthless piece of shit!” The screams curl into JJ’s face, stale beer and bad breath hitting him in a wave. The boy presses himself back farther, the untamed wood digging into his back. His face scrunches up, and he tries desperately to block out the words.

The words crest and break in the blonde’s ear, settling deep into his brain, and joining the other nasty words thrown at him by his father. The words shook him to the core, bone quaking, eyes swimming and blood sizzling. His anger built higher and higher, growing rapidly, morphing into a beast. Anger at his father, for the shitty life handed to him and the only thing in the refrigerator was a week old beer his father downed every day. Anger at the world, for turning its back on him, shutting him out and letting him suffer. Suffer at the hands of his father. Who couldn’t stay sober for his life. And couldn’t ease the anger towards his son either. It all came to a 360, didn’t it?

But another feeling roared in him, unable to be put out like a simple fire. This feeling was almost as powerful at his anger, close, but not quite. This feeling wasn’t powerful in the ascend. Only in the descend. The emotion, the feeling that ran through his veins, running with the anger and doubling its strength was helpless pain. It was like being too close to the edge, where you looked down, breath catching, eyes watering at the wind, heart speeding. Where even though you tried to calm yourself with ragged breaths, your heart sped up into a gallop, beating wildly in your chest cavity, palms slick with sweat and ragged breaths pulling your chest in and out. It was when your hands shook, and your eyes burned and you were so angry that it took over every sense. When the anger was the only thing. Anger at nothing and everything. Anger burning in your chest as your hands lost control, and your mind reeled. Anger that clouded your brain like a disease, so fast and quick you didn’t even realize. The feeling that brought you to your knees when it rose to its height. Where your thoughts streamed so fast you could process everything and nothing. Where your bones stopped, and you sagged, the fight escaping you like a soul to a body. The fight, the survival instinct, the anger, it all faded, leaving you to break down, mind still reeling, hands still shaking, breaths still ragged. It was that feeling. The feeling of everything in you giving up to a break down. Where your thoughts broke on you, turning against you and watching you fall apart.

“Shut up!” JJ screams back, face contorting as he tries to handle the emotions raging in his chest. They were too much. He didn’t handle emotions well, not when they were like this. Not when they exploded and raged and screamed like this. He couldn’t handle the wailing symphony of his fathers words and the feelings of pain and anger rose to a crescendo in his ears. “Just shut up!”

He was yelling. Trying to block out the orchestra in his ears. To stop the emotions beating in his chest like they were alive. To stop his fathers lying, withering words from taking root in his mind and growing like a weed. He was trying to shut everything out. Because he couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle the way his fathers hands never failed to hurt, and his father words never failed to sting, and the way eyes never failed to pity as they landed on the bruises that seemed like permanent markings on his skin.

Luke’s fist slams into his son’s cheek, filed by rage and the abundance of alcohol. The hit sent JJ sideways, knees slamming into the floor with a hard thud as pain split across his face like a rapid spiderweb. It worked it’s way into every fiber of his face, searing and never ending. His jaw clenches, sending another wave of pain through his body, making his brain go fuzzy as his vision danced. His mind was slipping, trying to process the amount of pain, but failing to do so.

But magically, it cleared. The fog dispersed and gave way to sharp images, sending the boy back into reality, where his fathers fists were too real and the pain was too clear. But the haze only cleared to let another emotion peek through as he heard it. Heard the sound of gravel crunching under tires and brakes squeaking as the engine rumbled, dying. Pain slithered away into the corners of his brain to give way to a more powerful emotion. Fear. Fear because he knew exactly whose there’s that care belonged to. Knew exactly the way the gravel surrendered under the weight of a certain tire. Of a certain car. The car belonged to her. Y/N.

She was here, knowing something was terribly wrong the second the boy stopped reveling in the childish food fight. Because she always did. Her gut always twisted a certain way, giving her a bad feeling that never faded until she investigated. She always seemed to know when he was in trouble and came running, eager to ease the feeling and help. She’d gotten that sense the moment the boys eyes landed on her all those years back. It was a gift. A gift, a connection between two people who’s love ran deeper than blood and deeper than words itself. But in most cases, the gift was a curse. Because every time her gut twisted that way, or she’d frown because she felt undeniably wrong, JJ was hurt, beaten bloody by his own father. Most of the time she showed up when Luke was passed out drunk on the couch, chest rising in falling in a drunken slumber, JJ visiting a world of pain on the floor or gripping his head like it was going to burst as he sat, door locked in his bedroom. But now she’d shown up when Luke was towering over the blonde, words bellowing out of his heaving chest.

“No,” JJ whispers, fear spiking in his chest, hitting a certain place in his heart. Everything- the anger, the helplessness, the crescendo of wails and words screamed by his father- died. Faded into the background to bow to the new comer. Fear. Not fear of his father. Not fear that his father would go too far and actually kill him. Not it wasn’t fear for him. This fear was for his best friend. His bright eyed, smiling friend who he’d fallen in love with,

His fear was for Y/N. Fear that she’d get hurt. And if she got hurt- JJ wouldn’t even allow the thought to fully develop or form into a real sentence. He couldn’t- wouldn’t go there. The thought brought too many already present emotions and more to the front.

As the surfer tried to scramble away, the pads of his fingers digging into the fought grain of the wooden floor, he was grabbed. Luke flipped JJ over, hands rough, and words hitting JJ’s ear, making the boy flinch. Fists started raining down on his face, head smashed into the worn floorboards of the house. The blondes eyes fluttered shut, his brain threatening to stop. JJ was in too much pain, his mind clouded and vision swimming to hear the porch door and the main door smack open. It was too late. Too late to get up, shove his dad off and beg Y/N to leave, let his father run his course. But pain was a powerful thing, leaving JJ prone on the floor as the door to the house of pain opened to reveal Y/N.

“Stop!” Her screams ran through the air, snapping her best friend out of his haze of misery. “What are you doing?” Her voice wavered, breaking as it gave away to fear and distress. Worry seeped into the words, making her cries desperate.

The boy on the floor groans, heat splitting in pain as he moves, picking himself up. He stumbles, knees threatening to give way, and face bruised and bloody. His lips are cracked and parted, blood leaking from an open wound, thick and dark. His cheek is swollen, red and puffy with purple blooming across it like a wildfire. It was like the purple of the fading sunset, elegant and soft for such an alarming, pain filled color. A cut mars his right eyebrow, breaking up the symmetry of his abuse. His eyes are sad, the azure color dulled and faded, weak without the light of his usual smile or carefree laugh. His lips don’t tug into a flirty smirk, but frown in a soft, giving up manner.

When he opens his mouth, he finds his might too dry and throat too clogged to speak. So he tried again, voice hoarse and broken. “Get out of here!” He begs, fear and desperation thick in his rough voice. His pleas reach his friend, sounding harsher than he intended. Subconsciously, the JJ places himself in front of Y/N and his seething father. His hands are still shaking, weak and bruised as he holds them up, trying to keep his fathers hands of misery away from the perfect light of his best friend.

“What is she doing her?” Luke barks, his voice rapsy with the gruffness of a man with only anger and cheap alcohol in his blood can obtain.

“I’m gonna get her out dad. Alright? We’re gonna leave.” JJ’s hands shake more as he plays mediator, eyes beseeching his unforgiving father. He swallows the lump in his throat, trying to quell the soreness. He’s begging. Begging with his father to let them go- or at least Y/N. And begging with his best friend to leave, leave so his father can keep his reign of terror focused on the blonde and not her.

“You’re not leaving!” Luke thundered, brows glaring down as he surveyed the two kids. His stained tank top lifted at uneven intervals as his chest heaved, ragged breaths pulling in and out of his frowning mouth. His lips were screwed into a disgust filled sneer.

But Y/N wasn’t having it. JJ’s cerulean eyes flickered to meet hers, seeing them spark with fire and sadness. A combination her best friend knew too well. So, with a rare surge of bravery, fear and adrenaline coursing through her veins at the best of her thundering heart, she stepped forward. Her feet groaned against the wood as she went forward, short, quiet gasps falling from her dry lips. She was now exposed to Luke’s fury. JJ was no longer in front of her, protecting her. And it was her own doing.

“Stop it! He doesn’t deserve it.” Y/N’s voice was ragged, seeping with desperation as she begged with the inconsolable man in front of her.

JJ’s heart twisted at the words, squeezing painfully as it hammered against his bruised ribs. Breath caught, he stopped, but he was too late. He wasn’t in front of her in time, wasn’t meditating like he was begging for life. He was too late. Luke’s hand was already flying, and the loud sound of skin hitting skin filled the room. The sound was enough to make JJ flinch, a smack and cry sounding. The cry ripping from a familiar throat, provoked by the shock and pain. Y/N fell, the power of the slap sending her to her knees. She hit the floor, ground thundering as her hands flew to her cheek. Her fingers were gentle, exploring the source of pain now stinging across her face.

JJ was positive that he could hear his heart crack. Positive that the sound of it was breaking wasn’t only in his ears, adding to the decrescendo of wails and words in his ears. The boy was sure, if you looked hard enough, you could see the soft, yet strong webbing of his heart break and fall into tiny, sharp pieces, lost in his rib cage.

“Dad!” He screamed, shock forcing the words from his constricted throat. His ocean eyes brimming with tears and clouding his vision as he watched you gasp, red blooming fast on your cheek from where his father hit you. His father. Leaving his own abuse mark. On you. On the one person JJ cared about more than himself. On the one person he wouldn’t think twice about giving his life for. On the one person he promised nothing would happen to. On the one person he loved with every bit of his fucked up self.

He broke his gaze on your to look at his father. Despite his mind still trying to process everything- everything from the downhill spiral of his roaring emotions and the increased climb of his pain- he thought fast. Quicksilver. Turning to his father, he put his hands- now less shaky- up in surrender. His cerulean eyes were back to begging. “Alright.. We’re leaving. I’m getting her out of here, alright?”

Luke’s lips curled into a sneer, and he spit on the floor, eyes hard and filled with disgust and to JJ’s relief, disinterest. His father turned away, searching for a beer like a lost man at sea for land. Once he was sure, his fathers mind was only on the cheap alcohol littering the house, JJ spun, eyes zoning in on his best friend. His blue eyes locked on your figure.

Breathing her name in a ragged whisper, JJ dropped to his knees next to her, ignoring the pain exploding like rouge fireworks in every part of his body. The wince didn’t hide the pain, but the boy was used to hiding. He ignored his pain, lips pressed together in a thin, determined line. Because the bruised ribs and face that were throbbing and screaming were nothing compared to the way his heart broke and seized at seeing you fall victim to his fathers vicious hands.

“Hey,” He whispered, voice barely audible as he called out to his friend. His fingers reached, touching the soft underside of her jaw as his hands cupped Y/N’s cheeks like they were glass.

Y/N’s heart ached at the way JJ cupped her face. Like she was so fragile and could break with the slightest pressure. Like he didn’t want to hurt her, and only craved to protect her. Alike he was sorry, and he couldn’t convey it in words, so he tried in touch. Like he was heartbroken over seeing her like this.

JJ’s eyes swam with unshed tears as they pooled. His attentive eyes saw the familiar welt form on your cheek bloom like a flower in spring. The welt was big and angry, making the boy clench his jaw tightly. His nostrils flared as his ears registered the gasp falling from your parted lips and the hurt look in your eyes.

And he realized. The bad feeling this morning. The creature settling in his gut, waiting to strike. The feeling that reminded JJ of the times a hurricane would be broadcasted on the TV screen, the brightness of the pictures blaring and the detached voices of newscasters loud. This, this right here- his best friend sitting on the floor, bruising cheek cradled in his rough hands, both of them victims of his father- was the foreboding in his gut in the early morning.

Before- that was the calm before the storm.

And this- this was worse. This was the crashing of the waves after cresting to a scary height. This was the raging wind, coupled with the stabbing rain. This was the crescendo of the deafening music where you covered your ears with your hands, eyes squeezed shut. This was the sharp crack of lighting exploding across the night cry. This was the moment where all the fight left your body, leaving you empty and hollow, a husk of your emotions. This was the silent scream of mind tearing pain. This was the rising panic in your chest. This was the feeling of seeing Y/N and her abuse. This was the feeling of helplessness as you looked up, neck craning back as your eyes tracked the rising wave, fear heavy in your chest as your realized your fate and there was nothing you could do about it.

This was the storm.

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beerecordings · 5 years

Note

"Start with the youngest", with Anti n JBM? :D

Yesss I saw this list n I was like oh I KNOW somebody gonna send that one in and then the two of you had me covered hahaha. Love you both and hope you enjoy! REALLY loved writing this one, got pretty swept up in it.

Warnings for hospitalization, intubation, and mentions of torture and blood.

Edit: okay @a-single-green-eyeball made an amazing piece that takes some inspo from this little fic! you should totally check it out here, it’s wicked

He sits with his knees drawn to his chest, his fingers digging into his calves.

Tick, tick, tick, counts the clock on the wall.

Gritted teeth grind against each other in his mouth.

Tick, tick, tick, counts the clock on the –

“Fuck, shut the hell up!” Jackie turns to snarl at it, reaching up to tear at his hair. “He’s trying to sleep, you stupid hunk of plastic!”

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

Alright, that’s fucking it. Jumping to his feet, Jackie shoves his shitty plastic hospital chair away, leaps across the shitty plastic hospital floor, and snatches the shitty plastic hospital clock off the wall. Distress and sensation crash so heavily across his mind that he feels like he is not thinking at all, and then, before he can summon the energy to care, he is smashing the face of the clock into the shadowed midnight windowsill, striking again and again and again, until what was once a clock is now shards clutched too tightly between his fingers.

For a moment, silence.

Beep, sighs Jameson’s heart monitor. Beep. Beep.

Cars rush by stories below. The lights buzz out a pretend hive mind, harsh and groaning in the ceiling. Heels click on the linoleum floors. Faraway is the swish of a train, distant and dissipating, foam on an unreachable ocean. Two rooms away someone is crying.

“Jackie,” comes a voice, a low warmth in the midst of so much cold noise.

He turns and moves, rounding Jameson’s bed once more. His eyes are wild, he knows. His hair is a mess and there is blood at the nape of his neck and his panic and rage are tangible, olfactory, gustatory, he knows. He shouldn’t be here. He knows.

Chase stands in the doorway, watching him. His eyes are red too. He’s been crying already. Probably since the second he heard about the attack, he’s been crying. He is smaller than Jackie and easier to tears. Jackie cannot bear to see him in pain.

His little brother.

“Jackie,” says Chase again.

Jackie slumps back into his chair and pulls his knees to his chest, chewing on his nails, rocking, waiting, watching his baby brother sleep.

Chase sighs in the doorway.

“They told me they couldn’t get you to leave,” he says, with a step forward. Jackie turns to glare at his feet, gnawing at the end of his thumb. “Apparently you nearly punched the nurse who tried to drag you away. And now you’re not letting anyone get close to him.”

“I’m not leaving,” Jackie snaps, before Chase can work himself into a full-blown lecture.

There’s a long moment of noise, absent Chase’s voice.

“Can I come in?” he asks finally.

Jackie growls low in his throat, his eyes on Jamie.

Sleeping so, so soundly. He’s so white under the mean little fluorescent lights. He’s so small with that strip of plastic inside his mouth, breathing too heavily at the air that it gives him.

“It’s me, man,” Chase soothes, taking another step in.

“Prove it,” Jackie hisses, whirling on him. “I don’t know that. I don’t know it’s you.”

Chase sighs again. Jackie grinds his teeth and shakes out his hands, chock-full of pent-up rage with nowhere to go.

And Chase steps forward, gentle, and takes Jackie in his arms before he can protest, wrapping him up and squeezing him tight, tight, tight, rubbing his shoulders and setting his chin firmly on top of Jackie’s head, until, at last –

Jackie bursts into tears, rocking against Chase’s chest.

“It’s my fault!” he howls. “This is is my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” Chase answers. He spares a hand to reach out and clutch Jamie’s, but their little brother does not answer, does not wake, does not stir, not for a moment, for a second, for a single sliver of broken time.

“Let’s start with the eldest,” Anti purred.

He trailed his knife down Jackie’s throat. Blood bloomed obediently at the surface of the white flesh.

“Fuck you,” said Jackie, grinning wicked.

Cement walls buried deep in the earth made Anti’s hide-out silent as a corpse, dark as legs torn off of crickets. “Always so proud,” chirruped Anti, straightening his blade against Jackie’s collarbone. “I enjoy that.”

“Yeah? Enjoy this.”

Jackie rammed his knee towards Anti’s stomach, but the glitch disappeared in a wash of shadow, reappearing, a black haze, at Jackie’s side. For just a second, his darkness blocked out Jameson, chained up at Jackie’s side, but then Anti moved again and Jackie could see his little brother, and all was well.

He tried to smile at Jamie. Jamie stared back, eyes large.

Eyes angry.

“Nice try,” Anti sang, flipping the knife around in his hands. Jackie doesn’t even bother to watch it. He was tired of silver in the darkness, and met Anti’s eyes instead. He was proud, yes, proud to suffer for Jameson’s sake. Proud to do anything, anything, whatever it took to spare his littlest brother a single second of hurt.

Anti dragged the knife across his cheek.

Jackie gasped and swore and laughed, loud, at the warm blood sliding down his face. “Best you can do, Anti? You’ll have to try a little harder, you corrupted excuse for a functioning program. We both know that I – ”

Jackie cut off, startled by a stunning sensation in his face. Anti drew back, equally surprised.

Jackie’s face healed.

And Anti turned his gaze to Jameson, who stared right back, his eyes glowing a vibrant silver in the shadows. Silent with his hands chained. Watching with hatred in his fierce youth’s eyes.

“Oh, darling,” Anti murmured.

Moving away from Jackie. Moving towards Jameson.

“No,” Jackie snapped, trying, not for the first or second or hundredth time, to pull his chains out of the wall.

“So you don’t need your clock,” mused Anti, tilting his head. His eyes shimmered and changed colors, venom green to meet the fine silver of Jameson’s gaze. “Interesting.”

For a moment more he stared at Jameson, considering, but then, oh, relief, relief, he returned to Jackie, lifting up his knife again.

“I want to talk about where your precious Sean is.” Anti began to carve, painting blood down Jackie’s torso, and Jackie bit back on a cry, fire burning across his body. “Maybe if you talk like a nice boy I’ll even leave your little dead-tongue alone, and then – ”

But there was no ‘and then.’ Time turned back across Jackie’s flesh, and, in an instant, slices of skin mended themselves back together, blood retreating to untouched veins, scars unscarring on the white curve of his stomach.

Anti watched it happen.

Fascinated.

“Well,” he whispered, tucking his little blade away. There is a larger one on the table across the room. “Now you’re just being annoying.”

He turned to Jameson and glitched forward, and then he was grabbing him by the throat, slamming him back against the wall, and Jackie screamed aloud.

“No!” he cried. Not for the first time, or the second, or the thousandth, he yanks, hard, against the chains that bind him, bruising blue his wrists. “Anti, leave him alone! He’ll stop! Jameson, stop!”

“No, you know, I don’t think he will,” Anti drawled, squeezing until Jameson gagged. “Besides, now I’m intrigued. I haven’t spent much time with the little one, you know. Family, right? They never call, they never come over to be tortured…”

“Anti, leave him alone!”

“I wonder, Jameson – that is the name, isn’t it, or do you just go by Dapper? – I wonder, Dapper, if you’re so very talented at healing your brother, are you equally skilled at saving yourself?”

“Anti,” Jackie cried again. “Leave him alone. I’m the one you want. I’m the one you’ve always wanted.”

“Quiet, pest,” Anti snarled, and shadow coated Jackie’s mouth before he could speak again, drawing away with a gag in place. “Always is over. There’s a new member of the family. And I’ve changed my mind.”

He released Jameson’s throat. Jamie slumped down in his chains – and yet, in his eyes, Jackie saw defiance.

He is the youngest. Jackie was reminded, in that moment, that he was also a hurricane.

Anti picked up the knife and turned back to him. Two forces of nature met eye-to-eye, and Jackie, between them, was only mortal.

“Let’s start with the youngest,” said Anti, and put a blade in Jameson’s chest.

Stalking down the hall, Henrik is not unlike a hurricane either.

“Where the fuck do you get off?” he shouts, and then he grabs Doctor Jonathan Farraday by the shirt collar, and yanks him away from a pleasant conversation with a nearby nurse.

“Damn it, Henrik!” Farraday cries, nearly tripping over the IV someone is dragging along as Henrik yanks him at full-speed toward the room at the end of the hall. “What the hell?”

“You know Marvin and Jameson are my patients – ”

“You’re not supposed to operate on family, Schneeplestein!”

“I’m the best doctor in this OR and not a goddamn screw-up like you – ”

“Henrik, you don’t work here anymore!” squeals Farraday.

“In the words of a close friend,” snarls Henrik. “Fuck that noise.”

He shoves the other doctor against the wall as he yanks open the door to Jameson’s room, fuming like a green-leaf fire.

The sobs Jackie is releasing into Chase’s shirt stop immediately, and Henrik’s big brother looks up with a fight in his eyes, but before he can do anything stupid Henrik is shoving him aside, rounding Jameson’s bed and flipping open the patient report he stole out of Farraday’s desk.

“There you are, Schneep,” sighs Chase, squeezing Jackie’s shoulders again. “Is Marv doing okay?”

“Fine,” replies Schneep tersely, flipping through Jameson’s charts. “Just his usual over-exertion symptoms and one bad cut. Give him two days and he’s fine. Farraday, why the hell is he intubated?”

“He needs the oxygen,” Farraday defends himself frailly. He comes to stand at Jameson’s side, and then backs away at the look in Jackie’s wild eyes. “He took at least four knife wounds to the ribs, Henrik.”

“At least? What the fuck kind of doctor are you, ‘at least?’ Was it four or not? His oxygen levels are fine!”

Farraday shuffles awkwardly past Jackie’s glare and stops at Henrik’s side, and the two doctors stand staring together at Jameson’s vitals reading.

Chase squishes Jackie’s hand in his own and turns to look at JJ, reaching down to brush a limp curl from his closed eyes. Dark lashes touch his white cheeks, but Chase is glad to see that there is at least a little color there, a little sign of life in his soft face.

“Jackie, what happened?” asks Chase, low and desperate, as Schneeplestein and Farraday erupt into argument over the amount of painkillers Jameson requires.

Jackie turns to him with tears in his eyes. He tries to steady himself through a stammer, struggling even to get the words out, let alone to say anything that will make sense to Chase. “It took hours before he stopped healing,” he chokes. “Hours and hours, and by then he was so exhausted it was like he was dying anyway. There was all this blood from his nose, and then his ears, and then his mouth, but Anti just kept going and going and going – ”

He buries his face in Chase’s shirt, sobbing again.

“Let’s just be glad Marvin found you in time,” Chase soothes, rubbing his back.

“But what if he didn’t? They told me a couple hours ago they weren’t even sure he’d make it through the night and now – ”

“Why the hell you are speaking so much bullshit!” Henrik shouts, loud enough to regain their attention. “He’s fucking fine! Take the goddamn tube out! No, forget it, I’ll get it myself! Get out of mein sight – my sight – go! Go!”

Farraday nearly falls over himself in his haste to escape, but the others ignore him. Jackie rises from his chair, hope waking up in his chest. “Henrik, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know what that idiot had him on. He’s not so bad as they told you.”

“What?”

“Look, see, how his vitals are mostly okay, just a little weakness, a little trouble breathing. I put the oxygen in his nose instead of down his throat like this and he’ll still be okay. Poor little guy. He does look so small, doesn’t he? Shit, I’m sure Farraday botched this whole thing. I am looking at his chest.”

He draws back the blankets and begins unraveling the bandages coating Jameson’s chest with a warm and professional hand, drawing away layers that Jackie could have sworn were coated in blood just hours before. Reaching bare skin, Henrik stops and gently, gently, runs his hands across Jameson’s chest.

Together, they watch the wounds disappear as though they’d never existed.

“Mein Gott,” whispers Henrik.

“Whoa,” Chase breathes.

And Jackie looks up, and sees, and Jameson opens his eyes.

Smiling through the tube in his mouth.

“Little brother,” cries Jackie, and falls upon him, clutching him close, squeezing his unscarred body tight, tight, tight. “Little brother, little brother, little brother!”

On the wall, the shattered clock has remended itself.

#jackieboyman #jameson jackson #antisepticeye #jse egos #trigger warning torture #bee writes #short but sweet!!#owletry #kitnkas #dapper and badass

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lilithscry · 5 years

Text

i love you; goodbye

pairing: arthur morgan x female!reader

word count: 5.3k

warnings: death, emotional distress, grief.

summary: somethings are better left unsaid.

notes: i listened to you’ll be in my heart from the tarzan soundtrack while writing the ending and it Shows.. i also haven’t written for a while so pls ignore if this Sucks!

Sat on the edge of the campsite, you watched the world surrounding you go by.

Squirrels and rabbits skidded past at the speed of light while the sun slowly fell asleep and the moon dragged herself from her slumber. The earth was starting to be bathed in the blueish glow of the moon, the harsh kisses left by the sun now being soothed. You hadn’t noticed the growing bite of coldness to the air, too far in your own head to realise that goose bumps now littered your arms.

“You good?” The familiar voice that belonged to Charles rang through your ears. He sat himself beside you as you just nodded, trying your best to push down the fear and worry that sat uncomfortably at the pit of your stomach.

“Jus’ fine.” You murmured while avoiding contact with the male. It was a crock of bullcrap and you knew it. He knew it too, but you had to put on a brave face for him and the ones who need help. The Wapiti tribe. Forcibly driven from their home once more, you and Charles realised it was your duty to ensure that they were safe, healthy and happy.

But this was the opposite of what you had planned. You had set to yourself to help Arthur with the rest of the gang, to make sure that everyone else was safe before retreating so that his illness didn’t worsen. He had other plans and it wasn’t until after he had returned to the tribe with Charles and an awfully wounded Eagle Flies that he refused your pleas to go back with him. You still remember being soaked to the bone through your clothes and the sickly-tired look on his face as you argued against him.

Now you were sat in a place unknown to you with no clue or even an idea as to what was happening back down south where everyone else was.

Charles didn’t press any further as he knew that you would soon spill out everything that was weighing you down; but you could tell he was itching to speak about a pressing matter. There was something he wanted to say, and it had to be said now. The way he’d subtly glance over at you is what gave it away really since he was someone who seemed to always be approached rather than do the approaching.

Did you want to know what he wanted to say? No. Were you going to tell him to just say it? Maybe.

The silence between you both wasn’t one bit pleasant, all the while the sing-song tune of the crickets that habituated at the nearby stream of river filled the air; which somehow contrasted the heaviness between you both. You craned your neck to stare up at the clear sky and Charles watched you diligently as though he were about to walk on a pile of burning-hot coal pieces.

“You’ve something to tell me, Charles?” Looking away from the night sky and towards him instead, the expectancy of being told that you were about to move further up north steadily ate away at you. You just wanted to go home.

There was a slight hesitation to Charles’ words, his lips parting to speak before closing right away as he looked for the right words to say. You were on your last few strings of patience, something that rarely happened.

“I heard a few things while in the store earlier.” He started, eyes darkening with blatant worry as his eyebrows furrowed. “News of a shootout near Annesburg a week and a bit ago. Pinkertons were involved.”

You felt your chest tighten and a knot form in your throat. “A…Were…there any deaths?”

“From what I’ve heard, yes.” He saw you went to cut him off, so he held a hand up to stop you. “But I didn’t hear any names being thrown around.”

The air grew heavier by a tonne and your stomach did flips as anxiety made your bones rattle. Your hands shook slightly in fear of who may just be dead back down near Beaver Hollow. It’s not like the Pinkertons cared enough to dispose of the bodies, unless it was Dutch himself. Then they would’ve snatched his cold corpse away in a heartbeat, acting as though it was a trophy. A trophy to show that they took down the deadliest outlaw in the South-West.

“We have t’ go back.”

“Excuse me?”

“We have t’ go back, Charles.” You said with a strict tone while pulling yourself up to your feet. “We need t’ give whoever has died a proper burial.”

Charles followed you suit, reaching out to grab your shoulder as you walked towards the campsite. “That’s suicide, (Name), and you know that. Pinkertons might still be in the area.”

You spun around to face him properly this time. He saw the fire in your eyes and the thick-black smoke from it seething out of your pores on to the dirt below you.

“And do ya think I care? Charles, I need t’ go back there and…” You cut yourself off, too sick to even think about how Arthur may be one of the deceased, let alone say it aloud. So, you regained your posture again and continued. “I need t’ go back there, whether ya like it or not.”

His eyes downcast as you avoided to prompt the idea of Arthur being dead. He felt the same sick feeling grow on him as he started to think about it, but there was unfinished business with Rains Fall and his people. But there was also unfinished business back down south.

“I’m leavin’ tomorrow mornin’, whether ya come with me or not, that’s up to you.” Voice soft, you turned to leave the taller male be in his thoughts.

“Safe to assume I’m letting you ride all that way by yourself.” He mumbled to himself while sitting down to plan out the travel back down.

So, when morning came and you saw Charles talking with Rains Fall by the horses, you couldn’t help but smirk in triumph at the success of convincing him. You plainly left them to speak amongst themselves while you readied your saddle for the long trip back; and it wasn’t until Rains Fall was by your side, thanking you for helping his people, that you finally spoke.

It was painful to say goodbye to the good people of this tribe, but you knew life had a funny way of bringing the past back. Hence, you promised to see them again before kicking your spurs into the sides of your horse, telling her to go.

The trip back past through the Rocky Mountains and thick-luscious forests didn’t feel near as stressful as it was the first-time round, possibly since it was just you and Charles, and not with a posse that included some elderly men and children. However, with every day and moment you grew closer to New Hanover, the fear of what you would find once you reached your destination only caused you to want to retreat.

Would you find the two disgusting men that were known to be Micah’s friends be the ones half eaten by wolves, or would there be the bodies of someone you loved? Would there be a letter left by a certain Tacitus Kilgore, telling you that he had retreated to his getaway home in Mexico?

Many-a night were spent with you and Charles huddled closely to one another, storms passing by after they wreak havoc in their path, simply disappearing as though they’d done nothing wrong. You couldn’t help but allude and imagine your former leader as a storm. Dutch Van de Linde, barging his way through the country like a hurricane, only to rip apart everything and everyone surrounding him; striking lightning down on those who don’t follow him like a lost puppy. Sending whirlwinds and tornadoes to throw away those who had been devotedly loyal to him for years on end.

And as you watched the sixth storm that week wash itself over Emerald Ranch, you could only see what your life used to be like.

“We’re close now, (Name).” Charles spoke from the bonfire of the makeshift camp you both had made, keeping a close eye on the grey clouds that slowly started to hover above. “It looks like the storm’s heading this way.”

Spinning on the balls of your feet, you faced Charles before briefly looking up above you. “Should we wait it out then?”

“It doesn’t look like it’s going away any time soon.”

You nodded, catching on to the idea to stay put and moved to the tent you both were sharing. He followed short and the familiar silence between you both settled in again as it always did. You held your knees close to your chest after placing your hat behind you, and Charles sat cross-legged, cleaning his smaller guns in languid movements.

“Charles…”

“Yeah?”

The neither of you looked at each other, you too busy watching the rainfall start and him starting down at the gun in his lap. “Are ya scared of what we may find?”

That caught his attention and when he finally directed his gaze towards you, he could see the worried look painted across your face. Eyebrows furrowed, corner of lips drooped and eyes glassy with tears that may escape; a look he had never seen you adorn before.

As much as he wanted to ensure you that everything was going to be alright, he couldn’t lie for once. Charles couldn’t form the words to tell you that everything will be fine, and that Arthur is somewhere safe and sound. False hope was a fool’s game and unfortunately, you were a fiery fool that would definitely tamper with a game such as false hope.

“Aren’t we both?” He countered, and in that moment, the silence that fell over you both this time was sickly uncomfortable.

You felt your stomach drop as you looked for any kind of flittering hope, and Charles felt his shoulders weigh down more at the realisation of what was to come the next day.

That night, you didn’t sleep and neither did Charles.

With the bitter taste of burnt-black coffee at the back of your throat, you were set off again to the old gang campsite in the early hours of the morning. The woods of Roanoke Ridge always sent a shiver up your spine as it always felt that someone or something was watching you, whether it be from the canopy of lush leaves above you or the large boulders that were scattered throughout the wilderness. But you spurred and gave your horse reassuring words as the pace increased by tenfold.

However, riding past the familiar areas that you had grown accustomed to while your stay there, you dreaded getting closer and closer to Beaver Hollow. The path leading you up to the small flat-surfaced area was littered with disposed rifles and pistols, and blood was too scattered over the dirt and greenery of the bushes. It was obvious that there had been an intense battle here.

As you dismounted your horse, you noted that equipment that had belonged to the Van de Linde gang was still present, meaning no one had been past since. So, you scurried over to where you and Arthur had shared a tent, searching and searching through boxes and bags in search for anything to lead you to where Arthur may be. Yet to no avail, you found nothing. No note, not even a small clue as to where even his whereabouts might be.

“(Name).” Charles called out, gathering your attention right away and allowing a least a tiny bit of hope to bloom in your chest. You hadn’t even looked at what he was standing over as your body started moving on its own.

“Did ya find a—” All hope had been drained from you as what he had seen finally caught your attention. Your blood ran cold as you stared at the lifeless body of Grimshaw, a large hole sat right in the middle of her stomach which was crawling with bugs that had no right to be using her as their feast.

Turning away, you held your hand to your stomach and choked back a sob. “How…could they just leave her?” You spat in disgust, aforementioned hand balling into a fist. “Leave her here to rot?!”

A sigh left Charles as he too turned away, rubbing his face.

“C’mon, we need to see if anyone else is here and then I’ll go and bury her.”

You nodded and let Charles lead you around the old running grounds. No letter was seen to be anywhere both inside and outside of the cave, serving as a ground for your anxiety to rise. After coming to a mutual agreement that there was nothing else in this general area, you gathered any lasting supplies that remained while Charles took Grimshaw’s body to bury it. By the time he returned, covered in mud and a dreadful look on his face, you then set off to search the general area for anyone else.

It was hard, but eventually traced of a shootout near the border of Roanoke Ridge and the Heartlands were found by Charles. Rifles and pistols once again were scattered here and there, and as well as the wolf-scavenged corpses of two horses. They smelt bad and rotten, something you noted while walking past after hitching your horse to the closest tree.

“They sure got far whoever rode out this way.” You observed and walked up to Charles who looked up at the small mountain before him. “Either that or we’re ‘bout to find the corpse of some other wanted man.”

“These horses have been dead for a while now. Not a recently killing at all.” He responded, motioning for you to follow him up the small mountain before you

The tread up to the mountain was tiring, both physically and emotionally as you felt you were about to be at your wits end. No proper sign of where Arthur was, you started to doubt whether it was a good idea to come back down south. You hadn’t need to come back this way until all the information on what exactly happened was official, but alas you listened to your heart rather than your brain. And here you were, hiking on a mountain with a man who you forced to leave the duty of protecting people so that you could see what happened, as well as also growing rapidly tired and cold within minutes of being on this trek. Charles caught on to it at your quietness, throwing a glance over his shoulder towards you to see how you were. Your eyes were heavy with dark circles surrounding them and you were chattering, pulling your coat closer to your body.

Maybe I should’ve made extra coffee for the trip…

He stopped walking and you bumped into him, too busy in your own head to realise that he had halted completely. Looking up at him, you frowned ever-so slightly and pouted. “Why’re we stoppin’?”

“Because you’re tired.”

“I’m…fine.” Shaking your head, you let out a weak smile. “Let’s just continue looking.”

Charles blinked, staring at you for a few moments before directing his attention to his left, seeing a small flat surface that was large enough to rest. He pointed towards it. “Go rest up there for now. If I haven’t found something soon, I’ll come back and we can set up camp there, okay?”

You paused, the urge to fight back being appealing but with the lacking energy, you rolled your eyes at him. “Fine.”

Parting ways, you trudged up to the area Charles told you to go rest by while rubbing the tiredness from your eyes. Hope on finding Arthur was starting to wither away as new intruding thoughts came to mind. Maybe the Pinkertons grabbed hold of him after all, and this search from him was starting to become an impossible mission. Maybe in the next few days, you’ll see an article in the newspaper about the hanging of Van de Linde gang member Arthur Morgan.

You sat down with your back against the rocky formation and you sighed, keeping your eyes closed. The peaceful sound of birds chirping and eagles gawking in the distance helped you relax, and with a low sigh, you finally opened your eyes to see the evening sky start to set. Hues of orange, pink, purple and blue all blended together, creating a picture so perfect that for a moment you wished you could paint. The clouds stretched across the horizon looked like the bags of cotton candy you’d frequently steal for Jack after news of the new candy made its round through towns and a part of you wished you could just reach out and pluck a piece from it.

With a smile, your eyes then wandered to your close surroundings on the mountain ledge. Rocks, pebbles and stones was all you could see until a large-lumped figure sat near the cliff edge caught your attention. Obviously, a person, they were sat there unmoving and instantly at the sight of them, you felt your heart pound against your chest as though it was trying to escape. There was no movement of the chest, indicating they were no longer breathing.

In a quick-shaky movement, you jumped up to your feet while your hand hovered over your chest to feel your heartbeat. Slowly and steadily, your feet carried you to the body and at the sight of the recognisable mop of blonde hair on top of the corpse, a scream was ripped from your throat.

Albeit it was a little delayed as you stood there in shock, but it caught the attention of Charles fast. You heard him calling out your name loud and clear. You heard his footsteps against the smooth rock paths of the mountain, but you were stood there, frozen and in shock.

It wasn’t until it had really settled that the body of Arthur Morgan was in front of you that you dropped to the ground, long-overdue tears spilling out on to your cheeks. Charles was by your side within seconds of finding you, not needing to ask what was wrong as the first thing he saw was the body.

You felt your stomach twist and turn and do back flips. It made you feel sick. Choking out a loud sob, you turned to your side the best you could and let the bile that’d made its way into your throat out; and it didn’t stop. The pain in your chest burned as though someone had just set it on fire and your stomach was turning itself inside out. Every fibre in your body was in pain yet somehow numb at the same time.

Perhaps it was the cold air that numbed the pain, or maybe that was what was causing you to be in pain. You couldn’t tell, but as soon as you turned to Charles, you gripped on to his shirt and leant your head on to his chest. Tears stained his clothes and your body rattled with each sob that escaped past your lips. One of his hands rested on your shoulder while the other was on the small of your back. He enveloped you in the warmth you needed and stayed quiet, letting you grieve.

And for what felt like eternity, there were no more tears left to cry. You simply didn’t have the energy left to cry no more, and slowly, you felt yourself drift off to sleep in the arms of a man who grieved the loss of his friend in silence.

The next morning you woke up in the comfort of your sleeping bag with the warmth from the large figure sitting next to you. For a moment, you believed you were back in Horseshoe Overlook and you were about to be challenged with whatever drama Grimshaw threw at you while the other girls motioned for you to dismiss her and sneak over to them. You believed the man next to you was Arthur and that he was about to start off your day with a kiss to the forehead and some witty comment about how you put Snow White to a shame.

But reality hit hard when you saw that it was in fact Charles next to you and that you were in a tent near the mountains, not in the beautiful plains of the Heartlands. Arthur was only a few feet away, long dead and never coming back ever again.

Charles noticed you stir awake and glanced over at you, halting his arrow crafting and keeping his gaze on you to see how you were. The distraught expression that painted itself over your face caused him to look back ahead.

“I’ve covered his body.” He spoke with a soft voice, catching your attention right away as you sat up. “So…you don’t have to see…y’know.”

You hummed and mumbled a small thank you before dropping your head to stare at your hands.

Goosebumps had risen on your skin and as you shivered, Charles reached forward to grab a cup and the small percolator that was packed for your trip. Pouring the coffee into the cup, he handed it to you silently which you too accepted in the same manner.

Heavy grief weighed down on to your chest, making you feel as though someone was standing on you. It was hard to swallow and breath, and it was hard to simply even think, knowing that the body of your lover was basically next to you. It was astoundingly ironic, and all you could do was laugh.

So, you did.

A painfully-hearty chuckle rumbled in your chest and as it turned into a laugh, Charles’ attention was drawn back to you. He threw you a look of confusion, but you were too busy laughing to even bother responding to him.

You held on to your stomach before wiping the tears away from your eyes, finally catching on to the look Charles was giving you.

“What was so funny, (Name)?”

You guffawed once again, having to set down the cup of coffee this time so that you could vaguely motion to everything. “This situation we’re in right now. I wasn’t expectin’ to be buryin’ the love of my life this early.”

“I wasn’t expectin’ to be finding him on a mountain ledge, lookin’ like he had the shit beaten out of him and skin grey as fucking old dog shit.”

Your voice wavered as you spoke with every word, the wall that you were desperately trying to build already starting to crumble.

“Isn’t it kinda funny how I can’t breathe properly, and his body is right next to me?”

“(Name)…”

“It’s almost like something is tryna tell me to stop breathin’.”

“(Name).”

Laughing, you picked up the cup of coffee to take a sip out of it, but you stopped yourself and looked at it bitterly. It was then that you shuffled out the tent and got to your feet, shuffling over to the ledge. You gripped on to the cup tightly before hauling it out into the wilderness, a scream of pain leaving you again – much like the one from the night before.

Then it was quiet, aside from the sad howl of a wolf in the distance. Both you and Charles instantly recognised the cry to be one of a grieving wolf; a wolf that has lost its loved one to the hands of nature.

Charles had made it to his feet, slowly walking over to you in a cautious matter. “(Name)…”

“What is it?” You snapped back, refusing to look at him.

He paused for a brief second before letting out a puff of breath and glancing over at the covered body. “I’m burying him today. In a few hours at most, and I know a place that would be the best for him. A place where he would’ve wanted to be buried.”

“Facing the west?” Your voice grew quiet and he nodded.

“Of course.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and faced Charles, keeping your gaze glued to the ground. He stared at you while awaiting what you were going to do next. Then you looked up at him, eyes glassy with tears and your bottom lip quivering. You looked broken, oh so broken and not ready to be glued and fixed back together just yet.

“Alright, let’s get packed up then…”

As you packed the tent and bedrolls, you couldn’t gain the courage to face Charles as he carefully wrapped Arthur’s body and stowed it on the back of Taima. The small fire was put out and any signs that showed someone was present was extracted. You agreed with Charles to ride ahead this trip after he showed you where to go on the map, and he obliged. Not a single part of you was ready to look at Arthur just yet.

The ride was completely silent between you and Charles aside from you questioning whether you go left or right at some points in the ride. It gave you a moment to think to yourself. To gather your thoughts and place them out nicely before realising what the hell are you going to do next.

Unless John and the rest have fled across t’ the other side of the country, I might be able t’ track ‘em down.

You just knew that you couldn’t be here in this part of the country for a while. You needed to leave.

Because like an artist, every little thing about this place would be painted with the memory of the downfall of your family, the storm that Dutch unleashed amongst you, and the death of your soulmate. Each paint stroke of the fields of the Heartlands or the swamps of Lemoyne would remind you of painful times, something you know that you’re not ready to face just yet.

You wiped away the tears that you hadn’t even noticed were travelling down the expanse of your cheek and called out to Charles, who directed to go left and then keep going.

“I’ll tell you when to stop.”

As you neared Bacchus station, you saw swarms of workers about with wagons of construction items to fix the broken railway line that was the work of Arthur and John, after all. You held back a small snicker and glanced back at Charles who threw a knowing look in your direction. That was definitely a conversation needed for later.

It wasn’t long after seeing the construction workers that Charles told you to stop. This time he took the lead up to a small ledge of a much larger mountain and rode past a particular looking hill house that you noted to investigate later on. You avoided looking at the lifeless body on the back of Taima, instead occupying yourself by dismounting early and making your way to the other side to overlook New Hanover.

Not one word was said during the process of Arthur’s burial, out of respect and also to avoid any more tearful moments. You sat yourself at the edge of the flat ledge, your legs dangling off and swinging idly back and forth; something that was a habit of yours.

You remembered the first job you’d done with Arthur. It involved robbing the small-town bank of Tumbleweed in New Austin, a job that went relatively easy since you both were still considered rookies to the outlaw life.

(“Y’know,” Arthur started while flicking through the stack of bills to ensure that yours and his share was evenly split. “I must say that ya pretty darn good with a rifle.”

A gasp of false shock and offence slipped past your lips as you sat yourself on the edge of the creaking bridge you were situated at, the blue water of West Elizabeth looking utterly beautiful. “Now, Mr. Morgan, d’ya say that ‘cause I’m a woman?”

The blonde male’s eyes glanced at you as he halted counting, noticing the stability of the bridge not being too reliable.

“No, yer just clumsy which is why I must ask for ya to get off tha’ bridge, Miss (Name).”

Now you laughed, mocking his tone and repeating what he had said all the while you swung your legs, back and forth, back and forth. And it wasn’t until one of the planks of wood next to you snapped all of the sudden, that you’d gotten up quicker than Arthur could say I told you so.)

A peaceful sigh left you as the light Spring breeze filtered through the strands of your hair.

You missed him already. The way he’d roll his eyes when he was proven wrong, or how he would guffaw whenever Micah got the shit taken out of him by one of the girls. Or, how he’d hold you close at night, his arms wrapped around your waist gently yet firmly at the same time. It was almost as if he thought you would disappear in the dead of the night, leaving him and the gang.

Many fond memories flooded you and you couldn’t help but let a bittersweet smile etch itself across your face.

Then the faint sound of hooves against the rocky surface caught your attention. Spinning around slightly to see if the horses were moving, you saw that they were still in their assumed position from beforehand.

Weird.

Facing forward, they only grew louder and louder, and before you knew it the sight of a larger than normal buck approach you. It stood tall, a certain humble regal aura making it seem too human to be a wild animal. You were sat there in silence as it stared back at you before bowing its head to graze on the small patch of grass that was next to you. There was something weird about this animal and as it ate the plant life next to you, it eventually nudged the hand that laid resting next to your leg with its snout, indicating that it wanted to be pet.

So, you followed its instructions, softly petting the space between the eyes of the buck. It was then that you got a good clear look at the eyes of the animal. A piercing blue that seemed all too familiar.

The buck let out a huff, shaking its head in irritation and lowering down so that it was resting next to you. It turned its head after having its moment, looking over at Charles digging the grave for Arthur’s body.

You blinked in confusion, your eyes darting back and force between Charles, Arthur and the buck until it clicked.

Slowly, a wide smile stretched across your face as you looked back at the “wild animal”, a laugh of disbelief bubbling in your stomach and tears welling up in your eyes.

“You stupid-sneaky bastard.” You blubbered, hands reaching out to cup the buck’s head. His ears twitched as you leant your head forward to lean on his and closed your eyes, that laugh of disbelief finally escaping.

After a few moments of sitting there in silence, you pulled away to look at him. To look at Arthur. Stroking and petting down on the tufts of fur on him, you placed a delicate kiss in the same spot you had rested your head before nudging your nose against him.

“I love you, you big-stupid-oaf.”

Meanwhile, Charles stood from a distance, a small smiling tugging at his lips as he saw the reunion unfold.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption #rdr #rdr x reader #rdr fanfic #female!reader #Will Beta Read Soon Dont Worry

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sidespromptblog · 5 years

Text

Prove

Summary: Logan has started to notice a pattern among the others, and unfortunately comes to a startling discovery about not only them..but their resident snake as well.

Warnings: Depression, thoughts of death, angst, knife (it’s not used don’t worry), morally ambiguous Deceit, and cliff hanger.

Logan only registered the glasses leaving his hand in a crunched up pile of plastic and broken glass as soon as the sound of those very same materials slammed against his wall where the massive poster depicting the elemental table had hung for almost ten years. He registered that sound almost as soon as he registered the boiling heat that scorched itself under his skin, that scorched him so badly that as he looked upon the blurry outlines of his room, looking for the twisted ruined pair of glasses he had just been wearing. And looking at the items in his room, none of them in perfect focus a growl welled up in his throat, a volatile noise that sounded like it had come from a beast rather than the person who was standing among the wreckage of his perfectly immaculate room. Everything was in perfect pristine condition, aside from his glasses that had just tossed away like it had meant less than nothing at all.

Everything was perfect.

And Logan hated it all more than he had ever hated anything in his entire life.

Before he even realized it, his knees that had been wobbling precariously for the past few minutes gave out, forcing him to take a seat on his perfectly made bed. Even as the rush of emotions swept through him like a hurricane wrecking everything in its wake, Logan felt his insides buzz with an exhausting energy that left him feeling both eager to do something..but also far too fatigued to even think about completing something.

Of course. He wanted to weep, as the rage had run its course, looking back on everything now he could almost see how everything had fallen into place. Of course they didn’t want him around, of course, they didn’t want to play their stupid courtroom games with him, of course.

Of course. Of course. Of course.

He wasn’t fun enough.

He wasn’t interesting enough.

He wasn’t worthy enough.

He just wasn’t...good enough.

Even the strongest of facts would falter in the face of those who wished to live in a fantasy world.

He had been foolish to not see it before, to blind himself to the truth of those who he had called his friends, his best friends even. What he did was his job, they were only humoring him because of that, they..they didn’t care, did they? If proposed they’d just leave him in the dust, again and again, benched and on the sidelines because of the pure and simple fact that he..because he honestly wasn’t good enough for them. He never would be.

Pain prickled along his palms as salt stung his eyes.

Fine.

“Fine,” Logan hissed out, that one word becoming strangled on his tongue as his shoulders hunched forward in a display of pure and honest defeat, his eyes burned in tandem with the pain of his nails digging into the palms of his hands. The raw burning emotions that had swept through him just mere moments ago were almost immediately replaced with a deep drowning sadness that threatened to pull him under, to kill him in every shape and form. “Fine then, if they don’t want to then..then…” Logan had to swallow to get the rest of his words out, “Then I’m most certainly not going to force them to continue this charade of a partnership between us, there’s no point in..in beating a dead horse as Roman would say. No point at all.”

Opening his eyes Logan gazed down to his hands as he finally unclenched them, four crescent shapes of deep gutless red greeted him like smirking grins. Truth be told though...it didn’t bother him all that much now that the initial pain was out of the way, he could have spent hours just looking down at the marks on his palms and he wouldn’t have known.

At least not until he was snapped out of his daze by the sounds outside of his room.

It was laughter, pure joyful laughter that could have only belonged to someone that wasn’t heartless and soulless like himself. Patton’s laugh was unmistakable, it carried a light childish light with it that had always washed away their concerns and fears. It was shortly followed by a deep laugh, the kind of laugh that always sounded like it had come from deep inside, the kind of laugh that make even the shiest people want to dance. It made something deep inside of him ache, it made him want to stand on his weak legs just to see what they were celebrating.

His answer though was soon given, as the rarest shriek of laughter filled the air.

They were all having a fantastic time, ignoring the way that Deceit had so tightly worked them up, ignoring how Roman had swung slight after slight against Logan, ignoring..him.

Of course.

Of course, he wasn’t important enough to be remembered.

They had all cuddled Patton the night that Deceit had taken his form. They had all crammed themselves onto the sofa watching every animated movie that had even the slightest happy ending to it, all because they didn’t want to leave Patton alone after such a thing. They stacked snack after snack on the coffee table and eaten until their stomachs collectively ached, they’d all fallen asleep together. With Virgil curled up right as his head rested comfortably on Patton’s soft stomach, Roman resting his head on Patton’s shoulder and his feet on Logan’s lap as they had all slept the night away.

Where was that for him? Did they..did they just not care enough to even pretend to love him anymore? Did they just not care enough to knock even once to see how he was fairing after being consistently brushed off after he had wanted to help them during the trail? Did they not love him anymore?

Or…

A sickening feeling twisted Logan’s gut a patch of thorny roses twisting ruthlessly into his flesh.

Were they waiting for the day that he would just stop trying? Were they waiting for the day that he would become formless, a mere presence in Thomas’ mind, no longer there to bother them with his useless trivial facts about space and the earth around them? That had to have been it, right? They were waiting for the day that he finally kicked the bucket, before they could finally be hap-

“You know,” That familiar sly and buttery smooth voice shattered the nerve-wracking silence of Logan’s soon, “Usually it’s just so fun to watch you all lie to yourselves, this is however where I draw the line.”

Snapping his head up in the direction of the said intruder, Logan felt his mouth go cotton dry as Deceit stood there, casually swiping the broken frames of Logan’s glasses into the trashcan right by his desk. He looked entirely unperturbed for someone who was wearing a black muscle shirt and impossibly bright yellow track pants with his bare feet tapping insistently against Logan’s sparkling wooden floors. Just the very presence of Deceit made the atmosphere of Logan’s room seem just the slightest bit off, the air seemed a little warmer, Deceit himself a little bit more casual, and Logan..that much more of a wreck.

The dishonest side strode forward as he tucked his hands behind his back, “You know, I normally don’t make house calls. But you’re an exception today.” He smoothly drawled, dragging his gloved finger over the shiny smoothness of Logan’s wooden nightstand, his bi-colored eyes darted appreciatively all over the logical side’s room. As if the mere fact that he was standing there was something to be regarded with pure shock and aww, and really...Logan couldn’t argue with that.

For a solid minute, there was nothing but silence as the logical side’s eyes locked onto Deceit, his mouth opened a few times, before closing in a muted silence that only stretched thin between them.

In all honesty, he really didn’t know what he was supposed to say, or how he could defend the state of himself let alone his glasses that had chucked at the wall like they were nothing more than a bouncy stress ball.

So he remained silent as Deceit strolled closer to the bed a soft but acknowledging hum filling the silence that had been thick enough to cut with a knife. His nerves practically fried themselves alive as soon as Deceit flopped onto the bed beside him, and his heart galloped wildly in his chest as the dishonest side laid his hand onto his shoulder. Every move made by the other side seemed so careless and carefree, to the point where it almost seemed like it was done both on a whim but was incredibly calculated all at once.

Needless to say, it was terrifying.

But even so, it took a moment before the dishonest side ever said a word. “You think they don’t care about you,” It was the scorching blunt honest truth, but that didn’t make it any better. It certainly didn’t make it any better when Deceit went on either. “You think that your life is just a stepping stone to their greater happiness, that you’re just getting in the way, that they could care less about you, and that..they’ll be happy once you’re gone. That-”

Every word felt like the jab of spear right through his metaphorical heart, if he even had one at this point. “Is there a point to this consultation that we’re having, or is its only purpose to heighten by feelings of acute depression your only goal at this very moment?” The words came out as sharp as ever, and that most likely would have been the end of it had his eyes not been watering so pathetically. The tears that he had once gotten through were back, with every word spoken by Deceit a new layer of truth fell over him as he felt the hand that had been gripping his shoulder tighten.

A slow and sly smile curled onto Deceit’s face, the kind of smile that one would most accurately associate the devil with.

But Deceit wasn’t the devil, and he wasn’t a fool being tricked into a bargain.

And even so, that sweet innocent smile seemed to linger as Deceit’s clever fingers kneaded the tensed muscles of his shoulder, before he could discern whether or not Deceit’s scales were more green or yellow the harsh glint of something metallic dragged his attention away from Deceit’s face. Looking down at it he felt his metaphorical heart drop into his metaphorical stomach, his mouth felt so dry that he could barely even swallow as he audibly gulped at what the dishonest side held so carelessly and so openly in his hand. He held it as if it were more of an offering than anything, as if it was all on Logan to decide whether or not he wanted to take it.

That sweet and simple smile that more like a lover looking at another lover remained on Deceit’s lips, as he held the knife on the palm of his hand. It glinted horribly, but beautifully all at once.

“Would you like to be proven wrong?”

Taglist:

@snakeboicouldbegayer

@roanoaks

@dailypattondoodle

@thedreamer240

@soijusthavetoask

@hell-or-high-waters

@allthemetalsoftherainbow

#logan sanders #logic sanders #deciet sanders #ts deceit #morally ambiguous deceit #ts sides #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #fanfic

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x-ximenas · 4 years

Text

Love Means Trouble: Chapter 3

Prompt: Hurricane by Halsey, which you can find in this playlist.

Pairing: OC/Nikki Sixx

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, drug consumption, mentions of smut and my terrible grammar and punctuation remember English’s not my first language.

Word Count: 3,862 words

A/N: I’m really really sorry for taking this long, but the holidays came around and my family really forces us to socialize so I barely had any time to do this, I wrote this in three days and I’m not sure how well it turned out tbh, but I guess it’s good, yeah it’s good Also, if you liked this bit, I’d love to hear some comments! If you’d like to be added to a taglist for upcoming parts comment, dm me, ask me… just communicate with me!

// Prologue // Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

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“One drop on a teaspoon, followed by a second, then a third... So many, so little but they all fell until the small utensil was on the border of starting to spill.”

“One teaspoon, two teaspoons... Drink the oil, lick the oil; it's expensive don't waste it, use it, don't abuse it and taste the velvet of the substance.”

“Lay down in bed sweet Circe and let your body work, breathe in and out, relax or your trip might take a different path. Ignore the ticking clock, I know it gets you nervous to think how long will this time last, so don't think about time for it will only pass and before you know it nausea will settle in the pit of your stomach to kickstart the ‘dream’ as you like to call it.”

“Go on, run to the bathroom, empty what little is left in your stomach, the purge of the soul begins... Follow the path shown or pain will come through and ruin your travel in search of creativity.”

“Be careful Circe, only one thing can stain your clothes and the dirt of your soul won't be it, its dark colour a bad omen, so stay careful before your heart picks up, your hands sweat and you lose perception of yourself.”

“Lock the front door, you know only few have keys that could open that door, those few characters well-aware of your rendez-vous, they won't get scared; but make sure to leave the crumpled up note on the coffee table, let's avoid conflicts.”

“Lay down on your bed Circe, before it starts, before colours dance in your head and behind your closed eyelids. Take deep breaths as sleep takes you as its prisoner.”

"Is it hot in here? Is the light too light? Too bright?"

“Focus! Keep your eyes closed as your melting body fades away, ignore the darkness of your eyes, colours will start to play, figures, situations.”

"What are you trying to say? What will be shown?"

“Paint.”

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Circe woke up in a cold sweat, her body uncomfortably laying down on her floor right next to the couch, but she didn't feel sore. Her hands travelled to her face, it felt strangely moldable and soft and although she couldn't see her eyes she could swear that her pupils had taken over the irises. Then her hands travelled to her hair, it felt white, smelt like sunrise and tasted like pain her whole body reacting to it with disgust, making her hands feel heavy as they fell to her sides.

In an out of body experience she saw herself rise from the floor, her legs wobbly and her arms in constant motion, incapable of staying still. She was aware she was still under the influence of what she had taken, one of the clearest tell-tale was when she glanced up at the clock and it melted off the wall in a way Dahli would have been envious about and when she stared out the window she could swear that when her finger covered the sun the sky darkened and constellations appeared.

“Paint” a voice whispered in an almost commanding voice, it was her voice, her own command.

The one-worded sentence bounced from wall to wall, creating an echo in her head that was only quieted when her hands shoot up to cover her ears and her eyes closed shut.

Once she opened one eye to peek at her surroundings she faced a woman, it was the same nymph from her tattoo -Anthusae, a flower nymph, Circe recalled from their previous encounters- and she caressed Circe's face in a comforting matter. Anthusae’s body was naked, barely covered by the fowers that bloomed around her; her smile was shy but had the devil hidden in it as she pulled Circe to the "paint" room by the hair.

As the door slammed shut behind Circe her eyes looked down to the floor. When sober the room's floor looked as if a lot of accidents had occurred, for it was littered by dry paint stains, but when Circe found herself in her current state the usually static colours moved in alluring waves, a symphony of shades that could lull her to work. This time, the colours were matte and dark and moved to reveal a blurry picture, a silhouette of a man his only distinctive feature being a pair of sharp olive coloured eyes. The man smiled a wide smile, it looked rather strange on him, out of place.

Circe shook her head in an attempt to get rid of the image dancing on her feet. She begged for the return of the vibrant colours that usually appeared in front of her and after a few moments, they entered the scene, Nikki’s smile fading to the back of her brain.

Circe fell to the ground as her legs moved too fast for her body to follow, her arm reached out to the forgotten canvas on the back of the room, hidden under a white sheet.

Placing the canvas in her easel her hand mindlessly grabbed her painting palette, squirting small blobs of paint on the surface and as her dominant hand reached for a brush she was no longer in control of her body -was she ever truly?- her hands moved carefully in coordination with the colours presented in her mind, trying not to lose focus as voices whispered in her ears -attempting to pull her to the dark, show her more pictures, painful pictures- but the colours were too alluring, too captivating so her eyes and hands stayed focused on the task at hand. Then, her brain shut down.

———————————————————————————————————–

When Circe finally woke up, her body felt limp and worn out, a feeling of relaxation settled on her body as she laid on the floor of her "paint" room, her eyes focused on the painting before her.

A sigh of relief left her, the painting turned out looking good, the strokes weren't harsh and looked meticulously controlled. The picture before her resembled the active and lively streets of LA, bright neon lights with transiting cars, people running on the sidewalk or even running to the other side of the road; the colours had been amped on saturation and the image looked blurred out, there weren't any distinctive shapes, just lights.

Finally standing up from the ground, Circe headed to the window wondering what time it was. She recalled from her daze that the Sun was still very much present in the sky but she also remembered stars and the dark indigo coloured sky. As her head peeked out the window and the hot breeze of LA hit her face she saw where sky and earth met and how the dark blue shade the night sky was known for started to warm up from the soft caresses of the sun - how long have I been out? She wondered.

Circe's eyes never left the horizon, enjoying the view the rising sun provided -it was so strange to get some downtime in such an active city and she was enjoying it. She wasn’t sure how long had she been just standing there staring at the horizon, but her legs started to give up on her from how tired her muscles felt.

Circe parted from the open window and headed to her room, deciding it was time to face her reflection, aching to amuse herself with her looks, paint all over her body and clothes, her face also stained from paint she ad accidentally rubbed there when attempting to remove hair from her face. As she stared at herself in the mirror she noticed that the picture she had painted of her own image was staring back at her with a soft smile and tired eyes still, her hand reached for a cotton ball damp on some oil she had noticed helped when removing paint of her hands and face -sometimes even hair.

After rubbing off the last remnants of paint off her cheek Circe fell in a small trance, flashing images of a kind smile and green eyes kept popping in her head, making a shiver run down her spine. She was well aware that all that she saw and felt were the effects that came with peyote consumption, she knew it liked playing games with one's head, some people swore they saw visions presented as cryptic messages and other's said that through this plant they faced their greatest fears and traumas. She knew the story behind this plant's use, she had been told that Native Americans used it as a way to connect to higher entities, their deities in search of spiritual guidance; Circe on the other hand usually just used it as a bridge for creativity, showing her pretty colours and awe-inspiring pictures.

Was Nikki an awe-inspiring image to her? The thought made Circe shiver once more, she felt as if her resolve was crumbling down, especially after his appearance in her head that night, but ever since their last encounter she had to constantly remind herself to keep her distance, not only did she knew of his reputation but she was enjoying the push and pull, she always did, she was just scared of the outcome this time, never had a boy appeared on her trip and she had never been so affected by someone, no one made her this reactive, no one but Nikki...

Circe's thumb went up to her face, stopping a drop of Jack from tumbling down her lip, alcohol wasn’t inexpensive and she was damn sure she wasn't going to waste any part of what she had paid for. She offered the bartender -Luke- a kind smile as she yelled over the music:

"I'll pay later!" Circe leaned on the counter offering him a wink and a small wave, then she dropped her red leather jacket by him, Luke just laughed as he placed the jacket behind the bar knowing what the brunette meant.

Circe readjusted both her black sequin tube top and her leather pants as she made her way to the dance floor, ruffling her hair just a smidge to give the messy waves some volume.

The music was loud and easy to move along to, her hips swaying from side to side unconsciously as Circe let go of her inhibitions, deciding to just enjoy herself as she sang along to the songs being played by that night’s DJ. This wasn’t her favourite kind of music, usually more accustomed to rock, punk or pop-rock, but when she decided to just have fun anything would do.

Then a pair of hands tightly wrapped in leather slipped around her waist, tugging her to meet their body and as she turned around to tell the person off she was met with raven hair and green eyes mainly covered by how blown out his pupils had become, Nikki.

Circe's face twitched with annoyance as she stared at the man in front of her, although she was facing a man she "knew", she never enjoyed being pulled around like that. Her eyebrows were furrowed and one of them was starting to rise, not in inquiry but discomfort when a light went off in her head.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Nikki Sixx?" Circe teased, her hands trailing up from Nikki's chest to the back of his neck, lightly pulling on his hair.

“Well, well, well, if it isn't my favourite groupie” Nikki answered, unable to use her name because he was yet to learn it.

"What brings the big rock star here?" She questioned, her head tilting to the side a pout pulling at her lips before it twisted to a mocking smile.

Nikki rolled his eyes at her playful teasing, his tongue darting out his mouth to wet his lips, then he pulled her closer to him, their hips meeting and chest brushing as he leaned in to whisper in her ear: "You..."

Circe's face grew amused, barely being able to keep her laugh contained as she pushed him back, attempting to put some space between them. But, soon enough she broke character, a laugh slipping from between her lips, her hand barely making it in time to cover her mouth.

"Oh fuck, sorry, fuck -another laugh escaped her- is just that, you want me to believe that cheesy shit?" Circe yelled over the loud music, hoping that it would reach Nikki, who just snorted out a laugh.

“Sorry, sorry, my bad” he answered, putting his hands up in defeat, an honest smile present on his lips, making one form on Circe’s face as well.

“Well, it was nice seeing you, but I gotta go, so…” Circe said, walking away from the scene, a smile still very much present in her face, she had been entertained enough for the night, that one simple sentence was enough for her to live off until their next encounter, but Nikki wasn't having any of it.

As Circe made her way through the club, stopping first at the bar to drop enough money to cover her bill, asking Luke for her jacket and then for a smoke outside, Nikki trailed behind her, not quite finished with her that night.

"You want one?" She asked Nikki once they both stepped outside the club, but she never really stopped to look at him, her step never faltering as she headed to the back of the club, where she had parked her car, not really expecting him to follow her.

He didn't answer either, just taking the cigarette and the lighter from her hands as he walked behind her. No one bothered to fill in the silence that lingered between them, both busy doing their own stuff, Circe was pulling her hair up in a messy ponytail and Nikki, well, he was staring at Circe, his eyes trailing downwards, as usual, his gaze lingered longer in her sleeve tattoo before following the path her waist and hips carved for him, the leather material of her pants tight against her skin outlining the roundness of her ass. Nikki shook his head, images of how her naked body might look like flooding his brain, the taste of her a thing he craved.

A vibrant red colour shiny under the low lighting of the street made the sportive black lines of the car pop out also making Circe’s car easy to distinguish from others, it truly was a beautiful car.

Circe leaned on the hood of the car watching Nikki intently as he approached her slowly, the cigarette she had handed him hanging loosely on his lips. "Call Me" by Blondie sounded in the background and for a moment Circe felt as if she was in a movie and that song was part of the soundtrack, fitting to their situation, almost too fitting.

"Color me your color, baby. Color me your car" Circe sang to Nikki in a low voice, dropping her cigarette to the asphalt, her hand reaching out to pull him by his shirt once he was within reach.

"Color me your color, darling I know who you are” Circe kept on singing, her face angled upwards never breaking eye contact with the raven-haired boy in front of her as she removed the cigarette from his lips throwing it away next to her's. “Come up off your color chart I know where you're comin' from"

Nikki appeared to be entertained, enjoying the soft sound of her voice as he pressed himself closer to her his hips taking the space between her parted legs, his index finger coming up to her chin before his thumb trailed the shape of her lower lip pulling downwards in soft motion.

"Call me, on the line, call me, call me any, anytime" Circe continued as Nikki coaxed her to stand up straight, his hand wrapping around her waist, tugging her forward their chest and hips meeting, no one considering on moving and soon enough the music truly became white sound, ignored and placed in the background.

Circe knew what was going to happen next, she could see the movie replaying in her head, Nikki would lean in, his gloved hand on her face pulling her forward as if to meet her lips, but then he'll stop with a smirk in his lips and mischief on his eyes. It was the same old situation, and she was willing to change it this time.

So her hand reached up to his hair, tugging at the strands on the back of his neck, her other hand pressed to his chest, slowly drawing figures as it lowered itself to the edge of his pants. Circe's lips brushed against Nikki's cheek as her face inched closer to his ear, her fingers playing with the button of his skinny black jeans.

"What do you want me to do, babe?" She questioned, using Nikki's own words against him, her breath hot in his ear and her teeth barely scraping the sensitive skin of his earlobe.

Circe pulled the skin between her teeth before lowering to bite at the pulse point just below his earlobe. Nikki bit down a shiver, a grunt replacing the motion as one of his hands moved down to grab at her ass before slapping it, earning a chocked up moan from Circe.

"Are you sure you should be asking the questions? I see you're more desperate than you appear to be" Nikki noted, his sentence felt cut short from the lack of name usage, but still, he kept on with the game, pulling his face away from hers to gauge her reaction, but there was none, other than her smirk only growing larger.

"Mmmh, I wouldn't be so sure about that, Nikki" She coaxed as her hand opened the button to his jeans just to place her hand down the clothing, her fingers lightly grazing his already hardened dick.

"Don't play with me like that" Nikki answered a demanding undertone to his sentence and his voice, but Circe didn't really care about either of those things, it only fueled the devious flame that burned her body and eyes.

"Or what?" She answered, her tongue placed between her teeth as her smile grew taunting, but said smile broke when Nikki's hand reached up to her neck choking her only slightly.

"You want to know don't you, babe? You want to feel what I can do to you, huh?" He answered, his voice rough as he held her by the neck.

Circe's mouth was agape, her pride being the only thing that prevented her from moaning out, the pressure of his hand fogged her mind heavily as the cold of the leather gloves rubbed on her skin. Despite her hazy state her hand still on him, hot on his skin as she pulled it out of his jeans, resting it at his exposed navel.

"You're one to talk, you're the one with a hard-on here, babe" she muttered out a laugh falling from her lips. Nikki huffed and removed his hand from Circe's neck.

Nikki adjusted his jeans and turned to leave before Circe mocked: "You're just going to leave like that? No kiss?"

Nikki turned to her and noted how Circe's face was lit up with fake innocence, he approached her once more, his lips neared her's as his hand moved from the side of her neck, applying the slightest of pressures as it trailed down, tracing the outline of her collarbone and the edge of her tattoo; then, his hand brushed over her breast, his touch teasing and slow as goosebumps covered her chest; finally, his hand stopped at the front of her pants and despite the number of layers between them -from his gloves to her underwear- his touch was hot on her, a knot forming on her lower abdomen craving for release.

Nikki huffed out a laugh, his breath hot on her lip as he stated with a sly tone: "no."

Circe's body warmed up from the mere memory, the feeling of Nikki's warm skin still very much present in her subconscious, but she had to take her time away from him, she had to rebuild strengths if she wanted to keep her game up.

“Man, I desperately need a cold shower” Circe mumbled to herself, her fingers running through her knotted up hair.

Circe removed all her clothes in her room, walking naked to her bathroom and just as she was about to get in her shower to get the water ready her reflection caught her attention once more, it appeared as if High Circe had gotten bored and designed a new tattoo on her right shoulder just under her collarbone. Running back to her room she got a hold of her black eyeliner, filling in where it needed to be, adding detailing as well; then she got a hold of her camera, snapping a picture of the drawing before it faded with the shower.

As she headed to her bathroom, her head turned to her living room, the sight of her record player making her detour from her original destination -again. She searched through her vinyls, settling for her most recent buy, “Mask” by Bauhaus. Finally, Circe got to her bathroom, the sound of “Hair of The Dog” fell into the background as she turned the water on, the cold droplets of water making their appearance soon enough and so, Circe jumped underneath them; the pressure that they hit her skin with was comforting enough, helping at easing the leftover tension that resided on her back and shoulder muscles coaxing a small sigh of content to escape her.

Circe started to hum along to the songs playing, trying to divert her thoughts from the owner of the most captivating pair of olive-coloured eyes she had ever seen. It was a hard task to keep up with, her mind naturally heading his direction making Circe make a disgruntled sound; she sped up the showering process and just as she finished showering as the side A of the album ended, she dried herself as quickly as possible, wrapping a towel around the top of her chest, heading to the record player to turn the vinyl to its side B before she dressed up. The sound of “Kick in the Eye” flooded small apartment, the lyrics naturally falling from her lips as she moved to the beat the bass marked. The song faded to an end once she got to her closet, she pulled out a pair of black high-waisted shorts, an old ripped shirt Circe had cut into a crop top thrown at her bed next to a pair of panties.

As she finished putting all of her clothes on and while lacing up her boots a knock pulled her out of her thoughts, a frown took over her face. She walked to the door, not caring to yell over the music to tell the person at the door that she was heading their way, she just walked there. And without taking a look through the window by the door nor through the peephole she opened the door, freezing at her spot as her eyes met his.

“Well, hello Circe...”

// Next Chapter //

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thegreenwolf · 7 years

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In case you aren’t aware, the Columbia River Gorge is on fire. Over the weekend, a group of teenagers setting off fireworks in the Eagle Creek canyon set dry brush ablaze, and as I write this over 20,000 acres are now burning, to include precariously close to well-loved landmarks like Multnomah Falls. Over 150 hikers had to be rescued by the Hood River Search and Rescue Team (who could really use donations, by the way.) The easternmost edges of the Portland metro area are under evacuation warnings, and over forty miles of Interstate 84 are closed in both directions.

What I want to tell you is about how broken I feel at this moment, how powerless and weak. I was thirteen when the woods that were my solace were bulldozed flat to the ground, an event that was legitimately traumatic for me and contributed to both my Generalized Anxiety Disorder and to my deep drive to learn about and protect non-human nature. I want to tell you about how I am suddenly back in that moment of despair, anger and helplessness, and fighting to not fall into the deep pain and disconnection that swallowed me for years afterward. I want to tell you about how the red clay of the earth torn up by machinery a quarter century ago is reflected in the flames in photos of my beloved Gorge, the first place that welcomed me with open arms when I moved to Portland a decade ago, and which is permanently tattooed on my left arm in gratitude. I want to tell you how difficult is it for me to keep to my daily schedule and list of tasks while I know that places where I have set foot for many years are burning to the ground, and all I want to do is curl up in my bed and cry.

Instead, what I am going to tell you is what led to this devastation, and how to respond in ways that actually have a concrete, measurable effect. Perhaps it is my grief and pain that make me more sensitive and cynical, but all the calls to “send energy to the firefighters” and rituals to try to make it rain just seem like wasted effort. Normally I shrug and let people do whatever their path says is right in this situation, but I am raw and angry and fed up as my sacred places burn. We don’t need prayers for rain. We need to stop the processes that are preventing the rain in the first place.

What is happening now is the culmination of centuries of human stupidity and greed. Our climate IS changing because of our industrial activities and the pollutants they create, as well as the destruction of mitigating natural factors like the oceans and forests that are supposed to absorb atmospheric carbon. This is leading to drier, hotter summers in the Northwest; this August was the hottest on record in Portland, and the rest of the area isn’t far behind. The entire area is a tinderbox of dead plants.

Add in many decades of fire suppression led by timber companies not wanting to lose their cash trees, and budget cuts that keep forestry services from engaging in prescribed burns. See, fire is natural in forests; some plants even need fire to properly germinate their seeds. But because fire also damages timber and threatens tourism, any natural lightning-strike fires have been quickly put out, and Smokey Bear reminds us that “only YOU can prevent forest fires.” But this all resulted in the understory of the forest–ferns, rhododendrons, salal, and more–growing much thicker than is natural, and many smaller trees getting a roothold where before fire would have thinned them out. This creates what is called ladder fuel, which allows fire to climb higher into the older trees who, in a normal intensity fire, be protected by their height and thick bark. When fire is allowed to occur naturally, it burns out the understory long before it gets too thick, and the big trees survive, and the seeds in the ground replenish the land. But we humans stopped that, and now all that built up tinder has exploded.

Add in one small group of ill-educated teenagers with illegal fireworks dropping them over a cliff into a pile of brush. Yes, the human brain doesn’t full develop until the mid-twenties, and the part that manages impulse control is still under construction in a fifteen-year-old. And here is where our lack of nature literacy become a problem: if children are raised from a very young age to constantly understand the risks of fire, it become a matter of course to act with respect. There are just certain things you don’t do, because you’ve been brought up with the knowledge of why and what happens when you don’t listen. Yet these entitled little scumsuckers apparently didn’t get the memo, because they were giggling like their act was a big adventure.

So: what to do? Here’s the game plan:

—Educate yourself on the role of fire in forest ecosystems. This goes doubly so if you claim to be a nature-based pagan, or if you somehow think you have an affinity for the element of fire, because you’d damned well better know the actual nature of fire, and not just its mythos and romanticism. Educate yourself on how climate change is leading directly to bigger, hotter, worse fires. And once you’ve educated yourself, educate others, especially anyone who intends to spend any time outdoors.

—Educate your elected officials on all levels about the need for prescribed burns and other forest management practices that will help undo the damage from fire suppression and hopefully mitigate the effects of climate change. Tell them to fund forestry and natural resources services on all levels of government instead of using those funds for really stupid ideas like building a giant wall at the south end of the country. And while you’re at it, make sure you tell them about the connection between climate change and the more devastating fires we’re having, especially if your elected officials are in the minority that happen to still be pretending human-caused climate change isn’t a scientifically-validated reality.

—Urge the stakeholders in the land in the Gorge, both public and private to replant with a wide diversity of trees, not just Douglas firs. Logging companies like the Doug firs because they grow quickly and are valuable on the market, but when you have a landscape that has nothing but the same species, it becomes much more vulnerable to disease and parasites which lead to more dead trees–and more fire fodder. Moreover, they plant the trees more close together than they would be naturally, and as the trees are all the same age there isn’t as much chance for bigger, older trees to shade out smaller ones and thin the herd, as it were. A healthy forest has many trees of different species and ages for a reason, and monocrops of Douglas firs contributed to the fires we now see. Or, better yet, let the forest recover on its own and at its own pace. Here, educate yourself on forest succession and how a forest can come back all on its own.

—Donate money to those who are actively fighting the fires and help people evacuate. I don’t care if all you can give is a single dollar–it HELPS. There will no doubt be local environmental and conservation organizations working to restore the natural and historical features of the Gorge in the aftermath of this, so be on the lookout for their calls for funding.

–And when those organizations call for volunteers, if you’re close enough and can do so, step up. Even a few hours helps. Right now if you want to volunteer call the Hood River Sheriff’s Department at 541-387-7035. And there will be ongoing work. I have spent the past couple of years volunteering for Cascade Pika Watch, and I’m hoping we’ll be able to do a post-fire survey this fall to see how many places still have pikas afterward. The Friends of the Columbia River Gorge and Columbia Riverkeeper are also highly active in this beautiful area’s ecosystem restoration, so no doubt they’ll be involved in whatever work is ahead.

–Work to fight climate change, the biggest factor contributing to greater forest fires, as well as the more violent hurricanes that have been bludgeoning the Southeast. Don’t know where to start with such an admittedly tall order? Here. The Drawdown website lists the 100 biggest causes of climate change and how to fix them. The book goes into even more detail. Pick just one of those causes and put effort toward it, whether it involves making changes in your own life, or pressuring corporations and/or governments to change themselves.That’s how you get started, and you can take that as far as you’re willing. Then pick another cause, and work on it. And so on.

–Most importantly, educate yourself on nature and how it works. We’ve spent centuries trying to distance ourselves from the rest of nature, and it’s been terrible for everyone and everything involved. Maybe if we pagans were as picky about how our paths line up with science as we do with history, we would be a greater force for the planet. Try starting your education with this bioregion quiz from the Ehoah website.

Finally, I know I was pretty harsh on those of you who are praying for rain and trying to send energy to the firefighters and all that. Even if all your rites do is give you some solace in a tough time, that’s constructive enough; just please also focus some on the efforts that are absolutely proven to have a more direct effect on the fires and what caused them. Let your rites inspire you to take more physical action, rather than replacing it. We can’t wave our wands and chant our chants and expect the fire to go out, but we can put our money where our mouth is when it comes to claiming to be practitioners of nature-based spirituality, especially when we need to undo the damage we’ve done to nature more than ever.

(Reblogs okay and encouraged.)

#Eagle Creek Fire #wildfire #Columbia River Gorge #pagan #environment #mine

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transsteves · 6 years

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dead stars [CH.8]

[ MASTERPOST // AO3 ]

WARNINGS: anxiety, ptsd, depression, general crying and like slight angst haha. you get the picture by now

AUTHOR’S NOTE: oof. I got really anxious about this chapter, so it’s taken me for forever to post! sorry about that. hope you lovely people are still enjoying this! please give feedback if you have any ♡♡

the air is cold when el wakes up. it stings her skin like a viper, creeps under the comforter and nips at her ankles until she is shaken from sleep, and she pulls her knees to her chest to radiate heat. the morning haze coats the room in layers, slowly falling away one by one with every blink, focus steadily settling in waves. through the fog, she sees mike - elbows resting on knees, fingers tangled into his black curls where his hands are clasped around his head. he’s sat in the armchair by the window, and she can see the dust settle on his shoulders just the same as it does on the aged leather.

his head snaps up upon the shuffling of the comforter, pure stress quickly morphing to a soft, tired smile. it’s off by a tiny margin; el can feel the tension echoing from his sleepless bones, the way they creak as he moves. it’s how his shoulders are hunched in the same way they are when he has a bad day. it’s the bags under his eyes that look like they could fit all of the world’s troubles. it’s the tiny wounds around every single one of his fingernails where he’s worried at the skin. he’s hurting, somehow, somewhere, and she can feel it.

“hey.”

his voice, crackly and deep, breaks the gentle silence of the morning, but she can’t quite place the emotion behind it. she replies with a flash of a sleepy smile, sitting up against the chipped headboard, and reaches for the glass of water on the bedside as mike stretches and stands. it tastes like regret, and worry, and the tiny diluted remnants of alcohol left swimming between her tastebuds; it tastes like the way mike is avoiding her gaze, and the clock that doesn’t tick anymore, and the dust floating through the air, seeming hesitant about settling on any solid surface. her heart jumps into her throat and plays jailor, holds her words captive in her chest.

slowly shuffling to sit on the edge of the bed, mike clears his throat, shooting down the silence before it becomes uncomfortable. his eyebrows are knotted in contemplation, fingers still picking at one another. they’re at war, el thinks, except no one ever wins.

“we’re skipping school today,” he says, and she can see the red lightning bolts in the whites of his eyes, “okay?”

she nods, her arms outstretched and begging to envelop his aching bones; there’s something about being close to him that helps her breathe, like without him there a piece of her lungs begins to shrivel and die. the light that filters itself around the tiny debris floating in the air turns his pitch black hair a slight red, the curls swishing as he shakes his head into his chest, staring at his fumbling fingers. he looks like regret, and worry, and the clock that doesn’t tick anymore, and the silence is back. it’s heavy, and harsh, and sticks needles into the back of her neck as mike’s eyes start to water. nothing is said, nothing needs to be, not yet, as she hesitantly wraps her arms around his shoulders, holding him closer and tighter the more he shakes and sobs into her.

the two questions remain, nonetheless: what happened last night, and what broke mike wheeler?

maybe it’s nothing, she thinks, just a coincidence of a tragedy of a bad day. his head still rests against her chest, quivering ever so slightly beneath the fingers that thread through his hair. she can feel every piece of him begging to be fixed, and all she can wish for is her hands to turn to glue, to patch every piece of him until she can hold him, whole and perfect, covered in fresh glaze.

if only it were that simple, to fix a broken soul; instead, they hold each other tight, mike’s fists balled in the comforter, el’s in the back of mike’s shirt, feeling too much and not enough and never again all at once, until their breathing synchronises and relaxes into rhythm. “it’s okay,” she breathes against his curls, her throat filling with everything she wants to say but still doesn’t know how to. when she plants a kiss to his forehead, he tastes like regret, and worry, and the clock that doesn’t tick anymore, and all at once, if his pain were an instrument, she could write a symphony.

“d’you wanna talk about it?” she murmurs, soft and quiet, and moves to wipe mike’s tears away with her thumbs. he peers up at her through his overgrown bangs, eyes tired, but glistening with the dew of every sleepless night, every skipped heartbeat, every unspoken moment that has ever passed him by. it’s as if he grieves for them, all at once, silently, as he shakes his head softly into her hands.

“do you want some cocoa?”

a nod, this time, a soft hum dropping from his lips, and el smiles sadly as she presses a kiss to his forehead and throws her legs over the edge of the bed. the floor is cold beneath her bare feet, but it goes unnoticed as she shuffles towards the kitchen. the living room is tidy, and clean, and her breath hitches with some unexpected uncertainty - something happened last night, and it wasn’t like that when she went to sleep.

what little she remembers is pondered endlessly as she sets about making the drink. the ingredients are pulled from the cupboards without need for hands, her promise to hopper to keep her powers under wraps all but abandoned in her mid-morning half-hungover haze. somehow, it doesn’t much matter anymore; everything is controlled and precise, and besides - all teenagers lie to their parents, right? will does, and mike definitely does, considering they seem to know nothing true of his life past the age of twelve.

it seems stupid, it occurs to her as she sets the pan on the stove, that it’s so easy to lie. it came to her, slowly, beginning with simple omission and spiralling into hiding every piece of herself. friends don’t lie, but they do, they always do, and the world cannot be boiled down to such simple phrases. friends don’t lie, but to err is human, and to lie is human, and to fail is human, and she is human, unbelievably and irrevocably, no matter what else.

her hand screams in pain as she picks up the milk, and it spills as she drops it on the side. a memory returns; running the thumb of her other hand over her scorched palm, she recalls it - burned popcorn, scorching heat, will’s worry and her lie.

bit by bit, piece by piece, it creeps back to her. she pours the milk into the pan; she remembers the drink. she turns the stove on; she remembers the singing. she mixes the cocoa with sugar just the way mike likes it; she remembers will spilling the entire contents of his mug on his chest and laughing for fifteen minutes straight before letting her find him a sweater from her room. it’s all fuzzy and poorly defined, like she’s looking upon it all from under a dark veil, but it’s there, and it’s real, and as she walks to the living room with a cup of cocoa in each hand, it keeps unravelling.

the dining table is slightly more chipped than it was. the armchair is slightly out of place. there’s a garbage bag by the front door that seems to almost collapse under the weight of its contents. and there, by the coffee table, that’s where it was. that’s where they were, tangled in each other, the first drink of the night in their blood-stained broken-fisted hands. that’s where it happened.

the bet.

it was a stupid idea, in retrospect. a pipedream of a plan; a broken idealistic view on everything that they both surely knew would fail. the world is rarely as simple as drunk minds deem it to be, but it’s fun in the moment, even though regret eventually takes hold and ruins absolutely everything ever built.

the bet.

as if anything as complex as sexuality and gender in a small town could ever possibly be boiled down to simple competition. but it was fun in the moment, a complex pulley system that could lift the weight from their shoulders for even a short time.

the bet.

it feels like a twisted joke, the hand they’ve been dealt. it hurts, as deep and searing as the screaming palm, and all at once, it seems inescapable again.

mind swimming once more in the endless void, she makes her way across the warped floorboards, only to find a sleeping mike, fists curled up in the pillows as if he would be thrown from the face of the earth if he were to let go. he doesn’t even look peaceful when asleep, his entire body almost painfully tense, brows still knotted together in some odd form of fearful anguish that never quite seems to leave him. the bed seems to creak under the weight of his baseless pain when he curls his body tighter into itself, and her heart breaks again - whatever happened, it was surely her fault, again, again, again, even if she still cannot recall hurting him. boys like mike wheeler, she thinks, aren’t made to survive people like her, in the same way that wood-beamed houses aren’t made to survive hurricanes.

setting the cups on the little table by her bedside, she presses a chaste kiss to his sleeping cheek, revelling in the minute way he relaxes at the touch, and takes his keys from his discarded jacket.

it’s okay, she whispers under her breath, trying to force it in amongst the constant yelling of it’s your fault that echoes and reverberates until her own conscious thoughts seem to be overwhelmed. she refuses to collapse under it, even as she feels her eyes burn and her cheeks become wet as her feet carry her to his car - there are more important matters at hand than self centred fear and the painful beginnings of doubt. in her head, like a mantra, she repeats it: you do not deserve to be upset.

TAGLIST (message to be added): @beforetoday @king-wheezy-trash @marikamber @turkerlymarsh @benverlyharsh @eddskaspbrak @thescaryflower @serendipity-y @whee-ler @doesnthavetobesobad

#dead stars fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #mike wheeler #will byers #eleven #eleven hopper #jane hopper #mileven #aged up

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sasusake · 7 years

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SasuSaku Month 2017, day 2 prompt: Something More.

Second part to Roadside Misadventures, #2: Drunk. M-rated.

Sakura woke up to unrelenting nausea. Her mouth felt as if it held ash and paper instead of tongue and teeth; even swallowing scratched at her tender throat. She tried to move, but there was a weight in her, as if she’d slept under the mattress instead of on it. Her limbs felt heavy and numb, foreign to her.

«You can touch me, too.»

A faraway voice echoed in her mind. Sakura dismissed it sternly.

It must still be very early. The faded light that filtered through the thin curtains had a soft hue of rose, but it was still harsh enough on her eyes to make her want to bury her face in the sheets.

Gathering enough healing chakra to slowly dull the ache in her temples, she sluggishly placed both hands on her painful head. A few minutes went by, and much of what remained from her hangover was a dry mouth and that lingering heaviness. Water, she needed water.

Sakura tried to prop herself up. Something hindered her movements; she was being held, more than merely weighed down by wilted limbs.

«You can use all of me…»

It was then she began to truly acknowledge her surroundings.

An empty futon lay on the floor just in front of her, crumpled and cold. Warmth irradiated from the arm that rested gently upon her waist, and she could see the marks and scars scattered upon it like constellations. The soft, steady breathing on her neck was, only now, evoking shudders down her spine. Her pulse darted immediately.

«I… want to show you more. And… I want to feel more.»

Blinking hard, she tried to check if she was just dreaming.

But no dream could ever hope to match this.

“You're awake,” said Sasuke, voice thick with sleep. Her heart broke into frantic pace, overtaken by a restlessness she could not control.

A million questions coursed through her mind. She could not bring herself to voice even one of them, entirely lost in inarticulate surrender. Her body, now weightless, only resisted floating away due to the presence of his arm.

His arm, surrounding her hip; his lips, moving but inches from her neck. She could stay like this forever, and she would be content.

Sakura felt the vertigo spiralling from within. She wanted nothing more but to lose herself in it, to turn to him and tangle her limbs in his, to kiss him until she ran out of breath and succumbed to this dreadful, all consuming desire.

“Do you remember anything from last night?” He asked. The closeness of his voice still felt surreal, dreamlike.

Sakura isn't sure.

«I want to sleep naked in your bed.»

What if… ?

She closed her eyes, brought her hands to her chest, and she lied.

“No, I… I don't remember.”

“Ah. I see.”

He relieved his hold on her. She wished she had the courage to pull him back.

The spell was broken. Sakura trembled when he parted from her, but was still too numb to beg his return.

“How did I … end up here?” Here, in your bed; here, with you holding me as you did only seconds ago.

Sasuke sighed. Carefully, Sakura turned to look at him. There was something in his eyes she couldn't begin to understand.

“You had too much to drink,” he said, sitting up. “And I should have known better.”

“You drank, too.”

He chuckled, unamused. “Well, I'm glad I stopped when I did. Otherwise, we…” Sasuke paused, apparently troubled by his own thoughts. He seemed to be considering his next words carefully. “Could have done something we might regret.”

Standing to full height, he stretched the sleep away before disappearing into the bathroom. The door closed, and Sakura let out a long, winded breath.

She lay on the small mattress, still wrapped in those sheets that smelled like him, and played in her mind the bits of memories that had surfaced. She felt ashamed, foolish and utterly distraught that the words that resounded in her mind could have left her lips.

However, Sasuke's expression left her wondering – did he not regret sleeping with her?

The rest of the day carried on almost wordlessly. Sasuke wasn't much of a talker as per norm, although he spoke even less than usual. As for Sakura, well, the more she listened to the voice in her head – her own voice – the less she felt like talking.

To her own mortification, she was unable to pretend that she had not said the things she'd said. That she wanted to touch him. That she wanted him to touch her. That she wanted to lie naked with him, to kiss him endlessly, to make love.

It was nearly impossible to make eye contact, much less love, even when they did speak.

Their travels carried them far away from the last village, until they reached a tall, lumbering forest with dark trees and few flowers. She had always pitied such places, forests with little to no blossoms to fill the senses.

It smelled of mud and rain, of rotting leaves and stale puddles. The sky retreated into the horizon and clouds gathered, dark and heavy, looming overhead. Before long, the timid drizzle had grown into a downpour and they were soaked to the bone.

“Fucking hate this weather,” Sasuke spat, clearly irritated. An unusual outburst, indication of a sour mood.

Just like me, then, Sakura mused, kicking at the small twigs and branches that littered the sopping ground.

They took shelter under a modest cave. It was tall enough that Sasuke didn't need to slouch, and long enough they could light a fire inside without worrying about it becoming a danger.

With one of her favorite devices – a metal box you could hook to the wall, containing a wire that stretched several feet in length – Sakura set out their clothes to dry. Fat drops of water dripped from their capes to the ground, even after she'd wrenched them.

With their backs turned, each of them rummaged through their travel bags in search of something dry to wear.

“Everything is soaking wet,” she grumbled, resentful. “At least the food was spared.”

“Don’t you have a plastic bag?” His voice floated behind her.

“Damn thing has a hole in it, that’s why… ugh!” Frustrated, she tossed the piece of plastic aside and tried to select something she could wear. Pretty much everything was somewhere between damp and drenched.

“Here,” she heard him. Something soft and dry landed on her shoulder. Sakura took the grey shirt in her hand, grateful. After the initial relief over having dry clothes to slip into, she found her cheeks warming up to his scent.

“You don’t mind if I wear it?”

“Of course I don’t. All I have is one pair of clean pants, though. You can – ”

“That’s fine. This’ll do. Thank you.” Wrestling off her qipao and bra as quickly as possible, Sakura shuddered as soft cotton came in contact with icy skin. Cold fingers lacking deftness, it took her a while to get all the buttons done up.

“I was gonna say we should have done laundry back in the village, but…” she shimmied out of her shorts and boots and collected her wet clothes. “Wouldn’t have done me much good now, to be honest.”

“We’ll do laundry at the next one. We should be there tomorrow night if we wake early.”

“Right.”

“We got lucky,” he said. “There’s some usable pieces of wood back here. I can start a fire, but it won’t last long.”

“Give me your clothes. I’ll hang them up while you do your thing.”

Nodding, Sasuke swiftly handed her the damp attire. He didn’t even look at her. It was only when she had her back to him, and the flare of orange flames lit up the dark cave walls, that she remembered how much better his eyesight was than hers, especially in the dark – and how, even if oversized on her, his grey shirt was no replacement for a pair of pants.

Again: the heat, and the cheeks, and the awfully inconvenient thudding of her discourteous heart.

They shared their food and mostly ate in silence. Luckily, Sasuke’s quilt had also avoided most of the rain, and they had somewhere nice to sit on rather than the cool earth.

However, the problem was precisely that she sat so close to him.

(she never, ever in her life would have imagined sitting next to Sasuke-kun could be labelled a problem)

Embarrassed, Sakura had sat on her knees. Her legs were getting cold and sore. She cursed the decision not to wear the damn underwear straight away. It’d be better to brave a cold bottom than to risk – her mind did a little somersault at the thought – flashing Sasuke.

After last night, this was the last thing she wanted to happen.

« I want you… to kiss me until I can’t breathe… I want, I want… let’s be happy… I love you.»

Shuddering, she willed the recollection away, along with the still-too-vivid impression of his warmth surrounding her. At least, wearing his shirt, she could still smell him.

The fire began to dwindle, as it didn’t have much more to burn on. Sakura kept watching the rain outside, trying to ignore the stinging emptiness in her chest. Anything to keep her eyes from wandering over to him, sitting so closely, so effortlessly handsome.

It was he who broke the silence.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Hm?” Distracted, she winced at the sound of his voice, velvety and warm.

“Your hangover.”

“Ah. Y-yeah, I’m… better.” Her voice felt small and weak, so she cleared her throat. “I’m better. Wouldn’t be much of a medic-nin if I couldn’t cure my own hangover, right?” She let out a nervous little chuckle, resisting the urge to peer at him.

“Right.” Sakura could have sworn she’d heard him sigh. Maybe it was just the wind blowing through, or leaves rustling outside.

Or did he?

“Sakura.” The way he called her name was enough to make her feel light-headed. Whatever he was going to say, he had a serious tone to it. “You said you don’t remember last night. If that’s the case, I should tell you. We should… talk about it. I think I owe you an explanation.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened and, finally, she looked at him. “Oh, oh – wait.”

His stare might as well burn through cloth and flesh alike. Sakura braved through a hurricane of butterflies trapped inside her chest, her stomach, and found out she was unable to hold his gaze once again.

Swalling the knot in her throat, she hesitated. “Well… it’s a little fuzzy, I’ll admit, although I… I guess I wasn’t entirely honest this morning. I mean, well, umm. It’s still in bits and pieces, but –”

“You remember.” Calm, he sounded calm. As always. Sasuke-kun always looked calm, always looked composed. It made her feel very gauche in contrast, but why should she equate them in the first place? She was Sakura, and he was Sasuke; she was light and pink and bouncy laughter, he was dark and black and perfect posture, even when he slouched. Nobody could pull that off like he did.

(he was not as calm as he seemed)

All Sakura could do was nod. Her legs were getting number and colder, no matter how much she pulled at the ends of his shirt.

“I see.”

“…you’re mad.”

“Did you mean it?”

This time she looked up, blinking. There was something soft and unexpected in his expression, something flighty and hopeful that caught her in a daze. It wasn’t always easy to read him, as he guarded his expressions carefully, but lately he seemed to be more open, more earnest.

More open to her, at least.

Or maybe she had just gotten better at it, as time went by.

“What you said last night,” as she didn’t respond Sasuke insisted, assertive, eyebrows pulled together, “about you. About us. Did you mean it?”

Cornered, she at least owed him honesty. “Yes.”

(that such a small word could weigh this much)

A sigh – of relief ? – escaped those faultless, regal lips.

“Then, no, I’m not mad.”

Sakura felt like she should say something, but nothing occurred outside of an apology.

“Don’t be sorry,” he replied. “I’m the one who took advantage.”

Took… advantage? Surely, he must be joking.

Sakura considered the word. Advantage. A benefit, a favourite position or circumstance. She considered what it meant; to him, to her.

Sucking in her breath, it was now or never. She owed him honesty about her feelings; she owed it to herself. Whether he wanted her or not, time spent with him was precious to her, and if he cared for nothing more than companionship – it would suffice.

It would have to suffice.

“Sasuke-kun, just being able to travel with you brings me so much happiness. Everything that we share, I’m glad for it. I’m thankful for every moment, I truly am.” She hugged herself, reminiscing. “Today, I woke up next to you. Your arm was on me, and you were so warm.”

She let out a sigh, unable to keep a small, timid smile from burgeoning. Hangover or not, that was the best morning she’d ever had.

“I felt… like I was someone dear to you.”

“You are. I –” He paused, diffident. Those words alone were warming, like sunshine in her veins.

“Listen, if what you said last night… if that’s how you feel, then…” It wasn’t like him to speak in fragments. Sasuke had always been a decided man, even as a boy, of few words that meant a lot. He always knew what to say, like he’d memorized a script and had his lines ready. He seldom vacillated. He was self-assured so when he spoke, he spoke with certainty. “Then it’s the same for me. Okay? I want something more, too.”

The world had stopped spinning, surely. Sakura forgot how to breathe.

“You said all those things. You said you wanted to make me happy.” Sasuke turned to her, yet his eyes kept getting lost on the way to meet hers. “So if there’s more of this, of any of this –” his warm, large hand took one of hers, small and light and tremulous, and the rush of heat that was born upon contact made every hair on her body stand on edge. “I just want to make sure it’s mutual. That I have your consent.”

Consent to what?

It was a little too much to take in at once. Sakura needed a moment, or maybe ten.

He leaned forward.

Oh.

Moments be damned. There wasn’t a minute to spare, not a breath to waste.

“It is. I mean, you do. That is, I –“

The rest of her words disappeared when his thumb stroked her cheek. Sakura leaned against his touch; her face fit perfectly into his palm.

This kiss felt new, she thought. It ran hotter from his lips through hers, took longer than any other had before. He broke apart to catch his breath, only to meet again, each kiss deeper, more tender and wild.

For the first time, his tongue ran across her lip. The tremor he evoked in her made the world burst into colour, illuminating even that dark, forgotten place with a shine of its own.

He was about to pull away, to drag a curtain over the light he shone, but she held on to his shoulders. Now that she had him – now that he allowed her to have him, only if for a heartbeat – she didn’t want to let go just yet.

“Please,” she beckoned. “Stay.”

Sasuke seemed to contemplate her request in quiet discomposure. He squinted, struggling against himself – holding back, when all she wanted was for him to give in – and he made her wait no longer.

The closer Sasuke drew to her, the harder it was for her to hold her legs in position. Sakura didn’t feel cold anymore, she didn’t feel the numbness from before. She felt a weakness but not in strength, worn out by a deluge of heat.

There was no telling who pushed or who pulled.

But by the time Sakura lay on her back and stretched her legs, he was already kissing her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. The weight of his body pressed down on her, and she could only gasp to his fervour.

Never could she have imagined he’d have this much to give; never did it cross her mind that Sasuke had this much passion, this much tenderness – this much longing in him. His movements were, like hers, tentative and hesitant. But what he lacked in experienced he made up for in intent.

Something hard pushed against her thigh just as she bit his lower lip. Sasuke broke his silence with a low, rumbling groan, and the sound was such novelty to her that the clamour in her chest grew tenfold, and the heat… by the Gods, the heat, it threatened to consume her from within and she had to do something, anything, whatever it took to dull the ache.

For a moment he seemed to be searching her features. Sakura ran her hand through his hair, damp and thick, and nodded.

Her legs now parted – unthinking, out of instinct, out of need – there was barely any time for cool air to bring reprieve. Sakura squealed when she felt Sasuke readjust himself to her position; that hard, heavy pressure now settled firmly against her bare, tender core.

She felt insanely high, overtaken with a rush that made her vision blur for an instant. The thrill of these new sensations was almost too much to bear, the intensity of Sasuke’s aphrodisia shaking her to the very bone. Sakura moaned, she mewled, frantically searched for air until her hips bucked against him, against the hardness of his want.

“I’m –” suddenly, Sasuke abandoned her swollen lips and pulled himself back.

Quick to react, she held him in place with a leg on either side. “Don’t go…!” Then, as if coming to her senses, she swiftly pulled her knees back.

Don’t go…

Some odd, un-Sasuke like sound escaped his throat, and at that moment Sakura remembered she’d left her underwear hanging on the wire.

It was a tangled mess, between bumping knees and hands fretting about with clothes obviously not long enough for modesty, and even he was fumbling with his words when only a moment ago he was so, so decided.

What had changed?

“What’s wrong?”

He sighed with unsteady breath, looking torn.

“Where are we going?” He asked.

“What do you mean?”

“With this,” he rolled his shoulders, his palm settling on the back of his neck. Sakura noted the rise in his pants and her breath hitched again. “I mean… how do… should we stop? Is this even the right place?”

“Wha… do you want to stop?” It was hurt, more than anything, that weighed on her voice now. To her, it didn’t matter where she was. She was with him, and for all she cared no palace in the world could hope to be as comfortable as his embrace.

“Do you?”

Sakura shook her head. “No.”

And then, fingers trembling, she undid the buttons of the shirt she wore and she took his hand in hers, bringing it to her chest.

“What I said… last night…” there was wonderment in his gaze, and it granted her courage. “You can have all of me.”

The light cast from the evanescent fire grew dimmer, the world reducing itself to their own little corner. Dark eyes flickered with something feral, something raw and untamed roiling under the surface, ready to claim her. His fingers touched her ribs, first; a fluttering breath came when he reached the underside of her breast. The largeness of his hand fully enveloped her softness with a gentle squeeze. Sakura gasped, enthralled as was he, captivated by this wordless intimacy.

She let him feel her heartbeat in his palm, let him hold her heart in his hand, allowed him access to the innocence she had to offer.

I just want to make you happy. But also, I’m… being selfish, aren’t I?

His thumb grazed her hardened nipple, flicked it ever so lightly, before drawing away with a satisfied, throaty hum. The way he licked his lips before pulling off his shirt was enough to send her reeling back into the same asphyxiating trance.

A tight shiver ran hotly down her spine, until the very tip of her fingers prickled with the urge to caress him, too.

Sakura reached out, hesitant. Unmoving, Sasuke watched her with riveted gaze. He tensed at her touch, as fingertips traced the defined lines of his body, charting the scars that spread, here and there, across otherwise faultless skin. Muscles rippled as she outlined his stomach, around his navel, the pelvic lines on each side – until her index and ring finger hooked behind the waistband of his pants.

He hissed. Something moved under the cotton slacks, barely brushing her hand, and Sakura’s eyes widened at the reaction.

“Not yet,” he snarled, taking her by the wrist and urging her to lie back down. She complied, cheeks burning deep red as he parted her knees – not just because he was looking at her like this, naked and exposed, but because his stare seared through her skin like hot steam. A rough, calloused hand ran down the length of her thigh with untamed urgency, and she fought the impulse to cover her face with her hands.

She couldn’t take it much longer. The tender ache between her legs, already slick with ardor, resonated with anticipation for the sweet, delicious pressure he had to offer.

This time, as he eased himself upon her once again, they were skin on skin. The sensitive peaks of her breasts, now laid bare against the soft, sinewy muscles of his chest, felt like metal rods ensnared by a thunderstorm.

He was being gentler with his kisses, now. Thoughtful, she considered. This much tenderness coming from him, of all people… Not for the first time today, her heart swelled with delight until it hurt. That they could have come this far, that Sasuke – once so broken, so torn, so cold – could ever be with her like this, brought her bliss beyond words.

Sasuke was saved. He was alive. He was living; and he was letting her love him. Truthfully, he was loving her, wasn’t he?

The bulk of him held her against the ground and made her his, holding her there as if he feared she may fade away. Never, she thought aimlessly, never will I fade from you. She trusted, as their skin glided together, as they danced to the same heartbeat, that he knew this.

The fire finally withered into nothingness, its flames reflected in the shimmer of a blood red eye.

“S-Sasuke-kun…” she panted his name, holding him closer, thighs clenching around his legs as he rolled into her in the muted darkness. His breathing grew louder, rougher, and Sakura began to writhe beneath him, to grind against his hips until her gasps grew frantic, sharper, rising into moans, her pulse in ecstatic turmoil.

“Sa…” he began, but buried her name along with his lips into the crook of her neck, now pushing harder, thrusting against her, and if not for his slacks he’d already be inside her, stirring her from within, blending with her.

And if she already felt this good, this hot and wet with every jerk of his hips and so, so close to the edge, she began to grow impatient with the need for more. Sakura parted her legs further, blindly feeling the length of his back until she finally reached his slacks, sensed his body quiver as she was about to slip her fingers between cloth and skin –

“Don’t – f… fuck!” His weight crushed her, depriving her lungs of air as he shuddered. The lack of oxygen, the friction on her bare sex, rendered Sakura a writhing mess. All she could do was brace herself against him, wrap her arms around his shaking form and ride out the roaring throb of his cock, swollen and impossibly hard, until the shaking had subsided and his breath came back in ragged, deep draws.

I think he… I think he’s…!

After that, Sasuke didn’t move for a while. His body was warm, as if feverish, damp with sweat. A moment passed, and he finally eased some of the weight off her, beginning to stand on his elbows and knees.

In what little moonlight still breached inside the cave, Sakura could finally see his expression: painful satisfaction, traces of guilt. Pleasure. She could see pleasure in his face, and knowing she was the cause of it allowed her some form of pride.

What little tremors still agitated within him in the aftermath of his frenzy, also carried into her; but, in Sakura, these were the prelude of a stolen orgasm, and not the remnants of one.

Still, in her heart, she was contented.

Sakura had been close enough – close enough with him, with Sasuke-kun, was better than anything she’d felt before.

Gently, he lifted himself off her and rolled, unceremoniously, to the ground by her side.

A moment passed, again, in languid silence.

Skin prickling, from the lack of his warmth on her and the murmur of cold air, Sakura began to button her shirt (his shirt, Sasuke’s shirt) back up.

“The fire’s out,” she mumbled, stating the obvious, not knowing what else to say.

“We’re out of dry wood,” he exhaled, still catching up on himself. Then, after a beat, “Sakura, did you…?”

She turned her face toward him, blinking. The question hung in the air until his struggled expression brought its meaning to light.

Goodness.

What was she supposed to answer? What he implied made her self-conscious, and she tittered somewhat nervously. It was kind that he cared enough to ask, but she didn’t just want to say no.

She wanted to say thank you, she wanted to tell him it felt good. He’d made her feel good. This was more than she’d ever hoped for, and if such a thing was at all possible, Sakura loved him even more. Overflowing with endearment that she could not place into words, Sakura but smiled.

Sasuke sighed. “You deserve better.”

“Love isn’t about deserving, Sasuke-kun,” she bristled. They’d had this conversation already, on the night of their first kiss. “I’m not above you. And –”

“Not that,” he smirked, bemused.

(deep down, he still felt her love was something undeserved to the likes of him. but he’d let her win that argument, if it made her happy)

“I meant, this place. It’s cold and damp, it’s uncomfortable. It’s not what I had in mind for…”

She couldn’t keep susprise off her voice. “What you had in mind?”

Sasuke’s face did something close to a grimace. “Forget it.”

Excitement flared at the pit of her stomach. She let it go, holding her tongue despite curiosity’s best efforts. Sasuke was a reserved creature still, and she knew they had to do this at his pace or not at all.

Sakura turned her back to him, allowing him enough privacy to clean himself up and slip back into his shirt. She sighed, content, and closed her eyes. Then, she sneezed.

“Tch.”

Another sneeze.

“You’re cold.”

“I’m fine,” she sniffled.

Sasuke moved closer – annoying, he mumbled – and pulled at the small of her hip. “Be quiet and come here.”

“I-is this okay?”

“Aa.”

“Humm…” With her head tucked against his chest, his arm around her back, legs pulled together, she never felt cozier.

“Tch.”

“Was is it?”

“These were my last clean clothes… Sakura. Stop laughing.”

“I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t.

Just before sleep took over, he kissed the crown of her head and gripped her shirt tightly, just between her shoulder blades; then, he drew a circle with his index before resting his palm against her spine.

She loves him.

(He loves her, too)

#ssm17 #ssm17d2 #sasusaku #pro sasusaku #sasusaku fanfiction #sasusaku fic #sasusaku smut #sakefics #i do hope the formatting is okay #hmm is this considered prompt 11 too?#i didn't wanrt to be cliché #but at the same time #i wanted to because...well #for no good reason really #4688 words

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imgoldielikehawn · 7 years

Text

Hurricane Heartbreak: We only have a year.

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Max ( WOC) & Sam

Rated: M

Word Count: 1,723

A/N Sorry @anotherwaywardsister lol I couldn't resist.

Song: Angel Eyes - New Years day Ft Chris Motionless

Tagged: @beltz2016 @titty-teetee @Captstefanbrandt

MAXS POV

The drive to my next job was a short one and thank goodness for it because I was already irritated for the day. I just wanted to bump off this kill and go home. I pulled onto the hill and got out of Annie loading up Elle for the kill…..

After I shot my three targets I tossed Elle in the trunk and leaned against Annie; searching for my Luckys. I patted my chest down for my lucky blue lighter and was seething to find that it was missing. I was bent over to look for my spare when It hit me; An intense pain through my chest sent me reeling backwards and onto the ground. I felt like my heart was being ripped from my chest. I felt my body writhing around and I could hear myself screaming and then faces of the people I killed came whirring back to me. All the things I had done and said every emotion I had blocked out came reeling back to me and no matter how hard I closed my eyes the images would not disappear.

I still don’t know how I drove back to the hotel, my head felt like it was on fire and I kept having flashes of emotions and pain. By the time I made it back to the parking lot I was a mess. The sound of a door closing made my head whip around to find Dean and Sam getting out of the impala.

“Max!” Dean yelled walking over to my car. I was seeing him but it felt like I was seeing him for the first time in a long time.

“What are you doing here?” I said wiping my eyes in embarrassment.

“I Came to check on you.” He said roughly.

“What's going on; my head feels like its going to explode.” I said meeting him halfway.

“How are you feeling baby?” He asked reaching for me but his term of endearment made me shrink back.

“Baby? The last time I saw you, you left me in the middle of nowhere.” I sneered.

“So that you remember?” He frowned at me running his hand awkwardly though his hair.

“I just remember how I’ve been feeling but that's all I don’t remember much after I… wait a second I sold my Soul.” I opened and closed my eyes slowly.

“Yeah you did, you sold your soul because I left.” He stepped closer to me.

“Wait, everything I’ve been feeling. Wait why the fuck am I feeling? If I can feel that must been my soul is back” I said grasping my chest ridiculously.

“Yeah it is.” Sammy said but he sounded sad.

“But how! I’ve been meeting them for weeks to trade in the souls and they have never said anything about giving me back my soul.” I leaned against Annie trying to catch my breath.

“Just take it for what it is.” Dean smirked. I pushed myself off the car and then it hit me; Sam's mood, the way dean called me baby all of a sudden and I just randomly got my soul back? No way.

“What did you do Dean? I looked up and I could feel the lump is my chest rising and I knew the tears were on the verge of spilling over.

“I did what I had to do Max, Just drop it.” I could see the frustration gathering in his eyes.

“What the fuck did you do?” My fists connected with his chest and were flying faster than hell as I screamed. I saw Sam move forward to intervene.

“Don’t Sammy.” He said through my blows. “When she finds out what else I did she’ll be even more upset.” He held his hands up to his face to protect himself and when my hands started to loose speed he snatched them and held them to his chest.

“I’m sorry but I just couldn’t live with you not loving me. I just.. I didn’t know what else to do.” His voice was harsh but his eyes were pained.

“I’ll give you two some time.” Sam said turning around and heading to the room that they shared.

DEANS POV

Her hair was wild around her face as she cried from anger and frustration.

“Dean you didn’t….” She trailed off curling her hands in my white t-shirt. Her brown eyes searched mine and even though I wanted to turn my head and ignore her I couldn’t do that either.

“WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO? YOU SOLD YOUR SOUL BECAUSE OF ME! AND I WOULD RATHER ROT IN HELL FOR ETERNITY THAN HAVE YOU ON EARTH NOT FEELING THE WAY I DO!” I screamed.

The Demon had appeared as soon as I summoned her. I didn’t have time for her usual bullshit either and she made sure this was as difficult as possible for me too.

“How long? How long do you have before they come for you?” She sobbed with her head against my chest.

“One year..” I said into her hair and she sobbed even harder.

“That’s hardly any time at all! I don’t know why you couldn’t just let me go Dean!” She snapped through her tears. The crying had made her voice scratchy.

“Neither do I. You know us Winchesters always in a rush to sell our souls.” I tried to lighten the mood.

“Now is not the time for your platonic humor Dean!” She smacked my chest.

“Yeah well I don't know what else to say…” I sighed and when she looked up at me there was life in her eyes along with several other emotions. She pulled me down to her level with determined hands and Smashed her lips seamlessly against mine. There was a faint taste of cigarettes and Mint on her breath; but she was warm and welcoming and I’ll be damned if I lived on earth without this. I really wanted to rip her fucking clothes off but the gentleman in me had other plans.

“Where’s your room?” I said pulling back from her.

“Upstairs, last door on the left.” She said heavily

From the minute the door to her room closed the only thing I could think about was her without her signature jeans. She shrugged out of her jacket and dropped it on the floor. Max paused and then smoothly undid her black jeans and slid them down her heavily tattooed thighs revealing black lace panties. The Man in me groaned at the thought of those on the floor next. The more she took off the more I realized just how many tattoos she’d gotten in the last two years. When her shirt came over her head I watched her tits bounce as the material was removed from her brown skin. Nothing left to do now but strip my self. I wasn’t half as graceful as she was but I don’t think she minded; the way she was staring at me actually made me a little nervous and I kept arguing with myself about what she might be thinking. When I was down to my boxers she raised her hand and curled her index finger towards herself, silently calling me to her. She was up on her knees with her legs spread apart on her bed.

I walked up to her and watched as she unclipped her bra and waited for me bare chested and confident. Everything about her was sexy as hell and intimidating. She ran her hands up and down my chest when I reached her and I watched hungrily. He tongue ran over her lips before she planted soft kisses down my stomach and stopped at my Boxers. Before she could continue I caught her by the back of her head and tangled my hands in her hair forcing her to look up at me.

“We only have one year…” I said my voice deeper than usual.

“I know..” She said eyes drinking me in.

“Its going to be hard to squeeze a life time into 365 days…” I said licking my own lips.

“We’ll just have to make sure we try really hard.” She smirked.

“Oh don’t worry sweetheart I plan to..” I grinned wickedly and before she could make another smart remark I was on top of her………

MAXS POV

In the morning I made sure I was gone before he woke up. I gathered all my things and made sure that I left no trace of myself behind. As I reached for my jacket my eyes landed on the intricate name i had weaved into my half sleeve.. “Dean”

My time on this earth was over and so was my time with Dean Winchester. When he and Sam find out what happened they would never forgive me. I drove off from the hotel after leaving May a note and telling her that I would come back eventually for Devil.

Dean would never get that year with me; nor would he be dragged to hell. You see I had made my own deal a long time ago. The demons warned me that he would try to save me and that was the last thing I wanted. I might have had my emotions back but I was far from human. I stared at the Motel in the rear view mirror and then looked up at my own reflection only to be greeted my by inky black eyes……..

“Don’t you try to hide with those angel eyes

If you let me inside, I wont hold back this time

Such a deep disguise, the devils right inside

More than paralyzed, watch out the devils inside”

#supernatural #dean winchester #max #woman of color #sam winchester #romance #demons #iamgoldie #Followme #smut

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abitoflit · 6 years

Text

Covered in Ashes

Timestamp: Spring 12, 512 AV Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Dark powder slipped through her fingers. It was frail. Ticklish. Soft. Not at all like when the sands of time slipped through the cracks. The coarse edges of chipped shells and cracked pebbles gliding past smooth flesh. Trickling down, like a rain, or waterfall cascading over the thick, warm, gathered air. She could scarcely hear the soft hiss of it, as it tumbled down, to the puddle of black by her feet. Dried now, by the sun, after the recent storm. The scent of it lingered, in the air. Even as the dark cloud drifted away. It was so soft, so delicate. Offering a hint of the time long past. The smell of the fire- smoke, charred wood and skin. Flesh. Burning flesh, dripping off the ends of curling bone. Ivory singed with the heat. It washed over her senses, even long before she had closed her eyes and images of the day fluttered past. Like the soft wings of a butterfly, gliding on the wind. She could see it all, sense it all in that moment, as the gentle breeze rustled the fallen bits. The shards of split wood. Darkened now, with seasons past, yet worn too, about the edges. So very frayed, to accompany the nature of the fallen house. The simple cottage; but a frame now, dotting an otherwise empty space, close to the sea; and the nearby wood. Fallen beams strewn across the dust, and everything else still left. Seemingly untouched, over the course of time. Yet anyone who knew what had once been could tell, that much had been stripped away. Looted perhaps, although unlikely. Tossed about by the elements, completely torn away, more like. Most of Aello's things rested outside on the grass. The delicate fronds circling them all, as they would hold the dead to their breasts; burying them beneath the deepened edges, long ago gone brown with the cold, and excessive rain. The harsh winter winds; and stormy remnants. Even so, past the splayed edges, split down the center, growing ragged and charred there were dots now. Speckles of green. Bursts of life; soon flattened beneath the weight of the world, and that which the aurist added too. Her things sat in silent vigil, idly watching from that fateful spot, mere paces from where the world had gone black, all those moons ago. When smoke overtook the sky, and flame swallowed all. They couldn't sense it now, the death that hung in the air. The memories of smoke as the world was shrouded in the darkest of clouds. But it didn't matter. Aello remembered. She remembered far more than enough for all of them. Again, Aello pressed her palms into the floorboards, into the small mounds of gathered black and grey powder that had formed over the years. The particles dusted her fingertips as they furled. Drawing lines in what had once been. She could feel it sinking in all the more now. The pain, as her heartstrings were pulled. Manipulated as though she were little more than a marionette within the hands of a skilled puppeteer. A man whose hands dripped warm crimson, onto her toes, as her heart drummed uncontrollably. A simple song, that seemed so solemn, so final. She could sense it pooling as her sorrow gathered, as she fought away the impending wave of tears. Imminence dwelling within as moisture overcame the whites. Widening the winding red rivers, as dirt made way for mud and coal. Darkened pits. Everything stemmed from those dark places, and fell back into them. Yet, everything fell away, as the world became glassy. Cast behind a strange sort of fog; one which refused to relent, no matter how hard one rubbed, or tried to blink it away. It all began here, didn't it? Aello asked herself as she wiped her stained palms on her knees. Forcing her flesh into the folds. Such a pure white; turning to grey. Becoming as musty and uncertain as her surroundings. As relentlessly dark and cold. As desolate. Long forgotten; lingering. She wondered if she'd ever get the mark out. The memory to wash away completely. Especially now, that she had come back to see what once had been. Simply to remind herself it seemed. No, torment herself. Remember the fallen? Remember the dead? She couldn't quite place her finger on the reason. Couldn't quite imagine why she'd drudge this all up, here now. Couldn't imagine why she'd do this to herself. Force herself through endless waves of excruciating mental pain. And it all ended here too, didn't it?

The winds awoke. Called to the aurist by her tears. The ashes danced; circling Aello like it were a hungry hurricane, waiting to strike. Everything was doused in its ethereal sheet, as it swept across the world, scattering, like fallen leaves. Moving as silently as that, save for the occasional drag cast by those burdened with clear beads. Why are you crying? Why are you crying? Don't cry... they whispered. Aello looked up, startled by the softness of the sound. The way it seemed to whisper, and glide over her, as though it were non-existent. A figment of her imagination, and nothing more. Don't cry, it came again, as it crept over her. Curling up in her lap; coiling, before it slithered up the length of her delicate form. Towards her ears. Licking them seductively as it fluttered across her lips, across her cheeks. Wiping away all moisture that had gathered there. Clotting; as it dripped away. Don't... cry... "Who's there?" Aello whispered, as she blinked a few times, washing some of her muddied tears away. Letting them creep across her skin. Draw the earth to her, before boring everything away. She felt a child speckled with wet sand. Buried beneath the weight of it all; losing her castle, losing her fantasy of simplicity. The perfect world, the perfect life. Buried beneath the weight of losing it all. She felt as though she were losing her mind, forcing herself to remember. Thinking someone were talking to her now, when no one but she, seemed to be around. As far as she was concerned, no one was around. "Are you hiding somewhere? Past the bones of this place? The hollowed ribs?" Why are you crying? Don't cry. Don't cry... "Who are you?" Aello whispered as the winds faded, sweeping the ashes away. From them rose vapors. Tendrils of white, which seemed to waver. But the girl would not notice. She wouldn't so much as sense the presence of their source as she stared down at the ground. As the mist strengthened, and molded, gaseous and largely unwilling to change as it was, into something else. Forming curves. Wisps, waves; like sea foam crashing against the shore. Bubbling, bursting with life and intensity, before fading away. The mist formed garments, soft features; sharper ones. Some so uncertain of themselves, that it was as though they weren't there at all. Yet, the eyes seemed so distinct. So much darker, than in life. Filled with everything contained in those last moments. Drawn into an infinitesimal speck, in the pupil's center. A glimmer, mysterious, nearly lost, yet so startlingly apparent. Slender, white fingers came forth, and curled beneath the girl's chin, lifting her gaze into the ghost's eyes. Even past the moisture, she could see. They grew wide, startled. Feeling as though this were no more than a cruel illusion cast by her mind. "Mom?" Aello whispered. The ghost nodded. "It's time to get up again," Myrrh whispered, the edges of her form flickering, as her center, her simple dress, adorned with a frilly white apron, coming to light. "Onto your feet Aello. As is only proper," she added, with a small smile, as her fingers tickled the underside of her daughter's chin. "Mom..." Aello whispered, incredulously, as she rose to her feet, soon realizing, that she had never gone back. Myrrh simply smiled as she glided around her daughter's form, settling behind her back. She seemed such a strong ghost to her girl, and yet, so very weak, and unsure of herself. Aello could sense her cool air as she came to a rest, and her fingers came to cradle her chin, her other hand, the girl's forehead, as though she were taking a temperature. "You're so cold," she added, as her mother pulled her into her chest, and rested her chin upon the aurist's thick mane of dark brown hair. "So very cold." There was a pause, as the scent of roses reached the girl's nostrils. Faint, and fading. Fleeting, as though they had withered and died long ago. Were crumbling away with everything else. Her will to forget; her desire to remember. The remnants of what once was. "Did you miss me?" Myrrh asked, as Aello's back sank into her embrace, along with everything else. Her inhibition. Her desires. Her need to be loved. For although her touch was cool, as was that of every other ghost, Aello could feel her again. As though she were still alive. It felt as though her mother's core was still warm, from the heat of the oven. From the blood that flowed in her veins. Her flesh felt soft, as though she had just been massaged, and oils had been worked into her skin. Her fingernails tickled, sending small tremors up the length of Aello's spine, even long before she kissed her daughter's forehead. Even before her lips pulled away, allowing only her gaze to linger, as she rocked the girl lightly in her arms. The girl who was amazed that they could somehow, be together again. Almost in the flesh. Almost... "Of course mother. I have missed you so," Aello replied, as her head rocked onto her mother's shoulder. Settling there as her hair splayed angrily by her sides. "You don't know the half of it... but, what of you? Of Leon? Have you been here the whole time, with him?" Myrrh shook her head. "No, only for a time. We tend to go where you go, but sometimes, we just stay here, together. Waiting for you to come back." Aello said nothing for a time. "He came to me a few seasons back. My little brother. He seemed well, if not a little haunted, like all of your kind... you don't... know now that I can help you? Go back. Move on. Give you more mist." Myrrh chuckled. "Do you want any mum, are you hungry?" Myrrh chuckled as she shook her head, waving her daughters thoughts and concerns away as she kissed her forehead again. It was just like old times. Like they really were together again. Almost...

"Mum?" Aello questioned, as Myrrh pulled her lips away, prompting a low, rumbling mhm to escape the ghost's mouth. "Why didn't you come earlier? To see me? Why didn't you expose yourself as Leon did?" she asked. Myrrh shook her head lightly. "At times we weren't strong enough to show," she replied. "At other times it didn't seem right, and at other times, perhaps I wasn't there, busy looking for other people." Aello's brow furrowed. "Is that why you haven't gone back then, you're busy looking?" Her mother nodded, "in part." Aello looked up at her, her lips parted a little, expecting more. She seemed to be saying, and what's the rest of it then? For a long time, the ghost remained silent, simply rocking her daughter in her arms, as she might have done when she were little more than a small child. "Leon and I chose to look after you. After the fire, until you joined us." "But you know that I've been well. You've spoken to me now, seen that. Why not simply return to the cycle now?" Aello asked. "Return your life, and this world to a greater state of balance." "It isn't time yet darling," Myrrh commented, as she ran her hand through her daughter's hair. Pulling apart the strands. "Not until I've seen him again." "Seen who?" Aello inquired. "Your father," Myrrh replied, as she raised her hand again to run it through Aello's hair, the young spiritist grew rigid. Her muscles tensed, as her eyes took on many things. Pain. Fear. Confusion. Surprise. Disbelief even. Her brow furrowed as she turned away from her. As her gaze hardened as she forced her mother to look at her directly, in the eyes. "What do you mean?" Aello asked. "He isn't with you?" Myrrh shook her head. "And if he's not with Leon... you don't think he returned without us? Thinking we too had died in that fire. All of us... I mean." Myrrh shook her head. "I don't know baby." A chill shot up Aello's spine as she took a half step back. She glanced down at the ground, just as her mother raised her hand again to comfort her. She was flickering. Fading away. The wind picked up again, tossing the ashes about them both. They seemed to circle hungrily. "Mom..." The ghost flickered. Flickered, like a candle in the wind. Her light was going out. All the lights were going out. "Mom, don't go!" Aello called, as she looked up again, as she raised her hand and reached for her mother's fingers. They brushed for an instant. One fleeting, cool instant. "Please don't go! I can make the mist! Don't go! I can do it... make the mist..." she pleaded, as the ghost vanished, and every trace of her faded away, as the ashes fell. Aello crumbled. Her knees hitting the ground hard. Rustling the ashes. Displacing them. "I can do it now..."

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