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halfway-happyyy · 2 years

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cool my desire (rooster bradshaw)

AN: hi friends! i got sent this message a couple days ago and have been obsessing about it ever since. 18+ only! this piece is under a cut for obvious (sexual) reasons. warnings include: public oral sex (f receiving) masturbation (f&m), dirty talk, swearing, etc. hope you enjoy 💕

Pairing: rooster bradshaw x female reader (she/her pronouns)

song inspo: i'm on fire - bruce springsteen

Of two things Rooster Bradshaw is absolutely certain: the first one is that he is helplessly in love with the woman sitting directly opposite him. The second one is that she’s just announced that she’s never had an orgasm. He thinks he misheard her the first time around, so he strains above the rock music blaring from the bar's jukebox and asks her to repeat herself.

“I've never had an orgasm.”

It exits her mouth in the kind of nonchalant way in which one might announce that it's raining outside, or that they're hungry.

Rooster glances at Hangman who wears the same confused expression, and suddenly she laughs, and Rooster reckons it’s a sound he'd be happy to listen to until his dying day.

“Gosh, if I got compensated for every time I got the same reaction I could retire and live happily on a private island somewhere. For some reason it’s a concept most people have a hard time coming to terms with.”

Bob is just as floored as the rest of the gang. He pushes his wire-frame glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and asks, “When you say never?”

Rooster watches her shrug.

“It’s been my experience that in the heat of the moment, most people just don’t care.”

And Rooster suddenly thinks- I care.

Coyote tips back the rest of his beer, setting the bottle on the wooden tabletop with a resounding clank. “I’d accept this challenge any day, and all I would need is ten minutes to do it.” He tosses her a wink and Rooster’s cheeks flame from equal parts envy and second-hand embarrassment.

“Wow, Coyote. Ten minutes only? Not exactly selling the experience here, are you?” Her teasing tone and wry smile causes the rest of the group to dissolve into fits of low whistles and peeling laughter.

“Wait- so you mean to tell all of us that you fly combat planes for the United States Navy for a living and you’ve never experienced an orgasm?” Hangman’s Texan drawl is incredulous.

She nods her head, her dazzling gaze narrowed. “I can’t imagine how the two are related, but yes Jake, that is what I’m saying.”

“I think it’s sad.” Bob murmurs lowly and Rooster can't help agreeing with him. “More people could benefit from taking the time to consider their partner’s pleasure.”

Hangman snorts. “Sex is sex, Bob. Remind me again which fairy tale you’ll be reading before bed tonight?”

“Yikes Jake. I pity anyone who has the misfortune of sharing a bed with you.” She turns to Bob and offers the unassuming pilot a reassuring smile. “Thanks Bob.”

Rooster clears his throat, suddenly self-conscious of the fact he chose not to partake in the festivities this evening. “For what it’s worth, I think Bob’s right. Making sure your partner gets there is most of the pleasure already. At least for me, anyway.”

Hangman slaps his hand on the table twice, his expression triumphant. “Well, there you have it, kid. If you ever get desperate for a lesson, I’m sure any one of us would be happy to offer our enthusiastic assistance.”

She laughs again, and this time it causes goosebumps to bloom on Rooster’s arms. “How generous of you, Jake. Guess I’d have to be pretty damn desperate though, huh?”

Despite every effort, Rooster doesn’t get much sleep that night. Instead, he spends most of his waking moments trying not to think about how she would look spread out before him, ready and waiting and so willing to do anything he tells her. His cock swells at the mere thought of it all, and he knows the only way rest will come for him is if he carves himself out a shred of release. It won't be enough, but it'll be something. Snaking his hand down the front of his body, he palms the erection straining the crotch of his briefs.

“Fuck,” He breathes out and dips a hand beneath the elastic waistband to pump slowly along the length of his thick shaft.

His eyes fall shut as he pictures her before him; can practically see her arousal drip from her as she touches herself the way he wants her to- the way he knows will have her coming undone for him. Spitting into the palm of his hand, he continues working steadily along his cock. He swipes the rough pad of his thumb over his sensitive slit, swirling the pre-come around it and reveling in the feeling of it as it drips down the underside of his shaft. “Oh god,” He whines out into the still air before him while he shamelessly fucks his fist. He imagines her fucking herself on her fingers; imagines the filthy noises that fall from her lips the closer she gets to her rapture; imagines that he is the sole orchestrator of her pleasure and all of it is enough to get him there. His hips rut desperately into his tight fist, his head falls back against the pillow in unbridled ecstasy, and he comes hard all over himself, his lower abdomen painted with his hot, sticky seed.

Sleep descends on him heavily after that.

“Would you like to go for a drive with me?” It’s been over a week since he’d first thought of her, and he asks her on a whim because he knows if he doesn’t do it soon, he’ll regret it for a lifetime.

She looks hesitant; doesn’t know which angle he’s playing at which is fair, because he’s not entirely sure either. “A drive?” She asks, her head cocked to the side.

Rooster nods. “A drive. We can get drinks or food, whichever you prefer.”

So, she agrees. They drive to a local pizza joint, pick up a large ham and pineapple pie (though Rooster detests the ungodly yellow fruit) and park on a deserted end of beach, their legs hanging off the back end of Rooster’s 1975 Ford Bronco.

“I’m fairly certain I can do it.” He squints out at the setting orange sun as it sinks low over the Pacific Ocean before them.

She washes down the last bite of her pizza with a swig of beer from their shared bottle, her eyebrow quirked high in amusement. “Do what?” She asks, but the glint in her eyes tells him she knows exactly what he’s referring to.

Rooster turns to her, his jaw set. “Give you an orgasm.”

She shakes her head, folds her arms across her chest in defiance. “Believe me, Rooster. Many a brave soul have tried and failed before you. I reckon I may just be broken.”

He gives his head a half-shake. “You’re not broken.”

It’s certainly not your fault no one’s ever taken the time to learn your body.

“Can I tell you something?” She asks, her voice quiet.

Rooster nods.

“That night at the bar last week, when I so readily shared with everyone that I had never had one?”

Rooster nods again, encouragingly.

“I went home and I touched myself.” Her admission is so quiet, Rooster almost misses it.

He swallows hard- tries in vain to keep his voice level, even. “You touched yourself?”

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and nods her head. “I was thinking of you.”

It’s Rooster’s turn to bite his lip to keep from groaning out into the humid air before him, and his cock stirs in the crotch of his jeans. “What were you thinking about?”

Her cheeks redden in embarrassment and God, Rooster doesn’t know what to do with himself. “I was thinking about your fingers, your mouth, your cock. I was thinking about how good it would feel to finally be able to come for you.”

“Jesus,” Rooster breathes out. “Did you finish, sweetheart?”

“No.” She murmurs, her tone thick with disappointment.

He gives his head a half-shake, his hazel gaze sharp. “That just won’t do, will it?” Slipping off the edge of the truck, he turns to her, and the urge to reach out and touch her is almost too much to bear. “I want you to show me.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“I want you to show me the way you touched yourself.”

She glances around at the barren beach, silently weighing the pros and cons of his demand. “Right here?”

“Right here.” Rooster affirms.

Leaning back, she hikes the sundress she’s worn over the tops of her thighs and Rooster’s throat dries like sandpaper when he notices she’s forgone underwear for the evening. He watches with half-lidded eyes as she sucks two fingers into her mouth- gets them nice and slick with her spit, and then dances them slowly down the front of her body to her clit. Rooster braces his arms on either side of her legs and watches her work her magic. She starts off slow, by pressing firm, steady circles into her swollen bundle of nerves. Just as he had predicted over a week ago, her arousal nearly drips from her slit and he has to take a deep breath to center himself to keep from swiping a fingertip down the length of it. He just knows it tastes heavenly. His cock jumps at the mere thought of tasting her- and he doubts he’ll be able to put off touching himself for much longer.

“How does that feel, sweetheart?”

Her eyes flutter closed and all she can manage is a low, desperate mewl.

“You want more?” Rooster asks and all she can do is nod her head. “Give yourself more, then.”

She does as she’s told and inserts a finger into her hot, wet core, and it’s all Rooster can do to keep from groaning out, loudly. “Like this?” She gasps, and he nods above her in approval.

“Exactly like that, sweetheart. Keep going.”

“Wish it was your cock,” She whimpers, and Rooster swears to God, this is the sexiest thing he’s ever been privy to. Her words send what feels like every ounce of blood in his body to his dick, and he palms the front of his crotch, needily.

“It will be soon, baby. Just need to be patient. Need you to be a good girl and come for me.”

She inserts a second finger into herself and cries out at the full sensation, her other finger still pressing roving circles into her clit. Rooster peppers kisses over her the expanse of her exposed collarbone, encouraging her through it all. “That’s it, sweetheart. You’re doing so good. You keep going like this, and you and I’ll both be coming apart in no time.” It’s quiet while he studies her; the only audible noise between them are the obscene sounds her fingers make as she fucks herself with them, and the sweet moans that rip from her throat every couple of seconds. Rooster can feel her start to tremble beneath him; he watches her eyes widen as the realization becomes apparent to her. “That’s right, sweetheart. You’re so close,” Nodding in encouragement, he watches a thin sheen of perspiration bloom over her chest and neck, her lips part and her head drops back, and he doubts she’s ever looked more breathtaking. “Don’t stop now, you’re so close…” He whispers in earnest. “I’ll get you there, I promise.”

Her hands are all but frenzied movement now as she’s trembles violently beneath him and he presses his lips to her temple to keep her grounded to him. “Rooster,” She gasps. And he nods against her.

“If its time, let go. I’m right here, sweetheart.”

Her fingertips grasp at the impossibly hard, warm skin of his shoulder blades. She clasps on to him for dear life as pleasure blooms inside of her like fireworks on a warm July evening, and Rooster’s doesn’t know how much longer he’ll last like this. “Fuck, I’m going to come, Rooster.” She throws her head back and finishes hard around her fingers, her entire body quaking from the effort that took. Rooster holds her to him while she comes down from her high, her body entirely alive and electric with sheer energy.

“God, you did so good just now.” Rooster’s voice is hoarse and wrecked and thick with lust. “Look at you,” He whispers and presses a kiss to her flushed cheek. “How did that feel?”

She swallows hard, still in a bliss-induced trance. “I can’t believe it…”

Rooster chuckles against her. “You ready for one more?”

Before she can answer, he pulls her to the edge of the truck, dropping to his knees in the warm sand. His cock throbs uncomfortably and he brushes a rough palm over it to glean some form of friction. He hovers above her soaked entrance; the sheer, heady scent of her is nearly enough to have him coming in his jeans. He rubs the warm palms of his hands up and down the outside of her soft thighs and glances up at her. “May I show you another way?”

She nods wordlessly, with eyes half-lidded and blown over by hunger for him.

Rooster wants to take his time- wants to savour every single second of this in case it never happens again, but the urge to taste her is entirely overwhelming. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the velvet soft skin of her inner thighs and works his way up, the all-encompassing heat from her leaves him dizzy and breathless with want. He palms his erection, stroking it fervently through the fabric of his jeans and moans against her at the rough sensation of the denim on his sensitive skin.

“Are you touching yourself?” She asks, breathlessly.

Rooster swears to God, he feels her get a little more wet as he nods against her.

He licks a long, wet stripe up the length of her soaked slit with the flat of his tongue and nearly groans out at the taste of her. It’s an unendingly perfect combination of slightly salty and sweet, and he reckons he could get drunk off it if he had enough.

“Holy shit, Rooster.” She whimpers, and her fingers find purchase in his auburn hair.

He nods against her, and grazes his teeth over her swollen clit, earning him another obscenely sexy moan. “God, you taste good sweetheart.” He pulls away from her heat to tell her that, and his breath as it fans out over her warm wetness causes her to quake violently beneath him. He doesn’t allow her a moment of respite before he’s back at it, lapping at her folds like a she’s the most delicious treat on the planet. And to him, she is. His skilled fingertips dance along the length of her thighs, her hips, her ass. He wants to memorize every inch of her body that he can, lest he’s not lucky enough to experience her again.

“God damn it, you’re good at this Rooster.” She swears, and her thighs tighten involuntarily around his head. He grins against her, wickedly. Without warning, he inserts three thick fingers inside of her and the wonderfully full feeling they bring her causes her to cry out into the warm evening air before them. Rooster doesn’t give a flying fuck if anyone hears them at this point; they are exactly where they’re supposed to be. He could die doing this, and he would die a happy man. He fucks his fingers into her with reckless abandon; the first sign of her looming release is in the feeling of her clit against his tongue; how it swells and throbs the longer he sucks at it. “Oh, Rooster…” She keens, desperately. Her fingers tug at his hair, and the sharp burst of pain it brings him causes him to moan against her and the vibrations from that alone are all it takes before she’s falling off the precipice and into his willing arms. Rooster presses a free hand to her lower tummy as she spasms around the fingers still buried to the hilt inside of her and a flood of wetness bursts from her, soaking him and everything around them within a certain radius. Rooster's fingers fall from her, and she whimpers at the sudden loss of fullness. He rests his head in her lap, closing his eyes and trying to focus on regulating his breathing. He’s still so fucking hard right now, it’s a wonder he’s even upright at all.

“Jesus, Rooster, that was something else.” Her voice is raspy and shot from their recent activities and Rooster smiles softly as he listens to the fervent hammering of her heartbeat against the top of his head.

“Told you I could do it,” He laughs, breathlessly.

She giggles against him and his heart soars. “What about you, though?” She cards a hand through his damp hair.

“I’ll be alright.”

She shakes her head, her gaze knowing. “I want you, Rooster. And I’m going to have you.”

Of two things Rooster Bradshaw is absolutely certain: the first one is that he is helplessly in love with the woman beneath him. The second is that he doesn’t know when- and he doesn’t know how, but he is going to spend the rest of his life having her come apart for him like that.

#this was fun to write !!#smut isn't always!!#rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw smut #bradley 'rooster' bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun: maverick #writing #smut #rooster bradshaw imagines #miles teller

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stalkedbytrains · 2 months

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Stone Face Sorrow

The mourners were all there, in their elaborately carved masks. Each carved face covering was unique to the person, to the family, to the emotion the wood conveyed for flesh. All of them showed sadness or regret or, in a few cases, sorrow.

All of them were draped head to toe in black, not a piece of skin showing, only masks, frozen in a single emotion. The procession started, passed the freshly dug grace, passed the coffin, passed the crying masks of a tall figure, passed the three smaller sad masked figures, the husband and the children of the deceased.

A processional of carved mourning faces moved passed the grieving family, offering flowers on the grave and hushed, muffled words of condolences. The masked family nodded their acceptance of the comforts but didn’t say anything, the masks conveying their emotions for them.

With the processional was almost done, only one person was left. There was no billow of breath rising from beneath the elegantly carved sorrow mask. Not a single indication that it breathed, or if it did, the breath was warm.

Empty, sad eyes of the mask looked over the small remains of the family and placed a small statuette on the coffin, before turning to leave. The footprints left behind in the semi-frozen mud were much deeper than the others of the processional.

The tall remaining figure, the husband of the deceased woman, looked at the statuette only to see the small representation of the Wailing Father.

That would mean…

The man quickly turned to see where the last person went, the one with the heavy Sorrow mask, but they were gone, off into the late evening mist that was rolling off the mountains.

He was nervous now, was it possibly they were just visited by The Sorrow?

He didn’t know, didn’t want to know.

With the processional, and the funeral over, the husband took his children out of the cemetery and back to the house.

Once inside, in private, the family could remove their masks and cloaks. They sat together in silence. The twins hugged the little one, a girl no older than four.

The father was just about to rise from his seat to fetch something. He was dimly aware that the girls needed to eat, but he wasn’t hungry. That was when they heard the loud footsteps on the front porch. Slow, heavy footsteps.

Then the door burst open revealing in the Sorrow masked figure, dressed all in black, with a cold, late winder wind blowing in behind it.

The figure stepped in, crossing the threshold with heavy, steady steps. Then with a black clad hand, reached back and closed the wooden door behind it before standing in silence.

In the absolute silence that radiated from the being’s presence the family could hear a quiet, raspy, labored breathing despite seeing no breath coming from it earlier.

The father moved, stood in front of his daughters and yelled, “We don’t want you here! We didn’t pray to the Wailing Father! Leave us in peace! Please!”

But the hollow eyes of the Sorrow weren’t directed at the father, or at the older girls, the twins with the dark hair, past them to the smallest girl, the four year old with the shock of bright blonde hair. The instant girl felt the attention on her she ran away from her father and sisters and into the back bedroom.

“Just leave us alone! We thank the Wailing Father for sending you in our hour of despair but we don’t need your services, please. My wife… my wife is dead. There’s nothing to be done. She drowned,” the father choked out.

Suddenly the younger girl was back, this time she was holding up a much too large mask of dark wood, painted red, with an angry snarl carved into it.

With the wooden barrier between herself and the masked Sorrow, she spoke up, “Will you find out who killed mommy?”

Sorrow descended, resting on knees that were hidden the large dark robe. With a voice like air escaping from a long sealed tomb it answered, “Yes.”

“Good,” the girl said. “I’m mad at them. Mommy was supposed to come home. We was gonna read the end of the Princesses story together. But now she can’t.”

Sorrow’s empty eyes stared back at Anger held up by the four year old. For a long moment there was silence.

The Sorrow stood up and exited the house with a slow but determined gait.

The next night was just as cold and windy as the night of the funeral, but today had a sleety, half frozen rain to add to it.

The tavern’s fireplaces were all roaring and the food was hot. All of the patrons were dressed in their warmest, their masks were often the woolen or knitted variety, politely hiding half their faces while leaving their mouths exposed as to better talk and drink.

Through his informal, dull, half-faded mask that showed off his cheeks and mouth and chin, the bartender surveyed the bar.

All of the masked faces turned when someone burst through the door. All of the people that were usually here were here, and everyone else was in the safety and warmth of their own houses. It was either an out-of-towner or bad news.

The new arrival threw off their clock, soaked with freezing rain and before the tavern stood a tall, red cheeked, auburn hair elf with pointed ears, high cheekbones, bright eyes and no mask.

After shaking out some of the water from their curly and graying hair, the elf took a seat at the bar.

“What do you want here bareface?’ the bartender asked unkindly.

They always started with the maskless insults before they moved into the racism.

But the elf was tired and having none of it. They reached into their pocket and produced a hand sized piece of metal. The second they slapped it on the table it glowed, white, and brilliant and outshone everything else in the tavern. After a second the light faded and the metal returned to being just a highly polished metal star.

The bartender’s attitude changed. “What can I offer you Lady Investigator?”

“Whiskey,” they said. “You may refer to me as Investigator Stalking Heron.”

“Start with what?” he asked nervously, adjusting his mask to sit correctly over his face.

“I heard Sorrow is in town. Has anyone in town died recently? Or anyone seen the Sorrow faced being?” they asked loudly.

Once again the silence filled the room like smoke, choking out the sound.

“I’ll take that oppressive silence as a yes. Any one seen The Sorrow? Anyone pray to the Wailing Father?” Heron asked.

They were only greeted with more silence.

“Do you want me to break out my mask? I’ll get it and conduct this investigation all proper like if that’s what you all want,” they threatened.

When the elf was met with only silence, the mysterious Investigator started to reach for their coat when the man slumped on the bar next to them drunkenly raised his head.

“It was me! My wife died three days ago. Drowned in that damn lake out back. My littlest prayed to the Wailing Father himself and he sent The Sorrow down on our heads. Maybe we’ll find out if a godsend can fight a lake.”

Heron sighed heavily. “I’m sorry,” they said with genuine sadness. “But if Sorrow is here, then I hate to tell you that your wife was murdered.”

The drunk and bereaved man broke out into a fresh round of sobs.

"I’m going to need a room somewhere,” Investigator Heron said. “I’ve got to solve a murder quickly before you’re burying someone else.”

“If they killed my wife,” the drunk shouted. “They’ll be lucky if there’s anything left to bury!”

“Alright Elijah, I know you’re grieving, but it’s time you went home,” the bartender told him.

The drunk was already asleep.

“Silah is dead, someone prays to your damn elven demon god, Sorrow is here, and now a barefaced elven Investigator here. How can it get any worse?” the bartender muttered as he looked at the passed out man on his bar.

“The barefaced elf is Inspector Heron,” they said with a menacing finger pointed at the bartender. “And as if your ignorance couldn’t show any further, the Wailing Father is one of the very few gods that exist in all six major pantheons. Now, if you’re done choking everyone with your extreme aura of stupidity. I need to get to the bottom of this, get to the murderer before Sorrow does. If I do, there’s a chance that Sorrow will back off. They usually stand down when the murderer is brought to justice. Otherwise it’s just a death sentence. And it’s only a matter of time.”

At that moment, outside the bar, the figure in the Sorrow mask stood silent into the rain, empty mask eyes fixed on the bank of the slowly defrosting lake.

It stood there for some time, just looking without eyes or perhaps waiting.

Elijah stumbled out of the bar, with the help of one of his neighbors. The light spilled out of the open doorway for just a moment, illuminating the Sorrow, but in the next moment it was gone.

The two men walked through the slush and frozen rain towards Elijah’s house, masks keeping out the worst of the rain.

Neither of them noticed the Sorrow outside the house down the small lane from the both of them. If Sorrow had eyes to read it held the posture of something reading the name sign posting on the outside of the house.

But the men were too drunk and too eager to be out of the weather to notice the dark figure lurking.

Back in the bar, Investigator Heron started questioning patrons. They held the shining star in their hand at all times, metal gently pricking into their hands, as they passed from patron to patron. The human’s masks and half masks made it difficult to tell if someone was lying to them, but that’s why they had the star.

Every time someone lied to them the star started to glow. It made it easier for them. Even though Heron was a master liar at one point in their life, mask or no mask. But it still didn’t change the fact that they were no investigator, not really. So they held on to the star all the tighter.

They discovered that the deceased Silah was in the bar the night she died. Her husband was at home with the children. Silah and some of the other wives met once a month in the tavern for some time away from their usual duties. The last one to see Silah alive was the barkeep since she stayed till the tavern closed. The innkeeper was rapidly moving up the list of Heron’s suspects. He was right behind the husband, because it was always the husband.

Heron moved to put on their own mask, the terrifying bird shaped mask all investigators wore, their head a bit too small for it, even with their hair. The long beak and dark wood made it the long and thin elf look even more avian.

They’d barely got it on when someone burst into the tavern looking terrifying.

“Sorrow! It’s here!” the frightened young man yelled. “It’s in the cemetery!”

Heron swore, not bothering to take off their mask, and ran out into the driving rains, barely taking time to put on their clock as they ran.

If Sorrow was in the cemetery, then there was a chance. A slim chance, that maybe Sorrow would be occupied with the body of Silah. Hopefully they’d get there before Sorrow left.

They spoke a quick word that rolled off their tongue and a bright little marsh light appeared before them, lighting their way through the darkness.

Sorrow was in the cemetery, seemingly looking at headstones. Black shrouded fingers traced lettering on gravestones. The figure stood for several moments surrounded by the dead, a bit of it was touching their gravestones as if absorbing their lives through the tiny little epitaphs that sum up entire existences in as few words as possible.

By the time the marsh light got to the cemetery, Sorrow was already gone.

Heron swore, their tongue flying other lilting syllables in elvish, cursing everything, mostly themselves.

There was a statue of the Wailing Father in the cemetery, for the dead center. A grief stricken father kneeling over all the graves in the cemetery. Permanent, unending anguish over his finely sculpted face.

“You’ve already figured it out haven’t you?” Heron asked the statue, dropping the mask in the mud. “I’m not even half the investigator you were. Not even close. I don’t even know if I should go after the bartender or the husband.” They sank to their knees, falling into the freezing mud. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’d give anything to trade places with you. You should be the investigator everyone knows and fears. I should be the one that’s… that’s… Why? You were always the good one, the better one. I was the fuck up. I never wanted your job, your name, but you’re gone. And I’m trying, I’m trying so hard to be a better person, to be you, but I’m not. I’m just still me, and I’m awful at it. Just… just come home? Please? I can’t do this without you.”

The elf with the assumed name Heron knelt in the half melted snow and mud and midnight night rain before the Wailing Father. They knew it was too late. Sorrow had their target and was probably on its way. And they didn’t even know where to begin.

The rain blurred away the tears as soon as they fell, but it didn’t wash away the cries of anguish and failure.

Heron was alone, cold, tired, and failing more than they succeeded. All of that barefaced, raw emotion was coming out as they mirrored the emotions set in stone before her.

The weather did not care. If the Wailing Father cared, he didn’t show it.

“We’re closed!” the tavern keep called as he heard the door open and shut behind heavy footsteps.

He turned around to repeat the phrase, but instead found himself face-to-face with a pale weeping mask of sadness and stone.

“Fuck!” he cried and fell backwards.

“Murderer,” whispered the voice from behind the mask like a stale breeze being let out of a cave.

“I did nothing!” he yelled as he reached beneath his bar for the short sword hidden there.

He held up the sword between himself and Sorrow. The being did not move, save for the masked face that followed him as he slipped out from behind the bar.

“I did nothing! Ya hear!” he yelled again.

Sorrow took a single step towards the tavern keeper but he slashed out with steel.

That rebounded. Bounced off whatever passed for flesh beneath the black shroud.

“Cursed, demon elven gods! I didn’t kill her!” he cried once more before attacking.

But the blows bounced off once again. This time Sorrow reached out and grabbed the blade in one hand and ripped it from the half masked man.

The man yelped as the other hand rose and knocked off his mask revealing all of the barkeep’s worn, terrified, scratched face. He had several scratches by his eyes, which were concealed by the mask he wore.

The touch of the frozen hand of Sorrow caused him to leap out of the way and over to the fire. Her grabbed the hot iron poker from the dying embers and brandished it like a sword.

Still Sorrow advanced slowly.

The tavern keeper lashed out with the glowing poker. It connected with Sorrow causing a dull thud.

Nothing seemed to even affect it till the hot poker caught the robes on fire, then it only warranted a brief look down.

Sorrow took another step forward. It continued advancing, unceasing.

Until the tavern keeper struck with the heavy iron rod, right in the mask of Sorrow.

Two blows in quick succession and Sorrow stopped moving. The stone mask cracked. Heavy cracks like scars spread across the mask.

The tavern keeper laughed and smashed the iron into the mask once more, deepening the cracks and wounds.

A dark, thick red substance started to pour from the mask and a sound like rocks groaning before being split under pressure escaped Sorrow.

Another attack came from the over confident tavern owner. He tried to strike the figure with the bleeding stone mask, but Sorrow’s hand intercepted his own.

The hand was heavy and strong and it squeezed and the small bones in the attacker’s hands snapped loudly.

Sorrow took the weapon from the man and threw it into the bar, shattering liquor bottles and catching it on fire.

“Oh shit,” he swore.

The blood was pouring out of the cracks in the mask. Sorrow reached up and removed the wounded mask, dropping it heavily on the ground, then removed the burning, smoldering clothing.

Before the tavern keeper stood an ethereal beauty.

An elf, naked, pale skin looking exactly like porcelain stone. But the stonework was so perfect, so smooth, it looked like flesh transmuted or, perhaps, silk made stone.

Slowly, with all the ease of chiseling stone, Sorrow’s face turned from one of neutral interest to one of abject rage.

The figure raised its hands and advanced upon the innkeeper.

Sorrow didn’t stop until the murderer’s face matched the Sorrowful expression on the mask it wore.

A little while later Sorrow knocked once on the door of the residence that once belonged to Silah.

The father was passed out in his bed. The twins were up in a moment, the little one rising a little slower.

Sorrow entered the cabin, shrouded in black with the sad, broken expression on the mask it wore.

“It is done,” wheezed the voice behind the mask.

It held out a hand towards the youngest girl.

She nodded solemnly and turned back into the bedroom.

A moment later the girl returned and placed a well worn, much loved stuffed bear into Sorrow’s waiting hand.

“Thank you,” the girl said. “Take care of him. His name is Bubbles and he needs lots of hugs.”

Sorrow’s hand disappeared with the bear back inside the robes, then it turned and left without another word.

Once outside Sorrow’s mask turned towards the smoldering tavern fire. Heron was watching, forlorn and sad. Another missed opportunity.

Sorrow stood in the dark, watching the light for some time until the rain had stopped.

Then, as dawn was breaking, moved on.

In a little network of roads beneath a great tree, in a small area that formed a little cave Sorrow built itself a little fire, hung up the cloak and mask beside it.

It sat down, orange flames dancing across the pale porcelain skin that was gently reflecting it back. Then, very carefully, like it was reaching for a holy object, Sorrow grabbed the stuffed bear. In the dim firelight Sorrow examined the bear, almost as if it was trying to remember the object’s significance.

After several seconds the stone lips parted and Sorrow said in a rough, cracked voice becoming a being of stone, “You need lots of hugs.”

Then gently embraced the bear like Sorrow was once a small child with an animal.

#stone face sorrow #fantasy fiction #one off #death and other epilogues #my fiction #writeblr #original fiction

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stalkedbyplanes · 3 months