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remmushound · 3 years

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Beyond the Bay chapter 6: Mirror Images

“It’s happening again.”

Raphael was quick to Donatello’s side, glancing over the handheld panel as it started to flash and beep a long, jarring warning that didn't let up no matter how many buttons Donatello pressed. The noise was only becoming louder, making the other three brothers rush to cover their ears to hopefully spare their hearing from the pressure of the echoing alarm.

“We get it! Turn it off, Don!” Leonardo growled, but his voice was barely heard.

“Working on it!” Donatello said, and he was, yet still the device refused to listen. It started to spark and the top of it erupted in flames while Donatello just kept repeating, “No no no no no no no—“

Raphael had enough. He grabbed the device from Donatello and shoved it in his mouth, chewing up the hard metal and jolting wires before swallowing the painful mouthful.

“There. All quiet.” Raphael breathed a sigh of relief. “No more noise.”

Donatello blinked slowly. “It took me three months to make that…”

“And it took me three seconds to eat it, so clearly it needs to be stronger.” Raphael said, clearing his throat by pounding his chest.

A vein visibly twitched on Donatello as the younger turtle seethed; Leonardo could almost see steam coming out of the softshell’s ears! Donatello took a deep breath in, standing up a little straighter and closing his eyes before brushing past the situation quickly.

“Fine. That’s fine. Everything’s fine. I can just build another one.”

“Did you happen to see where the signal was before Raph got hungry?” Leonardo asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I saw where the signals were.” At the confused looks he got, Donatello explained further. “It was picking up five different signals, which we could have followed individually if someone hadn’t have eaten the tech!”

Raphael burped. “Oops.”

“You know what? No, it’s fine.” Leonardo shook his head, “We have a few hours before daybreak, we can go check it out and find our world hoppers. Suit up.”

“You’re lucky I have photographic memory…” Donatello grumbled.

At Leonardo’s word, everyone started to reassemble their weapons, hiding shurikens in their pockets and dawning their usual protective gear and various trinkets; Michelangelo had taken to emulating his bigger counterpart, though the chains he wore were much smaller and the sunglasses had the lenses popped out so he could see better. Donatello, as usual, stacked on as much tech as he could feasibly carry without struggle, and Leonardo made a point of tying his uneven mask tails into what could resemble a chonmage.

Raphael was glad he hadn’t gotten comfortable enough to take off his prosthetic shell; though he had grown used to the heavy titanium, polishing it to sheen nightly and sharpening the spikes to dangerous points, putting it on was always a task and a half. He patted his waist to make sure his most special trinket was still there, and it was. They were ready and were already on the move within minutes.

***

Swears melted off of Raph’s tongue like butter on a hot pan. The fall hadn’t hurt, but it certainly wasn’t comfortable with all this debris collapsed on top of him! He was able to lift the wood with ease once he had gained full control over his tingling body, every plank he moved releasing a new cloud of dust. He brushed what remained of the pigeon coop off and was finally able to stand up. Raph coughed and rubbed his eyes against the sting of irritation, gathering saliva up in his mouth so he could spit and try to remove the bitter taste of dirt; it helped, somewhat.

“Great.” Raph muttered, looking around, “Where am I now?”

“Raph.” A familiar, urgent voice called out to him, “Raph!”

“Leo?” Raph looked around until his eyes settled on Leo the next building over, peering over a parapet. When Leo saw Raph had spotted him, he waved his brother over. Raph shook off what remained of the dust and was able to clear the gap between the buildings with ease. “You see Mike or Don anywhere?”

“No.” Leo shook his head. “Have you?”

“No, that’s why I’m asking you.” Raph snapped, and then rubbed his head with a frustrated snort.

Leo took a slow, loud breath and cupped his hands over his face. Then he quickly puffed the breath out and said, “It’s gonna be fine Raph; we’ll find em. Remember when the smaller us’s first came to our world? They— they were all scattered around the city. The same thing probably happened to us, right? Shouldn’t be too hard to find them.”

“Valid hypothesis.”

Raph shouted, immediately grabbing for his sai as he fell back. Leonardo began to snicker as he joined Donatello at the front of the group; Donatello was smirking at successfully scaring the larger box turtle.

“Don’t do that!” Raph snarled, and then started to laugh weakly. “I coulda tossed your ass like salad.”

“I’d like to see you try, big-buff-bimbo.”

Raph almost choked. “What’d you just call me, eyebrows?”

“Do not insult the eyebrows!”

“So y'all finally came to visit huh?” Raphael beamed. He shoved his way through Donatello and Leonardo so he could take point.

Leo and Raph had to pause a moment to fully take in the form of Raphael; it seemed every time they met up, the snapper only got bigger and bigger! Now his size would have certainly surpassed even the height of Donnie, and in musculature he was very similar to Raph, though with a much broader head and beak. The wounds he had suffered on the day they first met had long since healed, a long silver slash across Raphael’s eye and jaw; that side of his maw never seemed to fully close anymore, and every so often his tongue would slip out or he would have to wipe away excess saliva.

Michelangelo had hardly changed at all, except for getting taller, which now demoted Leonardo to being the shortest brother. His face was still plump with baby fat, his shell still decorated with stickers and paint that covered up a plethora of scars and cracks, both new and old. Donatello hadn’t changed much either; a little taller, a little bulkier, and with more tech littering his body.

Leo sucked in a sharp, sudden breath when he saw Leonardo. It was clear that Leonardo, though his face was still bright and eyes glinting with mischief, had gone through some great trauma within the past year; cut across his chest were three very distinct slash marks, deeper and much worse at the bridge of his plastron where the damage was so severe that it showed the flesh beneath that would have usually been hidden by shell. The worst of the gash wasn't very extensive, quickly thinning and leading inward to Leonardo’s belly before fading away into lightning-like cracks across the upper plastron. His arm was covered in similar graying scars that ripped across the muscles, his hand tucked against his chest like it still needed to be cradled in a cast.

“HUGS!” Michelangelo jumped across gap and into Raph’s arms, giving a series of excited clicks as Raph naturally fell to cradling the smaller box turtle.

“How you doing, little man?” Raph laughed, rubbing Michelangelo’s head, “Lovin’ the bling!”

Michelangelo smiled proudly, puffing out his chest to better show the golden chain. The rest of his brothers covered the distance, Raphael laughing as he pulled Raph into a tight hug, both of them making a show of squeezing the other as strongly as possible.

“Leo.” Leo said to Leonardo with a bow of his head.

“Leo~” Leonardo repeated with a smirk, returning the bow. “So you guys visiting?”

“Not exactly.” Leo went on to explain. “Guess me and Raph just got spit out at the same place.”

“Right.” Raphael took a deep breath as he nodded, “Right. We can— we can handle this, right team?”

Leonardo, Donatello, and Michelangelo gave a shout of agreement.

“Right. Donnie, you remember where those other signals were?”

Donatello nodded and tapped his head. “Got ‘em all up here.” With that, Donatello led the way while the rest of the assorted turtles followed quickly.

“Hey big guy!” Raph said as he kept a steady pace with the snapping turtle. “Didn't get a chance to ask you last time, but what’s up with the fundo?”

Raph motioned to the golden and orange trinket that Raphael had weeded through his belt. Raphael looked down at it, then back up at Raph with a wide, toothy smile.

“It’s a yo-yo actually. Mike gave it to me! Said I had something of Donnie’s…” Raphael pointed back at the metal part of his shell, “Something of Leo’s…” He motioned to the scar over his eye that somewhat resembled Leonardo’s markings, “Just needed something of Mikey’s to complete the set.”

Raph found himself grinning ear to ear. “That’s great.”

The whole journey, Leo couldn’t stop staring at Leonardo and the new scars that his younger self had suffered during the period of no contact between their worlds. Leonardo was acutely aware of the stare but made no point of showing it; of course Leo would stare! Who wouldn’t stare at such a handsome stud of a mutant? Leonardo smirked at his own inner compliment and laughed which, to anyone outside of his own head, might have made him seem insane.

Donatello brought them first to an alleyway, strewn with trash and cast completely into darkness with nothing but shadows around them. Then one of the shadows melted and moved, and Donnie made himself known. After a quick reunion with his brothers as well as a meet and greet with the other turtles, they were on the move again.

They found Splinter hiding out in a storm drain just below the streets; the old rat was overjoyed to see his sons and he greeted the younger turtles with just as much sincere love. Gentle paws stroked and soothed and greeted before they were once more on the search seeking the final missing turtle.

@brightlotusmoon @selfindulgenz @digitl-art-monstr

#beyond the bay #updated turtle designs #they’re older now!#Mikey is 16 #Leo and Donnie are 17 #Raph is 18 #bay turtles are 22 #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #tmnt au #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #bay turtles

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slasherholic · 4 years

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warnings for this chapter: gore and death, mentions of abuse

Read chapter one here!

End of the Line | Michael Myers x Reader | Chapter Two

You make it thirty steps before the blackness bites you.

Your foot catches on some stiff piece of metal and your brain can’t catch up with the rest of your body to realize why you’re suddenly laying face-down in the dust on your stomach, why your legs aren’t still pumping, your arms not still pistoning—and then, all at once, it hits you.

You’ve tripped.

If you weren’t such a small and frightened animal you would start to cry again. But that’s not what frightened animals do, screams your lizard-brain, frightened animals run. So get up. Get up and keep running.

You do. You barrel back into the unknown. If Michael’s footsteps are still behind you you can’t hear them over the blood rushing to your ears, sweeping through your skull, dizzying your vision in a sickening way. A sticky hot wetness drips down your back from where he cut you but you don’t care about that right now. Run. Run.

You run for a long time. Until reason tells you that you’ve left Michael far behind—but reason currently has no place in your oxygen-starved thoughts. The sound of his breathing still rings in your ears and your mind is plagued with a terrible prophecy that your next stumble will be headlong into his chest. That he will lunge out from the blackness and seize you and it will all be over.

Hugging the wall, you dash around another corner—

—and there, at the end of the corridor, you can’t believe it. You think your mind is playing some cruel trick, so you keep looking down the hall, keep stumbling towards it, but no, there is no trick, it’s really there—

—a light.

Making the hallway before you not black but rather a shade of grey, like an old-fashioned photograph. And somewhere around the next corner must be its source.

You are a moth drawn to a flame. Nothing matters but that light.

Tearing through the dusty hallway, you see now what’s been tripping you—toppled desks, scattered all up and down the corridor, their metal legs jutting dangerously out.

Oh, comes your realization. It’s a school.

The corridor is a cluttered wreck of disrepair. Every classroom door you blitz past is boarded up with nails and planks. The paper on the walls peels like a bad sunburn. Wires hang down from broken panels in the ceiling.

And now, you understand what that suffocating must-smell hanging like a stiff blanket overhead is—the reek of abandonment. Michael has brought you to an abandoned building. There does not exist a more perfect hunting ground. Scream as loudly as you want because nobody will hear you, run in any direction you please because you are a rat in a maze, a fish in a barrel—escape was never a possibility in the first place.

But you don’t think about that right now, only about the light. Reach the light. Reach it before it fades. You tear around the corner—

—the light is blinding.

Wincing, your forearm shoots up to shield your eyes from the horrible strain.

“Stay the fuck back.” Barks a voice. “I’ve got a knife.”

And you nearly topple over in shock. Raising one hand to cover the beam, you blink past it, heart racing in your chest.

Three wide-eyed faces gawk back at you from behind three flashlights, all of them trained on you like rifles. The guy in the middle—the only guy—wasn’t lying about the knife. He holds it out across his flashlight in the sort of way that a police officer might hold a gun, but he doesn’t have the look to complete the image. With his dirty-blonde hair collecting around his shoulders and studded black leather jacket, the knife-guy looks more likely to get arrested himself than to be the one doing any arresting.

He leers at you like you’re a convicted felon anyway.

“You see this?” He continues, swishing the knife a bit. “I don’t wanna use it—don’t make me use it. You just take it easy and stay right the fuck there.”

You hardly hear knife-guy’s words. What your brain clings to instead is the fact that there are People. You are not alone in the darkness. There are people in this building.

The realization makes your pounding heart soar and for a second your head is in the clouds and all you can think is maybe I won’t die tonight after all.

To knife-guy’s left is a short and trim Mexican woman with thoughtful eyes like black pools, the biggest you’ve ever seen. She clutches tightly at his bicep with one bony hand and stares across the hall at you like you’ve sprouted a second head. The tall girl on the right must be some sort of athlete, with strong legs and golden-tan skin and a high brunette ponytail. She gawks like she’s just seen a ghost—or like she might be giving up her own ghost at any second.

Nobody moves for a moment, and in the end you just stand there, looking each other up and down.

And then some cold and bitter voice in your head reminds you, these people are lined up for a slaughterhouse.

The hopeful thoughts in your head crash like a fiery trainwreck. Your eyes go round and horrified.

Graphic images assault your brain, of cuts so deep that you can see yellow fat and sinewy muscle and bleach-white bone, of dumbly gaping mouths, of dead, unfocused, cloudy eyes, sightless—the look of a corpse. You see in your mind’s eye that look on the faces staring back at you and your racing heart does a flip-flop into your stomach; you clench your jaw shut tight and think about not throwing up. Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up.

“Listen lady,” Knife-guy says, breaking the silence, sweeping his hair out of his face with his elbow. “We don’t want any trouble, alright?”

Too late for that, you think.

“If you’re trying to screw with us it just ain’t gonna work, yeah? So I’ll cut you a deal; you turn around, we turn around, we go our separate ways, and then we pretend we never even saw each other. That sound fair?”

Panic flares in your belly and all the moisture is sucked from your mouth.

“No!” The plea leaves you before you can even think. The tall girl on the right utters a little gasp at your outburst, jumping like she’s been burnt.

“No, no you don’t understand.” Your words are desperate; you hold your hands up in front of you like you actually are a convicted felon, just because it seems like the right thing to do; knife-guy seems to think it even more now.

“I’m not gonna hurt anyone. I promise, alright? But please, please, you have to listen to me—”

“Jesus!” Knife guy clutches his knife tighter. “I’m trying really hard not to be an asshole right now, okay? I don’t wanna be that macho douchebag that yells at girls, but honestly lady, you sound like some sort of nut! And believe me, we don’t want any of—”

“Oh Travis, honestly, quit it!” The short girl, silent as the grave until now, hisses sharply, elbowing Knife-guy in the ribs. Knife-guy shoots her a little look of what the hell dude, which she ignores.

“There’s something wrong, dammit—I mean, look at her!”

You assume she’s talking about the look of horror sprawled across your face, or about the cold sweat clinging to your reddened cheeks, or the fact that you must look like something that just came crawling out of the woods.

But then, you feel it again. You feel it trickling down your lower back, down your side, making your shirt cling to your skin, wetting the hem of your pants. And oh, that’s right. You’re a bloody mess.

Now, the pain registers. Your salty sweat stings the wound in an agonizing way. Paling, you reach gingerly beneath your armpit, toward your back, dreading the inspection, but doing it anyway. You need to know.

Your palm meets the cotton. You whimper, because your shirt is soaked-through.

Pulling your hand back, trying not to tremble too hard, you glance down at your fingers. They’re coated all the way to your palm in dark, shining red.

Michael cut you deep.

“Holy shit.” Travis breathes, his jaw tightening. You blink up at him again, fighting tears now.

“I’m—I’m not gonna hurt you, okay?” You stammer. “But please, you need to listen to what I’m telling you.”

You pause to lick your lips and swallow and the silence in your stead is horrible, as if every breath is being held.

“This isn’t a prank, it isn’t a joke—you guys need to get out of here right now, and I mean now.”

The silence stretches on; the short girl, the tall girl, the knife-guy—Travis, the short-girl called him—they all gawk at you as if you’ve spoken in tongues.

Then, chaos.

“Fuck that.” Sobs the tall-girl, her voice breaking. “Fuck that, I’m so not staying here. I can’t believe I let you guys talk me into this, we could have gone to see a movie! Let’s find Ashley and Josh and go.”

“Wendy, come on! She’s just trying to freak us out!”

“Well it’s fucking working, dude!”

“Both of you cut it out!” The short girl hisses, her volume a near-whisper. “Keep it down! Travis, for god’s sake, she’s telling the truth—you seriously think she did that to herself?” She eyes you anxiously, her gaze lingering on the blood eating through your shirt.

“...how did it happen?”

Her words twist something in your gut and you grimace. No, you can’t answer that—you can’t even think about that. You’re going to be sick.

But the short girl stares at you like you’re about to divulge the cure to cancer, and she isn’t going to leave it alone. So with a shuddering breath, in a voice so frail you can hardly hear yourself, you choke out the barest-bones answer you can muster.

“There’s someone else in the building.”

Your dread is a virus and the virus is contagious. The tall girl—Wendy—wilts visibly, terror overtaking her features. You think she might faint. Travis goes deathly silent, his expression hardening. The short girl chews her lip like a wad of bubblegum.

Good, you think. Great. They believe you. Now let’s get moving, please and thank you, because you simply can’t stay here any longer. Michael will not have given up the chase so easily. Any moment, the ghost-white of that awful mask is going to breach the dark. You know it. You can’t stay here. You need to get moving again.

But the short girl still isn’t satisfied.

“Who?” She asks, tears shimmering in her big brown eyes. Her words hang on her lips. “Who’s in the building?”

Your heart beats as fast and hard as if Michael’s hands are around your neck this very moment.

Will they believe you? If you look these people in the eye and tell them the honest-to-god truth about who is lurking and stalking and hunting his way through these unlit corridors, will it tip the scales swinging in their heads hopelessly back into disbelief? Will they tell you to get lost, and to take your sick, twisted, poor-taste-of-a-joke with you, and what kind of a person pokes fun at something like that, anyway?

“It’s—he’s—”

You never get to finish. A sudden scream rips like shrapnel through the air.

The faces behind those blinding flashlights go paler than sheets. The blood in your veins runs cold.

It is a bloody, piercing sound. It seems to rattle the walls around you. It goes on and on and on. When it cuts off it is abrupt and final and all the sound in the building is sucked away with it.

A cold, sneering voice in your head whispers, Well they’ll have to believe you now, won’t they?

Michael’s found someone.

He knows the hallways well. Even in the dark.

He stands at the intersection with the broken water fountain on the ground and does not move except to fill his lungs with air, listening. The girl had been loud; her footsteps carried far. He followed the echo and hunted her easily.

Now the echo has gone silent.

Looking down, staring at the floor beneath his boots, he sees them; shoe prints. Sitting freshly in the dust. Hers.

He does not need the girl’s sounds. Only her prints.

Studying them, he knows that she did not turn off here. Knows she kept on going down the hall. Toward the locker rooms.

He lifts his head and looks into the dimness after her, breathing the stale air deep into his lungs.

The hunt will be over quickly; the girl is running in a circuit.

Taking the left, stepping over the broken water fountain, he walks silently down the hall. The heat at his hips throbs, impatient. His thumb rubs back and forth across the handle of his knife.

The girl will not see him coming. Not until it is too late.

He will grab her by her hot neck. Will let her twist in his hands. Will make her—

...

—he stops. Listening.

Hears footsteps.

Turning in a slow circle, looking over each shoulder, he searches the hall. Sees a set of double-doors. Listens more. Grips the knife harder, watching and waiting, breathing the stale air...

The doors swing open.

...and it is not the girl.

There are two of them. Two with flashlights. They keep on walking down the hall and do not look in his direction. Do not notice him standing across the way.

He watches them go. The heart in his ribs pulses steadily and rhythmically. The urge comes—follow the prey.

He follows.

He will have the girl later.

He will have her for a different urge.

You have never seen so much blood. Not even on Michael.

It shimmers starkly against the faded-blue lockers, streaking down in heavy wet lines toward the floor, pooling between the divots in the tile like tiny rivers, which trickle outward, extending their reach down the hall.

To your right, Wendy slaps her slender-fingered hand over her mouth. She sucks in big gasps of air and her shoulders shudder violently.

The short girl—Diane, you heard Travis calling her—stands next to Travis, her arms wound so tightly around his waist that if she squeezes any harder you suspect she might bisect him.

Travis just stands there. Shining his light at the gore. Entranced.

Your mind is blank as you yourself drink in the mess—blank and numb, thoughtless.

But when the smell of it hits you the tide of nausea comes racing back towards the shore.

You are no stranger to the tang of blood but this differs from the stench that clings to Michael when he comes home from a hunt. That smell is mixed among the salt of his sweat—muted by the scent of him—and the result is more primal and heart-pounding and less knock-you-on-your-ass dizzying.

But this smell is raw and undiluted. Straight from the source. It drains all the color from your face. It threatens to bring you right down to the floor.

You place a hand on a clammy locker door to keep from staggering.

“Look.” Diane whispers.

She untangles one arm from around Travis’s waist, raising her flashlight, shining it at the floor behind the puddle. You see what she’s pointing at. Bootprints.

The pattern on the sole is unmistakable. They are Michael’s.

They lead ten paces down the hall where they stop in front of a closed door. Squinting, you can just barely read the painted black letters on the door, letters which may have once read “Boy’s Changing Room.”

“Those aren’t Josh’s.” Travis breathes, squeezing the leather grip of his hunting knife tighter.

To your right, Wendy’s gasps become sobs. She collapses suddenly back against the row of lockers, their doors rattling harshly. You wince; Michael’s going to hear her.

Travis and Diane are on her in less than a second.

“She’s dead.” Wendy gasps. “She’s dead. We have to get out of here—”

“Christ, Wendy, stop it.” Travis hisses. Shoving his flashlight into Diane’s hand, he kneels at Wendy’s side, quick to clamp his hand over her mouth.

“You cut that out right now or you’re gonna get us killed.”

“Breathe,” Diane adds, sinking down to stroke Wendy’s hair.

Wendy tries to breathe, but it’s more of a blubbering in the end.

“You don’t know that, anyway.” Travis continues. “She could be alive right through that door, bleeding out. No way are we leaving until we find her.”

“She’s not.” You state.

Travis whips around. His scowl says it all.

Getting to his feet, he plucks his flashlight out of Diane’s hands and stands up rigidly straight. He shines the beam right in your face and you wince, wrinkling your nose at the brightness.

“Yeah lady? Alright, prove it; I don’t see a body.”

The tough-guy act is only skin deep. Blinking past the blinding beam at Travis’ face, you can see he’s tenser than a wire. He knows you’re right. He knows his friend is dead. He just doesn’t want to admit it.

You eye him sternly and hold your ground.

“I’m just being realistic; that’s a lot of blood.”

Travis’ nostrils flare, and all of a sudden he is walking across the hall with lurching strides.

The man approaching you is not small by any means—Wendy is taller than him, but only by an inch. His jacket is thick and puffs out around his arms, making him wider at the shoulders than he probably is, but his stature is sturdy, and his figure is close enough to Michael’s to plunge you into panic-mode.

Your limbs lock up habitually. You brace against the locker for hurt.

Travis stops at an uncomfortable distance from you, the leather of his jacket nearly grazing your chest. His breaths come heavily through his nose and you can feel them beating down on your face, hot and shallow.

“You had better tell me right goddamed now,” He whispers through grit teeth, “What the fuck is in this building with us.”

The tightness in his voice is enough to unlock your limbs, enough to bring you out of your submissive trance, enough to make your lizard-brain realize that the man standing over you with a knife in his fist is not Michael, not even close—he’s just some college kid. Just as scared for his life as you are.

You don’t try to mask the hopelessness in your eyes as you finally spill.

“Do you know who killed all those people in Haddonfield last year?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Everybody with a working television or radio knows. Everyone who bothers to pick up their newspaper from their driveway in the morning knows. Everybody in the entire god-damned state knows. Hell, the entire god-damned country knows about those murders. It was all over the national news stations for a week into November, delivered each morning by a solemn news anchor:

And now, an update on the grisly string of murders which took place just last week in Haddonfield, Illinois—unofficially dubbed “The Babysitter Murders.”

The Haddonfield police department released an official statement this evening identifying the primary suspect in this ongoing case: Michael Audrey Myers, psychiatric patient and former Haddonfield resident, who escaped from government-mandated care on the night of the 30th.

Travis seems to hold his breath. When it comes out again it makes his upper body shudder. He knows, alright.

“Wait—” Wendy stutters, her frail voice cracking hard. “Wait, but I thought, didn’t they catch that guy?”

“They didn’t.” Diane pronounces quietly, shaking her head slowly. Her eyes are glued to the blood on the floor but they look unfocused and distant, like her mind is elsewhere.

“I’m following the Myers case for my thesis, and no, they never caught him.”

Travis’s invasion of your personal space finally relents. He steps back and begins pacing between you and Diane, his brow scrunching up in thought. He reaches up with his arm to wipe his hair out of his face.

“Okay, so you think it’s Myers,” He begins. “But come on, how do you know? How do you know it isn’t just some other freak? I’m sure there are plenty of real sick fucks out there, all I’m saying is that there’s no way you can know for sure it’s—”

“Guys?”

Every head whips toward the changing room, and every flashlight follows.

There, peering tentatively out from behind the door where Michael’s boot prints lead is another tear-streaked face, a college-aged kid, no older than nineteen. The grey hood of his too-big hoodie is drawn up over his head.

“Josh!” Diane whispers.

Josh studies you sheepishly, his glossy eyes round and anxious. Then, he sees the blood. His eyes squeeze shut tight in an instant and his forehead lolls toward the door frame, knocking against it with a dull thud. His entire body begins to heave with silent sobs.

Diane shoots up from Wendy’s side like a rocket, tip-toeing around the gore. Reaching Josh, she embraces him in a tight hug, and Josh buries his face eagerly into the nook of her neck and only shakes harder. Diane caresses the frizzy ringlets around his ear and shushes him.

“If you saw anything,” She whispers, “You have to tell us. We need to know what happened.”

“Is she dead?” Wendy sobs up from the floor, her slender fingers still clamped over her mouth.

“I-I don’t really know, man.” Josh chokes out. “It happened so fast. We were just coming to find you guys, a-a-and she saw the court, she tried to go check it out, b-but when she opened the door she got—she got—”

He gives a strangled little whimper and shakes his head weakly, burying it back into Diane’s shoulder, done.

She got grabbed, you finish in your head. It’s not a guess—it’s a fact. You don’t need Josh’s commentary to piece together what happened here.

Looking back at the smeared blood on the lockers, you see now where Michael did it, where he smashed this Ashley girl’s face into the aluminum doors, leaving divots and dents behind in the metal. At some point, Ashley had started screaming.

You drop your gaze to the heavy splatter of dark red on the tile again.

She screamed, until Michael slit her throat.

“He followed me in there.” Josh sniffs, jerking his thumb at the locker-room door. “I ducked in a locker and he walked right past—but then he stopped and just stood there, like he was—I don’t know, waiting for something. Or—or listening for something.”

Josh wipes his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie.

“I was so scared, man. I thought I was dead.”

You listen to Josh speak and the unease in your stomach twists.

“Where did he go?” You ask. Josh eyes you warily.

“Um. I dunno, he just kinda… left.”

All the hair on your neck stands on-end at that. You know how Michael’s mind works—at least to some extent—and you know how he hunts. And you would bet your life on the wager that he hasn’t gone far at all.

Your eyes dart up and down the hall and you squint past the reach of the flashlights, into the edge of the looming blackness. Josh’s words play like a tape recorder in your mind: She saw the court. She went to check it out. You squint at the closed doors leading to the basketball court. Your breaths shallow.

Oh; that’s where Ashley is.

“No offence or whatever, but who the hell are you?”

“She’s just some lady we found.” Travis answers for you. “Look, did you see him kill her, man?” Travis grabs Josh suddenly by the shoulders, shaking him like it’ll knock the sense back into him. “Come on, you gotta remember so we can get outta here. Where is she?”

You point an accusing finger at the basketball court.

“I think she’s in there.”

Everyone with a flashlight trains it at the doors. Another strangled sob leaves Wendy. Thick red handprints glisten wetly on the beige wood, just above the door handle.

Travis eyes the gore for a moment. Then, knife at the ready, he approaches the double doors.

It is for a wickedly selfish reason that you do not utter some warning of he’s still in there, moron, and your friend is dead, and you’ll be next. It is for a reason more potent than the fear of stumbling blindly through the darkness again; a reason more powerful than the fear of being alone in this desolate place. A reason that you are ashamed of for even thinking, but one that your lizard-brain—the part of you that cares only about your own continued survival, and to hell with everyone else—gurgles gleefully: If Michael kills them, maybe I’ll get to live.

And if not, then at the very least you can make a break for the exit while he’s busy sheathing his knife in their guts.

You look silently on as Travis carefully, carefully, nudges the door open with his shoe.

The room inside is just as abysmally dark as the rest of the school. Travis, hovering on the edge of the door frame, not daring to step foot beyond the hall, shines his flashlight around to inspect. It’s a basketball court alright, and surprisingly uncluttered. Sets of stadium bleachers line the walls on either side and loom like metal giants. Travis shines the light all around its periphery, illuminating every dark corner. There is no Ashley to be found—or Michael.

But there is more blood. A trail of it, leading out across the court, wrapping around the bleachers, disappearing from sight.

“Travis, no.” Wendy whimpers. “You can’t—oh god, please Travis, don’t go in there—please don’t. Please don’t.”

“Yeah,” Diane quickly agrees. “I think the best thing we can do for her now is to call the cops. Travis, he could still be in there.”

Travis looks anxiously back over his shoulder at her. He swallows like there’s a lump in his throat.

“Look. There’s no fucking way in the world I’m gonna leave her here with that psycho. Not until we know. This place is empty, alright? So as long as you guys stay close behind me... that fucker isn’t gonna get anyone else. I promise.”

Guilt flares in your gut. Your eyes fall to the floor. You can’t look at him. You know that not a single person standing in this hall will live to see the sun come up.

For simple fear of being left in the darkness again, when everyone shuffles into the court, you do too. Beams from all four flashlights rove the walls like spotlights. Every head is on a swivel. Travis is at least right about one thing: the room is huge and empty. There’s no way that anything could sneak up on you in here, not a housecat, not a tiger. Not even Michael.

The thin trail of blood disappears behind the bleachers—your heart pounds in your throat as the group draws nearer. The silence weighs like a heavy blanket.

Reaching the corner of the bleachers, everybody peers around the bend. You squint into the dimness.

There, suspended five feet off the ground, swaying sedately back and forth—a figure.

Travis shines his light up at it.

It is the limp body of a woman. She hangs from her neck by a length of climbing rope dangling down from the ceiling.

Somewhere in the background, Wendy starts to wail. “Oh god. Oh god. Oh my fucking god.”

The body turns, slowly. When it turns all the way around you can just make out the messy red ruins of her throat beneath the rope, slit quite literally from ear to ear.

Reality stares you in the eye, gape-mouthed and grotesque, and it will not let you look away. You drink it in and all your thoughts, even the lizard-brain thoughts, are silenced.

You study the blood seeping from the gaping gash in Ashley’s neck. You watch the way it drips down her sternum, how it eats in splotches through her white tube top, the garment pulled half-way down her chest, exposing her breasts on one side. You look all the way down to the puddle of glistening blood beneath the body and watch the droplets trailing off the slender ankles, dripping to the floor and making tiny ripples in the deep, dark red puddle beneath.

When your thoughts finally return you realize all at once that you have never witnessed Michael commit a murder. You have never had to see him plunge his knife into a screaming, crying, terrified body, but oh, you can picture it so vividly, can hear the pleading and the begging, can imagine Michael twisting the knife deeper, can see him tearing a life away with the ease of one kicking sand over a fire to snuff it out.

You know that will change tonight.

You know other things too, things that make nausea bubble up your throat, and you know before it happens that you are going to vomit, but not because of the body.

You know that Michael is a monster; you know it like you know that grass is green. You know what you are to him and you know that you should despise him for it. You know that you should want to see him burn—and a part of you does. A part of you wants nothing more in the world. A part of you wants to be the one who lights the match.

But there exists another part of you which sits like a gaping black hole right in the middle of your chest, and when the hole is open—which is most of the time—you feel cold and hollow and empty on the inside, and when it is closed you feel complete again, if only for a short while.

You know that the hole is need. And the need wants only one thing.

Standing here, staring up at the reality of what Michael is, of what he does, of what he will do to you tonight, even now, the hole in your chest still needs him like lungs need air.

He will kill you and it will not make you need him any less. Will not make you want him any less.

And as terrible, twisted, perverted, fucked-up as it is, it won’t make you love him any less, either.

It was Michael who held you down and cut open the hole in your chest; and now Michael is the only one who can fill it.

The bile rises up your throat and you are sick.

#Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #slashers #slasher x reader #horror #writing #fanfiction #reader insert #end of the line #tw: emetophobia

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sun-summoning · 4 years

Text

Summary: When Marinette’s plant shelf breaks, Adrien comes to the rescue. (Inspired by this tweet.)

Adrien only sees one problem here: he doesn’t think asking any of his father’s staff for power tools is going to go particularly well. Plagg, on the other hand, sees multiple other problems here.

“Beyond the fact that you aren’t even remotely handy--”

“I can be handy!”

“--you also don’t know how to use those tools--”

“Everything is on the internet nowadays.”

“--and you really don’t have the time for this project.”

“I’ll make time.”

Plagg sighs deeply. Normally he doesn’t have to play the voice of reason, but somehow Adrien got it into his head that he was the one who needed to help his friend after the plant stand on her balcony broke. Marinette had moped about it to Alya earlier that day, which immediately had Adrien looking up how to make one himself.

It would be the perfect gift for the perfect friend.

“I realize you’re against leaving dead birds on her pillow, but isn’t this going a step too far for your crush?”

Adrien’s cheeks turn pink. “Plagg, I’ve already told you dozens of times -- Marinette is just a friend.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, you know you can just buy one, right?” Plagg throws Adrien’s phone at him. “You can save the staff the headache of your hammering.”

“I can’t just buy one,” Adrien scoffs.

“She bought her first one.”

“Yeah, for herself. This is a gift from me.”

“Gifts are generally purchased.”

“Not with Marinette.” Adrien shakes his head. Positioned conveniently by the window, he leans against the panel and stares outside wistfully. The light hits him just so, making him look as lovesick as he denies being. And then to complete the entire picture, he sighs.

Honestly, Plagg kind of wants to throw up.

“Marinette always makes her gifts.”

“Marinette is also skilled in her craft.”

“Plagg, I’ll be fine,” Adrien assures him. “I’ve got this.”

So maybe Adrien did not have this. Not entirely. Not yet.

After deciding it would be best to leave power tool procurement out of any conversation he might have with Nathalie, he heads to the hardware store. He needs to get wood, a saw, a screwdriver, some screws, sandpaper, and some other things he wrote down on a list.

Eventually an employee with a kind smile comes to help him. “You look a bit lost,” the man comments.

Adrien tries not to look too bashful. “Is it that obvious?”

“Maybe I can help you?”

Adrien nods eagerly and hands the man his list.

“I’m building a plant shelf.” He takes out his phone to show a photo of what he’s trying to accomplish.

“That’s quite the project you have there.” The man notices Adrien’s nervous grin so he pats his shoulder reassuringly. “Why don’t we gather all the supplies then?”

The man walks with him through the aisles and suggests which items Adrien should get. He asks what kinds of tools Adrien already has, but Adrien decides to just get everything new. Maybe there’s a drill or a some screws somewhere in the house, but he really doesn’t know where to look or who to ask.

His shopping cart is mostly full when they get to the last item on Adrien’s list: paint.

“Do you have a colour in mind?”

“She likes pink,” Adrien says. “Do you have pink paint?”

“We have plenty of pink.” The man brings him to a wall of paint swatches. He chuckles when Adrien gawks at them, clearly overwhelmed. “Why don’t you take a few for now and think it over? You still need to build everything before painting.”

“That’s true.”

“And maybe you can consult the lady herself for her paint preference?”

Adrien shakes his head. “This is a surprise.”

The man smiles. “Then I’m sure your girlfriend will love it.”

Adrien promptly chokes on his own spit as he sputters out that Marinette is just a friend. In his pocket, he’s certain Plagg is laughing.

Since his foosball table is the right height, Adrien decides to clamp a plank of wood to it and saw from there.

He dons one of his older t-shirts and a pair of googles because safety is key. Then he gets to work. At first the circular saw makes him anxious. But a few levels to Marinette’s plant stand later, he feels confident. So confident that he’s humming a tune while working on the next part.

“Adrien, what are you doing?”

Apparently he hadn’t heard the door open over the sound of the circular saw. He turns the saw off and sets it down. Pushing his safety goggles into his bangs, he musters as innocent a smile as he’s capable of. If he’s learned nothing from his father’s unique brand of parenting, it’s that it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission (largely because both yield the same results).

“I’m building a plant stand.” Then he pauses. “Plant ladder. Or plant shelf? Honestly, they all same the same purpose. This is going to look more like stairs when I’m done so plant...stairs?”

“Why are you building this plant--” Nathalie gestures at the pieces of wood sprawled out on the floor, “--thing?”

“Marinette’s broke.”

“And?”

Adrien shifts his stance, deciding to go for dumb rather than repentant. Repentant would mean he actually felt bad, whereas Adrien is actually really enjoying himself. “It’s...broken?”

Nathalie’s lips thin. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re building this.”

“It’s a gift.”

“And?”

“It’s...from me?”

“Why can’t you just buy one?”

“Why does everyone keep asking that?” Adrien mutters.

Nathalie looks down at her tablet. “Your driver can take you to a furniture store to purchase one after your photoshoot tomorrow.”

“No thanks.” Adrien picks up the circular saw because Nathalie never explicitly told him to stop. He grins, but with a power tool in his hand, he probably looks a little bit silly. “I’ve got this.”

A muffled snort comes from his pocket.

“I do.”

Adrien is comparing swatches of paint with utmost concentration when Nino and Alya decide to join him. Alya mentions something new on the Ladyblog, and while normally Adrien is the quickest to contribute to any conversation regarding his lady, right now he’s trying to make a decision between Romantica and August Sunrise.

“Okay, what are you doing?” Alya glances at the rest of the other eight swatches he’s considering.

“That’s a lot of pink buddy,” Nino says.

“I know.” Adrien drops the two in his hands so he can pull at his hair. “This is so stressful.”

“Are you, uh, repainting your room or something?”

“Huh?”

Nino nods towards the swatches. “Trying to pick a new colour?”

Adrien snorts. “As if I’d be allowed to change anything.”

“Then what are these for?” Alya asks.

“Uh.”

Adrien bites his lip as he looks around wildly. So far none of their mutual friends know about his little side project, and he really wants this to stay a surprise for Marinette. He knows Nino will keep this secret to himself, but he’s not totally sure about Alya. Then again, it’s not like he a choice right now. Alya leans in, a curious gleam in her eyes.

“I’m building something,” Adrien offers.

“What is it?”

“A plant stand.”

“I didn’t know you liked plants,” Nino says. “My mom has tons of aloe she’s always trying to give to other people. I’ll bring you one--”

“No!” They both look perplexed by his denial. Adrien swallows. He glances around once again to be safe. “It’s for Marinette.”

“Marinette?” Nino echoes.

“Marinette.” Alya leans back, a contemplative expression on her face. Finally, she smiles. “She told you that her old one broke?”

“Er, not really.” Adrien rubs the back of his neck. “I kind of overheard the two of you and she seemed really upset, so I...”

“You thought you’d replace it for her?”

He nods.

“That’s really sweet, Adrien.” Alya grins. “Marinette’s going to love it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“But that doesn’t explain the swatches,” Nino says. He still looks confused. “Unless, wait--” His eyes widen. “Are you making it?”

Adrien frowns. “I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“Why can’t you just buy one?”

Adrien is starting to resent that question. He grumbles as such and crosses his arms. “Why can’t you just believe in me?”

Nino snorts. “Adrien, you’re so scrawny I can’t even imagine you picking up the wood.”

Alya bites back a giggle while Adrien makes a noise of indignation.

As usual, Plagg is quietly laughing at him too.

“Hey Marinette!” Adrien greets in the morning. She’s in the middle of stuffing nearly half a croissant in her mouth, so she chokes when she notices him there. He waves a hand, telling her to just finish, so she chews vigorously and swallows and then grins at him. “You’re here early.”

She laughs. “I decided it’s easier if I wake up early to work on my commissions and then go to class, rather than stay up late and tell myself I can wake up in the morning just fine.”

“Do you have a lot of commissions right now?”

Marinette nods. “Yeah.” Then she sighs. “I broke my old plant stand and wanted to replace it.”

His research showed him you could get some stands for cheap and that there were a lot of DIY methods on the internet. But from all the times he visited her balcony as Chat Noir not at all for treats and pets, he remembers hers to have been white and wooden and with intricate carvings along its edges.

“What happened to it?” he wonders.

Marinette is quick to flush. Her cheeks are visibly pink when she looks down. “I, uh, fell on it.”

“Huh?” Adrien remembers that it was mostly against the wall right beside her chair. Personally, he’s also almost fallen on it, all those times he tried to land directly on her chair and narrowly missed crashing into all her plants instead. “How?”

“That’s really not the point. The point is it broke, okay?”

She sounds embarrassed, so Adrien backs off. Marinette always calls herself a klutz and he’d hate to make her feel worse.

“Do you have a new stand in mind?” he asks to steer away from that sore spot.

Marinette nods. “I do!”

They still have a few minutes until class starts, so she pulls out her phone and goes to her screenshots. She swipes through a few versions, some ladder-like, some closer to bookshelves, and some that look like step stools. Her favourite one is painted a lovely dusty rose.

That evening, Adrien proceeds to assemble the pieces of wood he finished cutting and lightly sanding. He’ll do the rest of the sanding later on. For now, he balances and drills and uses the levelling tool to make sure the shelves are actually something akin to straight. When he finishes drilling in the last screw, he steps back and grins.

Plagg assesses his work with a shrug. “Not bad,” he says. “You actually did well.”

“Why does no one think I can do this?” Adrien grumbles. “Fine, I’m not particularly handy, but I know how to use my hands for things! I can play piano! And fence! And speak, like, three other languages--”

“Kid, you don’t know Japanese. You’re just reading subtitles.”

“--and okay, that has nothing to do with my hands. What was I saying?”

Plagg plops down onto one shelf, eyes closed and body languid. He soon zips up though when the entire thing wobbles.

“Dammit!” Adrien shouts.

“Huh.” Plagg hovers over Adrien’s shoulder as he steadies it.

“This is your fault,” Adrien mutters.

“I’m not the one who can’t use a drill!”

“Look at your hands! You obviously can’t use a drill, Plagg!”

“Still not my fault?”

“I’m unlucky and it’s your fault.” Adrien throws upon his couch with all the grace of a distressed damsel. His hand rests on his forehead as he whines. “You and your ring and all the destruction and...and is that it? I can’t create things because only Ladybug can?”

“No.” Plagg floats over Adrien’s face. “You’re just bad at this.”

“Why can’t you just be on my side?!”

After a sufficient amount of time spent wallowing in self-pity, Adrien stands back up and considers Marinette’s plant holder. Or, well, the plant holder. There’s a chance he might not bother giving this to Marinette. He pokes it lightly, resulting in a slight sway. Then he shoves it, mostly out of curiosity, and instead of wobbling, it just falls over entirely.

“Oh no!”

Adrien scrambles to stand it back up, but groans when he notices the way it leans to the left.

His door opens after the commotion. That’s not particularly surprising. Nathalie’s at the main office today which meant he could use power tools uninterrupted, but he supposes there’s only so much noise and yelling the staff can take before someone checks up on him. Soon, his bodyguard is at his side.

“I’m fine,” Adrien assures him.

The Gorilla’s expression hardly wavers.

“This is my plant stand for Marinette. You remember her right?”

He nods.

“She’s my friend and she makes the best gifts! And I thought I’d make this for her but...”

“Where is this going?”

Adrien blinks. He didn’t expect his bodyguard to have anything to say. “Uh, her balcony.”

“Then it needs to be able to stand up to the elements.” The Gorilla picks it up like it’s nothing more than a handful of grapes. Then he starts to shake it.

“What are you--”

He sets it down soon after. “It’s not going to fall apart,” the Gorilla tells him. “Although, admittedly, it’s a bit wobbly.”

Adrien tries not to bring his hands to his face. “Yes, I know.”

“Come,” the Gorilla says, leaving his room. Adrien barely grabs Plagg as he follows him to the car. The Gorilla drives them to the hardware store, where he directs Adrien to a package of L brackets. “Get these.”

“Okay?”

“Get some more screws as well.”

“Sure?”

“I’ll wait in the car.”

Adrien picks a set coated to look gold. That would look nicest with the dusty rose paint Alya helped him pick out. He pays for the brackets and then heads to the car. The Gorilla drives them back to the mansion. Adrien looks at him curiously and his bodyguard opens the packages of brackets and screws.

“Here.” He rests one edge on the shelf level and the other on the side. “Screw this in place to reinforce the shelves.”

“And then it won’t fall apart?”

The Gorilla’s lips twitch like he wants to smile. Instead, he shakes his head. “It was never going to fall apart,” he assures Adrien. “It just needed a bit more work.”

“Okay!”

The Gorilla holds the L brackets in place while Adrien uses his drill to get the screws in.

He only hurts himself twice and his bodyguard once in the process.

A few days after building and painting, Adrien still hasn’t given the plant stand to Marinette. He feels like it’s missing something, but he just can’t put his hand on what. He’s too busy thinking to muster a decent greeting when Lila sits beside him at the library.

Maybe he picked the wrong colour? No, Marinette wanted a pink plant stand. Maybe there were too many shelves? But Marinette had so many plants! She needed as many shelves as she could get. So then maybe his creation was too tall when it needed to be wider. If that’s the case, then he’ll just make her another one. Perhaps he can decorate it more? The plain pink is a bit boring. Maybe white borders? Or stencils! What would Marinette like? Little kittens? Leaves? Flowers?

Girls liked flowers, right?

“Do you like flowers?” he asks Lila.

Lila blinks, taken aback by his random question. Then she grins. “Of course.”

“Do all girls like flowers?” Adrien shakes his head and winces. “Sorry. No. I shouldn’t generalize.”

Lila shrugs, something he only notices because her shoulder is inching closer and closer to his, so he inches closer and closer to the opposite edge of his seat. “Were you planning on getting me flowers, Adrien?”

“No, it’s for this plant stand I’m building.” He’s awfully proud of his handiwork, so he pulls out his phone and shows Lila a photo of the mostly finished project. “It’s just kind of...plain. I was thinking maybe I could, I don’t know...put flowers on it?”

“That’s kind of what it’s for, Adrien.”

“Right.” Adrien leans back in his chair. When he feels Lila a bit too close for comfort, he leans to the side. “What would Marinette like?” he wonders to himself.

He hears Lila inhale sharply. Glancing at her, he watches her cover that up with a look of concern. “This is for Marinette?” she asks.

Adrien nods, and because he can’t help himself, he positively beams. “I really hope she likes it.”

“Oh.” Lila makes a forlorn face. “Adrien, I don’t know how to break it to you, but Marinette already got a new plant stand.”

“What?”

Lila nods. He resents how eagerly she does so in the face of his obvious disappointment. “She was telling Juleka and Rose about it earlier. She said already filled it up perfectly. And there’s no room on her balcony for another.”

“Oh.”

Adrien looks down at his lap, completely missing Lila’s little grin. He supposes he could just scrap the gift. It wasn’t like it was Marinette’s birthday or anything. The plant stand was just to repay Marinette’s unfailing friendship. She always helped her friends without them even asking. He just wanted to do the same. The plant stand was one of those “just because” presents. Something to show Marinette that he knows she’s amazing and kind and generous and that he would give her the world if he could. Or whatever. Something like that.

Adrien sits up straight when one brain cell makes itself known. He turns to Lila. “Okay, thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem,” she replies slowly. “I’m sorry you wasted your time, Adrien. I’m sure there are other people that might appreciate your hard work though.”

“Nah.” Adrien shakes his head. He spots Marinette across the library and stands. He packs his bag, expertly dodging Lila when she tries to grab him. “It just means I get to buy Marinette some plants to put on it!”

“What.”

“Thanks for the idea, Lila!”

The thing is, Adrien knows nothing about plants. Fortunately, he has another friend that’s amazing and kind and generous who also knows a lot about plants. Ladybug is always careful about identities, but she has a habit of pointing out random plants they might see and mentioning that she has the same one in her garden. He hopes he gets to see that garden one day. And if Marinette’s plant stand turns out to be a hit, maybe he can make one for Ladybug too.

“In addition to being my lady, you’re also a plant lady, right?”

Ladybug snorts. “I can keep things alive, yes.”

“Great. I need to buy some plants for my friend but I have absolutely no idea what to get.”

“How many?”

“Uh.” Chat Noir starts doing some basic addition with his fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe three plants along four shelves?”

“What kind of lighting does this spot get?”

“Sun...light?”

“Direct?”

“Oh.” He nods. “Yes. I guess? It’s for a balcony.”

“That helps.”

Ladybug takes his baton from him and opens up the notepad app. She’s busy typing names of plants that thrive in direct sunlight, which these ones will inevitably get. She explains various things about those plants and their needs, but Chat Noir is mostly just thinking about how their “phones” have apps at all and how they connect to the internet. Were they hackable then? He had so many questions--

“Anyway, don’t fill the entire shelf up.”

Chat Noir blinks. Ladybug is giving him a look that tells him she knows he definitely wasn’t paying attention. When he grins sheepishly, she hands him back his baton and rolls her eyes.

“How come?”

Ladybug smiles. “Sometimes plants get a bit too big for their pots, or they have little pups of their own that need repotting. If you get your friend some of the ones I wrote down for you, her garden will definitely be multiplying in a few months. She’s going to need the space.”

“But are you sure?”

“Why, kitty, are you doubting your lady?”

Chat Noir laughs. “I would never.”

As it turns out, transporting everything is difficult. There’s no way he can hand Marinette the plant shelf and the seven potted plants he selected at school, so he asks the Gorilla to bring it all with him when he picks him up later. Knowing Marinette has a student council meeting after classes end, he heads to her house where Sabine lets him in. When Tom notices him struggling awkwardly, he takes the shelf and tells Adrien to just bring up the plants.

After everything has been brought up to Marinette’s balcony, Adrien gets to work setting it up. He leans it against one wall and puts the wall brackets on Marinette’s chair so they can put them in later. As he arranges the plants he brought along with him, he notices all her other pots lined up against the rails.

Where was the new plant stand Lila mentioned?

“Really kid?” Plagg zips around with zero regard for the daylight and the people that are unlikely to see him. “She was lying.”

“What?” Adrien frowns. “Why would Lila lie?”

“I don’t know. Why do cats purr?”

“What?”

Plagg just shakes his head and floats down to Marinette’s chair. “Just let me know when we’re leaving. Or when the cheese arrives.”

Frowning, Adrien goes to retrieve Marinette’s original plants. He arranges them along the shelf he built her and mixes them among his new plants. When everything is settled, he grins.

“Plagg, Marinette is going to love this--”

“Adrien?!”

Adrien looks down at the hatch and finds Marinette climbing out. She stares at him with wide eyes before her gaze falls onto the new set up for her plants.

“Oh, hey Marinette.” He winks. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I...what?”

He cringes. “Nothing. Hey.”

“Hello?” Marinette shakes her head. Then she laughs. “Papa said he sent you upstairs to the balcony and I ran up as fast as I could -- by any chance, did you have a look around my bedroom on your way up?”

“No?”

“Good.”

“What?”

“Nothing. So. What’s up?”

“Right.” Adrien beams at her as he gestures to the shelf. “This is for you.”

Marinette looks at the shelf like somehow she never noticed it there. Her lips part, like she’s trying to get something out but doesn’t know what. Her eyes go from comically wide before lowering. She watches him with wonder in her gaze, like she can’t comprehend a gift like this from him. He starts to fidget, worried she hates him and whatever he might want to offer him, but Marinette nods and bites her bottom lip. She continues nodding slowly, as if processing his words, and Adrien thinks her cheeks look a bit flushed.

Marinette nears the shelf and runs her fingers along the sanded and pink-painted edges. She touches the string of pearls and sniffs the jasmine. When she’s taken it all in, she turns to him with a smile.

“This is all so beautiful, Adrien.”

Adrien rolls his eyes fondly. “You don’t have to lie to me, Marinette.” He knocks on the wood that, fortunately, no longer wobbles. “It’s not like I’m about to open my own woodworking company.”

“Wait.” Her jaw drops. “You made this?!”

Adrien nods. She continues gawking at him, making him blush. His hand finds the back of his neck and rubs at it nervously. “Er, yeah. It’s not the best, obviously, but I tried. I mean, you always make your gifts. I figured I should try doing the same--”

He grunts when Marinette pulls him into a hug. Her arms wind around his middle and after a moment, Adrien slowly puts his own on her too. She feels warm against him, and when she doesn’t seem like she’s going to let go anytime soon, Adrien rests his cheek upon her head.

“Thank you so much, Adrien.”

She releases him, much to his dismay, and marvels at the display he created. She notices his scrawled signature on one of the shelves and runs her finger along the curves.

“I love it.”

Looking into her eyes, Adrien wonders why he didn’t think to buy her bluebells. He promises her he’ll get them soon, but Marinette just giggles and tells him he’s done more than enough.

#fic #adrienette #adrinette

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mermaid-of-the-valley · 4 years

Text

Canopic Soul Jar

If you don’t mind spoilers as to where I’m going with this first bit. Click Here. I have officially lost patience with concepting so I guess we die like authors. So, without any further ado and the force of social distancing behind me, let’s begin this tragedy the way all the best tragedies start…

Once Upon A Time

In a glimmering kingdom called Mekone, the crown prince found True Love.

Not an uncommon occurrence really, for this land, like all others, was subject to the magic of soulmates. At the age of 21 everyone received a mark on their forearm that would encapsulate their future partner’s nature. For good or ill, their traits were reflected for all the world to see, and this mark glows with warmth when the soulmates meet.

Yes, citizens of every class are subject to the magic of the soulmates mark, even the royal family. Though their love never appeared beyond the edges of nobility, divinely seeking out only the best for the rulers and heirs of the kingdom.

On his twenty first birthday, Roman the Fifth, Crown Prince of Mekone, long may he thrive, quite literally leapt from his bed to inspect every inch of his arms. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that he wasn’t born until much later in the day and as such would be ‘cursed to languish’ a few more hours.

The sound he made upon this realization could be generously described as a whine. It carried well into the hall and so his dear friend and servant Patton was not the slightest bit surprised to find him planked across his rug. “Good morning, your Highness!” Another bout of groaning answered him. “Yes, I know.”

Roman pried his head up. “No, you don’t!” Back down.

Patton, unbothered, stepped over the prince to get to the wardrobe. “You’re going to mess up your hair laying like that.”

At that, Roman was at least motivated to sit up and take in his friend as he sorted through Roman’s daily wear. If anyone in his inner circle could be considered a ‘fashion icon’, it was Patton, dressed as he was in his pastel blue vest, white shirt and delightfully puffy, tan trousers. It was one of many reasons Roman used to convince his mother to add Patton to the palace staff.

“M’kay, kiddo. Got a special day, so you need a special outfit! You want the reds or the blues?” He asked, revealing his options with a flourish.

Roman rolled his eyes. “Reds of course!”

“Well, hue never know until you ask!” And that was one of the other reasons he’d asked for Patton as his dresser, more of a personal one though. The man was a like a living ray of sunshine and several years back Roman was convinced that they were made for each other.

His parents were certain that wasn’t the case. And as much as it hurt, they were right. When Patton’s soul mark appeared, it couldn’t be more different from the royal crest, void of any form that could connect to Roman. But that morning, when Roman was late to rise, Patton sat next to him and let him mourn what couldn’t be.

He was snapped out of his reverie when Patton pushed him behind his dressing screen. “I’ll hand you your things as you go and be quick or you’ll be late for breakfast!”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The prince was beaming as he strode down the hall. Dressed in his hunting greys and a red sash, he waved at passing servants and the paintings of his predecessors alike.

At the end of the passageway he paused, staring up at a piece of discolored wall, but the guards clamored loudly and the grand doors swung open, giving him no time to linger. The dining hall was wide and elegant as always. His parents stationed at the table’s head, like the united front they were. Their majesties King Roman the Fourth of Mekone and Queen Llorna of Lystair smiled at him as he entered.

“My word, I had been wondering if you were even in the palace at all.” His mother said with a wry tone, folding her hands with the king’s.

His father echoed her teasing. “What held you up, son? Fierce battles or perhaps a damsel in distress?”

Roman dropped into his seat and replied without a beat. “No such luck I’m afraid. Appears my best boots went missing and Patton took exception to that.” Specifically, he’d taken is-shoe, but he rather doubted his parents would catch the pun.

“Well, I’m glad that someone is focused on the right things.” Llorna joked. “It is important to maintain an appearance of strength at all times. It gives our subjects comfort.”

“Yes, mother.” Roman huffed, used to this sort of talk by now. He tucks in to his breakfast quickly when the kitchen staff lay it out. He had plans anyway. Speaking of which…

“It’s today.” The king says between sips of tea, a solemn expression on his face.

“Mm.” The queen hums in agreement, “I suppose we’ll have to call for partners soon. Perhaps a ball?” Her tone musing.

Roman swallowed hard around his oatmeal. He’d never doubted that whoever his parents picked would somehow be his soulmate, but now that the prospect was so close? “Uhm, I was hoping to spend the day hunting! If that pleases your majesties?” He asked with exaggerated sweetness.

His parents paused, derailed for the moment. “That depends.” The king starts.

“Where would you be?” The queen finishes.

“I was going to try the mountain basin today. Been reports of a pronghorn herd moving through there.”

Another pause, this time with a shared look. “Perhaps, if you make an effort to be back before evening.” Llorna consented. “But only if you bring a contingent of guards.”

“What?! Mother, please! I’d never catch anything with a mass of armor clanging behind me, to say nothing of the smell!”

The queen met him evenly. “It would be dangerous for you to go alone, who knows what ruffians are in those woods?”

Roman sighed deeply. “Mother, really?”

His father sought to intervene, one hand up to halt conversation the other loosely cupping the queen’s. “Roman has a point,” The prince lit up visibly. “However, you should at least bring the captain.”

Oh, Gods No…

His mother did seem satisfied though, her smile and his fathers returned. That was probably the best he was going to get, so Roman resigned himself to his fate. Even if it meant traipsing around the countryside with that infuriating, stuffy, overbearing-

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Logan!” He cheered, walking up to the captain with wide arms and a grin that looked more like a grimace if he was being honest.

Guard Captain Logan was a stern man that never seemed content with anything. His hair was always swept back and even his daily wear was immaculate to a ‘T’. His posture, his expression, his manner of speech, all of it was militant, even now as he stood in the stables with his and Roman’s horses. If pressed to describe Logan in one word it would almost certainly be: Stiff.

Roman wasn’t very fond of him, nor his henpecking behavior every time Logan was assigned as his solo guard. The captain bowed at the waist. “Your highness.” He gestured to a cream-colored mare that had been bathed and harnessed for their hunt.

And Roman immediately beamed at her, striding over and carefully hugging her long face. She chewed at his shoulder fabric contently. Froufrou was a beautiful horse, not very fast, but careful and soft in her gait, perfect for their trek through the mountain brush. He hopped up onto her back and pat her neck fondly.

Logan walked out, gently tugging the reins of his speckled-grey stallion, Archimedes. His own horse was unsaddled, an attempt to make it look like an average farm steed. The sleeve on his right arm slipped back and a bit of curling, light blue pattern peeked out. Logan was quick to re-cover it for many reasons.

And wasn’t that the crux of their issues with each other? Logan was not one to believe in fate. He scraped and fought and studied for his position, but even so his soul mark was extensively scrutinized before he could enter the palace staff. It was something he often hid beneath his uniform since as it screamed what he was quick to deny and Patton was thrilled to discover.

Logan questioned everything, and he was a bearer of many theories that soul marks were relics of the old times and should not be given as much weight as they were. When the tailor and the captain were formally introduced, Logan was indifferent to the buzzing warmth on his arm. He apologized to Patton in private later, informing him that romantic attraction was simply not something he could or was inclined to feel.

Even so Patton never stopped bouncing after the man, accepting their relationship for what it was. Roman, for his part, was jealous and confused by their every interaction. He was raised to look forward to this moment in his life, when at long last proof of everlasting love would stamp his skin and he could be certain that someone special was waiting out there just for him.

Two sharp snaps startled Roman from his stupor. Logan levelling him with a bland stare from Archimedes’ back. The prince turned red, reminded that the guard had essentially been forced to spend his day off keeping Roman from injuring himself.

Seriously, you run into a tree one time and suddenly everyone fears for the future of the kingdom.

It wasn’t his fault that crow stole his hairpins!

Logan sighed, nudging Archimedes into motion and trusting Roman to follow. “We’ll need to exit from the Eastern Gate, it will be the least congested at this time of day. Please try to mitigate your interactions with the public.” Just like the man to stifle Roman’s radiance. “Stay back a few feet, but keep me in sight.”

And they were off, trotting into the roadways of the city, the quieter ones of course. Froufrou was a bit conspicuous, but aside from a brief spook from a hooded man in The Corridor, they slipped through the streets unnoticed.

The moment they saw the gates Logan shocked him by flicking his reins and sending Archimedes racing across the threshold with barely a moment’s shift in stride. Logan tucked himself low, reducing drag and leaning into the horse’s gait. The stallion was loving it! His head raising back in a triumphant scream then following Logan’s lead in leaning forward.

Roman had to push Froufrou just to keep up, the mare almost as shocked as her rider and equally incensed once she was made to sprint after their companions. “What was that?!” The prince bellowed. “You were ordered to stay close, not bolt off into the ether!”

The captain didn’t slow for nearly half their journey and was far too smug when he finally did. “I said keep me in sight. Archimedes so rarely gets to run without practicing drills, would you really deny him?” The horse whickered in agreement. Froufrou nipped at him, scolding.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roman released a deep breath into the air around him. The basin was barely a stone’s throw from where they’d settled in the brush. The sun dappling through the trees and the wind in their faces. Roman could probably write a sonnet befitting the place if he’d only remembered a quill and paper.

But alas, today his pursuits were more sporting in nature. Froufrou stood behind him, still as a statue, just as she was trained to do. Logan had gone ahead, again, to “keep tabs on the herd” he’d said. They’d seen scattered groups bouncing along the rocky hills and Roman had a sneaking suspicion the captain was making himself just enough of a visible threat to scare them in his direction.

Which was stupid. He was fine by himself.

“Obviously.” He chided himself quietly. A snap of twigs made him start and he had to tense hard to avoid falling from his half crouch. His quarry appeared at a slow canter, shortly followed by another two. These he let pass without incident. As he expected, a tall, male pronghorn trailed after the does with a sound not unlike a short, chirping cough.

Roman held his bow steady, pulled back on the string…

It spooked. Just as Roman realized and tried to correct, it burst off into the woods away from him. The arrow scraped the beast’s flank and imbed in the soil instead of making a clean kill. Roman cursed, jumping from his shelter and giving chase.

The beast’s calls tapered off and the trail became spotty as he stumbled through the flora. A rookie mistake, Roman noted with frustration, he should have just let it slip away and waited for a surer target. It wasn’t like stomping around like a drunken elephant would get it to come back anytime soon. He kicked the dirt. It didn’t make him feel any batter.

Where was he?

“Shit.” The prince spun around, trying to make heads or tails of his position. He whistled sharply. No sign of his horse, Froufrou was too far away. Roman rubbed his hands hard down his face with a groan. “Fiery fits of Fortuna, today is cursed!”

“Hey!”

That wasn’t Logan’s voice. Thoughts of his mother’s frequent worries flying into his head, Roman shot up, scanning the area.

“Up here, Robin Hood!”

His eyes trailed up a white barked tree with narrow branches. Upon one of which sat a barefoot, willowy young man with a canvas bag slung across his shoulders and hair that flopped in front of an exhausted expression. He suddenly seemed unsure what to say now that Roman stared at him. “Um, Are you… good?”

Now the royal was taken aback, for several reasons, not least of which was how he could have so completely missed a stranger in a tea tree. “I-, Yes?”

Once upon a time, in a forest separate from his realm, the crown prince found True Love. Not that he realized it at the time.

#Canopic Soul Jar #CSJ #Thomas Sanders Sides #TSS #Roman Sanders #Patton Sanders #Logan Sanders #Virgil Sanders #Future Prinxiety #Soulmate AU

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bloodlinevalentine · 4 years

Text

Helena (1)

Some nautical krii7y written for my personal aesthetic mostly that I thought I may just share with you guys. In fact, I was so hyped that I didn't even really proofread lol :)

[BTW, if you like my writing (by whatever miracle) you can expect an unholy amount of BBS and GBG Christmas stuff incoming in the next month and a half:]

Ice cold. That's what Smitty's mind screams the moment he regains consciousness.

He gasps twice very hard, once as his face is flooded with the feeling and taste of salty seawater, and again when he feels the overwhelming pain in his chest. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the stinging and darkness, blinking chunks of mucus and foggy tears away, before they allow him to see the ship around him.

He registers quickly that the wooden splinters in his back prodding at his skin are from the deck of the ship, which is not even his ship he notices, and twists into a sitting position. He is lying face up in a slight divot, the boards pushed in no doubt from the force of his body slamming into them, if the already deep-set pain in his bones was anything to go by. It was also likely what knocked him unconscious, he realizes absently.

With some difficulty, he manages to completely pull himself from the creaky floorboards, but not without jostling a bloody gash in his arm. He pauses and tries to assess it, but it's more or less out of his field of vision, the only evidence of it being the spotty drops of blood staining the light wood red, just now beginning to ebb away. How long had he been out cold?

He shakes his curiosity away and stands, finding a much better vantage position on his feet. Right now, what he needs to focus on is strictly getting back to his ship and helping his crew with the recovery. He couldn't remember much, but he could at least gather that this fight must have been a nasty one. They were probably strung somewhere worried and furious at his disappearance. He needed a compass, but right now he would have to make do with using the north star.

Above him, the sky is a mess of puffy clouds, dim yet plentiful stars, and their weak light competing with the reflective moon. He catches himself staring for a moment, and realizes that the lights were slowly getting further and further away: he had to be falling very slowly.

He runs over to the rails and looks over to discover that yes, the ship is sinking, and the nearest island is too far to simply swim to if he wants to live. He plops down right where he's standing, panting in a panicked sweat. This was how it would end for him, lost aboard an enemy ship with an island just close enough to be a blue blur off to the distance and nothing more. His heart hammers inside his chest so hard he thinks he might be able to hear it.

Suddenly, a harsh wave strikes the ship, almost knocking him overboard as it forces it into a near-horizontal tilt. His fingernails split and his knuckles go white as he grips the rail for his life, fear lacing his blood like oxygen. The severity of the wound in his arm is still unidentified and screams sonic protests that he is forced to ignore. There must be a whirlpool just off the distance, spinning and sucking water into it and causing some sort of backlash pulling system, his brain supplies weakly, but it does little to quell his rising panic. He forces himself to catch his breath as the ship is uprighted and left to rock in place. He needs a plan and he needs it fast.

Smitty looks over at the island again, really eyeing the distance and chewing his lip in thought. Brown eyes flicker back between the railing and the dense line of trees, counting paces, praying to deities he hasn’t thought of since childhood. After a moment, he decides that if there is anything he needs to do, it's try. It seems like the only chance he has at surviving right now, but even the thought makes him swallow thickly.

Well, the very least he should do before he goes is to search the ship.

He dashes over to a ladder and hatch near the wheel, but pauses short on the steps. The second floor had long since begun to take on water, and now was over halfway full, still rising. The only things still visible were the barrels that this crew had used to likely store food, and a chest full to the brim with riches. He toys with the idea of wading through the water, but ultimately shrugs and settles for a bag hanging haphazardly from one of the ceiling beams. A quick rummage inside shows a few gold coins and a beaded necklace, but nothing overly personal. Perfect.

Next, Smitty makes to run into the navigation port and pick up something like a compass and a map, but he quickly realizes that those are useless after they’ve been wet, and there are no small rowboats in his vicinity. They would be ruined after the swim.

And that’s where his mind is when he sees the man.

It’s not until he turns back to cut his losses and head down the ladder that he spots another figure, slumped in half on one of the planks leading up over the edge of the ship. He can’t see much from this angle, but the body spasms and twitches with life even though it appears so dead.

Carefully, he approaches and watches for any sudden movements, but the person, distinctly male he can see as he nears, is completely unconscious. He can’t help but feel a tug on his heartstrings.

Smitty winces, but drops his bag and reaches down, dragging thin arms around his shoulders to hoist the body up onboard, but stops short. God, the guy is heavy.

It’s odd, considering how normally sized the person seems, but he just shakes his head, squints down at the rising water levels, and pulls with all of his available strength. The body follows, and he gets the wind knocked out of him under the force with which it comes crashing onto his chest. He lies there for a moment, panting and staring up at the sky again before he rolls himself free, only to gasp at the creature lying next to him.

The upper half was just as he had become well acquainted with, curly brown hair and oddly bare chest aside, the figure looked strikingly human. But the bottom half consisted of a long, thick, and shimmering tail where legs should have been. What he had thought before was a man had turned out to be a merman!

It's a slight wrestle between Smitty’s self-preservation instincts and his inner curiosity, but in the end, he knows that he cannot bring himself to leave the being there to die, no matter the species

He finds himself chewing his lip again, but there is really nothing he can do in such little time, but jump and hope for the best. Unceremoniously, he leans over and angles the torso to rest over his shoulders and around his neck, perhaps his best option for transporting it. Then, he pulls the string within his bag and secures it to the threadbare loops in his pants so that it safe while he swims. With that done to the best of his bloody and shaky ability, there is only one thing left to do.

Smitty feels the wooden planks with an awakened sort of clarity as he climbs off the edge of the hull. The soggy rope, frayed and waterlogged, threatens to tear under his weight as he rocks with the waves. His eyes bounce between the restless ocean and still unconscious face next to his as his nerves spike again. He feels another deathly tilt, and this time the boat really does tip so far that there's no going back: it's going to capsize for sure. It takes more strength than he sure he has in all of his body to gather his faith in himself. The deep breath is not nerve-steeling enough to reassure him, but he leaps off the ladder and plunging into the water anyway, the lifeless figure gracelessly falling from its perch around his neck and following him down, the rope tethering him to the bag dancing wildly in the air.

He begins sinking the moment he hits, the sudden temperature change being the first to register on his skin. It is surprisingly therapeutic, even as it breaks him out in gooseflesh and instates the urge to shiver himself right off of his bones. The salt burns across the deep wound in his arm, pulling a hiss from his parted lips, but the sound is swallowed up by the bubbles in the ocean. He pries his eyes open and heads to break the surface, but just as he gasps, he feels an agonizing impact from above. Through the fireworks exploding throughout his vision, Smitty sees the distorted image of the prone figure come crashing down onto him before the world goes black.

Overhead, a flock of birds split apart from their formation and slowly drift until they're all going their own directions.

🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸

The ship was going down very quickly now, taking his last hope of survival with it. If anything, he was lucky to be alive after that encounter but was doomed because of it, and maybe he had done more bad than good "rescuing" this man. If he perhaps had more time to salvage what he could maybe gather some food, he may have had a better chance. The real question was how quickly would he this end for them.

John feels every muscle in his body screech for relief, but he forces himself to keep going. The wind is foreign on his soft skin, and his very bones seem to creak under the weight they are forced to support, bent akimbo to hold the body over the water.

However, he ignores the pleading and continues above the surface. The pirate is limp and heavy in his arms, even heavier when his muscles are so weak, but he knows that the creature is a human, and too much water inside them kills. His lips fall open idly and he squints to see the hazy alcove before him. Hope rises in his chest the closer they manage to drift towards it, but they're still too far to make it before he succumbs to fatigue.

With wobbly arms and a slight prayer to whatever would listen, John straightens his arms into the air and sinks below the surface, hoping the angle is enough to keep the human’s head out of the water. Immediate relief bustles through his system as he gasps heavily. His muscles thank him as the water eases the load, but he knows he can't stay like this. Nothing above the water is visible, and he can't navigate around the pesky schools when it's so dark. The air bites harshly at his fingertips, which have long since lost sensation aside from the fiery heat of the pirate's rough, dirty flesh. He takes a few more labored breaths before his arms threaten to buckle and he's stuck breaking out above the waves.

John doesn't know for sure how long he does it, or how he does it at all, but eventually, he's flapping his tail in short, sharp movements to carefully maneuver through the entrance to the cove. Dragging the lifeless body felt lighter than the bag locked between his teeth with all the euphoria thrumming through his blood. He felt like he was on fire, and he didn't need to touch the clammy skin of his comrade to know he was probably stone cold. In a sweep of pride and pure unadulterated joy, he swings the body past his own and onto the black sand. His shiny green eyes roll back as he sinks into the water to just stop and breathe. He'd saved the human!

He rises up to look at the figure, triumphant grin still locked in place, but the person is still and lifeless in the sand. Fear traces John's features, and he pulls himself up onto the shore to get a better look. He runs a hand across the face and presses his head to the cloth clad shirt, but the human is indeed breathing, if shallowly and in small pants.

That alone makes him feels grateful, but the thought doesn't last. The human is cold, injured, and perhaps even starving. He’ll need a fire if he doesn't want to freeze to death, and desperately needs something to cover that vicious cut for the night. The only thing the human has to protect himself is a short, dull dagger, chipped and dirty from what must have been years of use. John's teeth clench; it seemed like just when he thought he was out of hell another gate opened up. In a somewhat childish fit of rage, he curls his still hot fingers into a fist and slams it onto the human, hoping to will him awake.

And, it works. Sort of.

Water spouts out of the pirate's mouth like a geyser and his brain snaps into consciousness. John watches in slight fear as the human coughs and sputters more and more murky water filled with mucus and other fluid slime, dragging himself onto his side. It seems to help, as the human's fit comes to an end and his eyes finally fall open.

🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸

Smitty flops bonelessly onto his back and stares wide-eyed and shocked at what must be the roof of a cave. His chest burns just like his skin in that way that suggests it's from extreme cold, and a subconscious groan escapes his lips. He takes a moment to just breathe and feel his heartbeat hammer away at his chest. A shaky hand raises to wipe the salt caking the area around his eyes push his hair out of his face. Well, it looked like he’d survived anyway.

A shuffling off to his side brings him to the present, and a quick glance over makes him do a double-take. Laying next to him in the dark sand is the gorgeous merman, sprawled out with arms protectively curled around Smitty's own form.

"You're a mermaid." He says, voice hoarse and scratchy, and it sends him into another coughing fit. The merman pulls himself away from his prone figure but holds a hand out to help steady him, even after Smitty's natural flinch in response. He allows himself to be dragged into a proper sitting position, which also gives him the ability to properly breathe.

The creature watches him take a few breaths before deeming him not on the verge of death and nods hesitantly. A closer look reveals familiar wisps of brown hair and moonlight pale skin. It was indeed the merman he'd dragged off the enemy's ship before he blacked out.

"You saved me?" He asks, but it sounds less like a question and more like a comment. The merman's eyebrows draw together at the words, and he shakes his head.

"I was only returning the favor. It was you who saved me first." He says quietly, but his voice reverberates heavily through the empty cove, although it is just as scratchy as Smitty's.

"Well thank you anyway." He concedes, clearing his throat and running a hand through his knotted hair, but the merman only shakes his head back.

"You don't need to thank me.” He says, voice much clearer now, as he re-positions himself into a crawl. Smitty watches delicate hands find purchase in the dark sand and begin dragging his ill-suited body back into the pool. “What you need is to get out of those wet clothes and get a fire started."

"You're right," Smitty says and winces into a stand. He makes it a good twenty seconds of attempting to shuck off his lone boot, having long since lost the other one in his impromptu trip, but finds that he’s not quite ready to be entirely upright just yet. He sits back down and his head thanks him as he slips his jacket over his shoulders and pulls his shoe off. His ripped brown shirt is next, but he hesitates with pants.

When he realizes why the human is staring at him so expectantly, the merman feels the strong desire to roll his eyes.

"Alright. While you do your thing, I'm gonna go find us something to eat." He sighs, face darkening slightly as he speaks. He opens his mouth as though to add something else, but gives up and turns to dive into the shallow pool.

"Wait!" Smitty calls, and he pauses for a moment, confusion crossing his subtle features as he twists back to face the human. Smitty crouches into a seat at one of the higher edges of the shoreline.

"What's your name?" He asks softly, now that they were so close. The merman stares up at him for a moment in consideration before seeming to mentally shrug and cock a brow.

"You can call me John."

Smitty nods lightly and brings a calloused, bruised hand to grip at the cold stone. "Well John, I'm Smitty," he conjures up what he hopes is a charming smile, "And I really do mean it when I say thank you."

John's eyes widen ever so slightly and fierce violet rises into his cheeks. He nods once before finally sinking into the water and taking his leave. Smitty watches him swim away until there is no trace of him in the cave, before he finally allows himself to attend to the agony of his cut.

All that aside, however, he can’t seem to wipe the grin off his face. He’d met a real mermaid today.

#krii7y #SMii7Y #KryozGaming #mermaids #pirates #stress relief #i am actually pretty happy with this one #and other fun stories to tell yourself #blood on paper

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 5 years

Text

Lake Full of Stars, Part 2

James rises early the next morning, before the sky has a chance to brighten. His jog around the lake is better than he imagined it would be. He keeps it slow, loathe to break the early morning quiet with the smack of his shoes against the dirt, or fill his ears with his own puffing breath. It takes him over an hour to complete the circuit, but by the time he lopes up the back deck he feels energized in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich waits for him on the kitchen island, along with an empty mug bearing a sticky note that directs him to the pot of coffee still on the warmer. Despite the signs of her wakefulness, Lena is nowhere in sight.

In the full light of morning, the house takes on a different feel. It feels clean, and energizing without being over-stimulating. Blankets lay across the back of every couch, and every piece of technology he sees is jarringly outdated. Even the television set, hooked up to a dvd player with a long AV cable, sports a silver trim around its glass face. A small collection of dvds sits on the shelf below.

The speaker Lena had used the night before is the only current tech-- equipped with bluetooth and not much else, and lives next to a turntable, with a narrow selection of records slotted between it and the bookshelf next to it.

James chews at his sandwich as he peruses the titles. There’s shelves and shelves of them, in no discernable order. They all form an eclectic mix that all sport signs of avid reading: cracked spines and ruffled pages, even the occasional folded corner.

There’s something familiar in the disorderly chaos of the shelves, something that spans every title and spreads to the dvd title under the television. Taking it all in, it feels like something James should know, but can’t quite put his finger on it.

The eerie feeling doesn’t shake as he moves upstairs in search of Lena. The bed is empty and loosely made up. She’s not in the bathroom, or even the spare bedroom. He trots back downstairs in search of a basement stair he might have missed, but none turns up. The unsettled feeling amplifies when he makes one more pass upstairs in the hopes the view from the window might give him vantage enough to see if she ventured out for some exercise of her own.

It’s on that final pass that he spots the narrow stair hidden between a wall and a second floor bookcase. He almost has to turn to squeeze into it, the passage is so cramped, but it leads him up to a third floor he didn’t notice the night before.

The cramped stair, spits him out into a finished attic, sporting little but a rug and a pair of standing lamps-- and a cushioned windowseat in front of a wide, round window. That’s where he finds Lena, curled cozily into the nook with a mug of coffee cradled in one hand and a book in the other. As he nears, James finds he recognizes it as the same one they’d found in the bedroom the night before.

In an instant, everything clicks into place.

The book, and the fact that Lena had found a staircase all but hidden behind a bookcase. The way Lena had driven up without looking at the navigation she’d plugged into her phone. How Lena had moved so naturally in the kitchen, with intimate knowledge of where everything was located.

This isn’t a friend’s house.

It’s hers.

It feels familiar because bits of Lena are reflected everywhere-- in the warm decor and soft furniture, and the color schemes. In the book titles and movie dust jackets, there she was. Fragments of her personality James has only glimpsed and yet recognizes instinctively.

Before James can react, Lena looks up from her book.

Her features crease into a smile. “Hey! Sorry, I meant to be downstairs by the time you got back. Must have lost track of time.”

James bends to give her a kiss, then perches on the edge of the seat. “That’s okay,” he grinds out. His mind races, both to process his revelation and decide what to do about it.

“I imagine that’s kind of the point of a place like this,” he stalls, giving her socked ankle a rub. Lena’s eyes sparkle at him, reflecting specks of sunlight from the window. Her cheeks are rosy, and rounded with a continued smile.

“It might even…” He reaches out and runs a finger over the corner of her book. “Be why you chose it.”

He chooses his words carefully. If she chooses to maintain the lie, and interpret his words as why she reached out to her friend for this house. If she does, James is fully prepared to leave it be.

But instead he watches Lena’s features shutter in guilt before her gaze slides away, bracing for the accusations sure to follow. James reaches for her hand.

“Hey.”

Solemn eyes flicker to him, flat with expectation.

“I don’t mean to put you on the spot,” James continues. “I just wanted you to know, that I know.”

If this is her place, he doesn’t want her to have to waste energy trying to maintain a pretense he’s already seen through. Instead of putting her at ease, however, Lena’s gaze slides away again.

“We don’t have to talk about it. But I’m here if you want to.”

When Lena doesn’t answer, James retreats downstairs. He tries to get comfortable on the sofa in the living room, but the silence from upstairs presses against his skin, slowly twisting at his insides.

He shouldn’t have said anything. He’d thought it would let her relax that much more, not having to maintain the pretense. Obviously, he’d miscalculated. Now they have another two days cooped up in awkward silence. If Lena doesn’t insist on leaving early.

Desperate for a distraction, James snags a book from the shelf and makes his way outside. The deck is still too close to the oppressive quiet, so James heads for the long pier jutting out over the lake.

He goes to the very end, and slips off his shoes to dangle his bare feet over the water below. The book sits unread on the planks beside him, ignored in favor of staring at the flat surface of the lake. James’ jaw slowly unclenches, and little by little the calm of the lake and the quiet of the surrounding woods works its magic. His muscles relax, and his thoughts go fuzzy.

All it takes is a slow blink, for James to open his bleary eyes to fallen dusk and heavy limbs-- and Lena sitting on the edge of the dock beside him, wrapped in a chunky woolen cardigan.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, as James straightens, blinking away the cobwebs. She doesn’t look at him.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he offers truthfully. “I can’t say I understand it, but I want to.”

Lena stares sightlessly at the surface of the water, shoulders hunched against the recrimination she expects to hear.

James turns towards the water as well, studying the gradient of the sky melting from violet to deep, fathomless black.

“Does it have anything to do with Thanksgiving?” he asks.

“No. Yes. Maybe.”

She sighs, frustrated by her own uncertainty. “You’re the first person I’ve brought here.” She shrugs helplessly. “I guess in the back of my mind I was trying to find a way it would stay mine, if…”

“If things didn’t work out,” James finished.

Dark eyes finally turn to him. “Yeah.”

Her eyes slide away again, and in the quiet that follows, Thanksgiving replays in James’ head. He can still feel his determination that day, his righteous anger. He remembers Lena’s features, stricken. Exposed in a way he’d never seen before-- or since.

“I’m sorry I dismissed your concerns about Guardian, and the Children of Liberty. I’m sorry I ever made you feel like your opinions didn’t matter. They do. You matter to me, Lena.”

When she doesn’t respond, James swallows thickly. “Are you comfortable with me being here?”

“Yes,” Lena croaks. She tries again. “Yes. I was never worried about that. I wanted you here, I just…”

Again, her tear-filled eyes flash across James’ memory. However justified his anger that day, he’d said those words to inflict damage-- and they had. No wonder she’d tried to hedge her bets, and have the best of both worlds. To have a nice weekend, and no lingering strings if they parted ways again.

“It’s okay if we need to take things slow,” James allows. “Take time to rebuild…”

But Lena shakes her head no. “It’s not about taking things slow.”

“Then what is it about?”

Lena curls in on herself. “What I wanted was intimacy without consequences. To have you to myself without offering any of myself in return. But it doesn’t work that way. If I want to be close with you, then… it means that I have to accept that it’ll hurt when you’re not there anymore.”

“Lena…”

“If. You know what I mean.” She sighs, but her shoulder presses gently against his. “My point is-- I’ve done the no-strings thing. The all fun and sex, but no substance. I hated it. I want more. But I’m still not used to… being vulnerable. I’m sorry.”

James nods. He gets that. It’s been a while for him too, but he suspects that vulnerability means something different to woman who’s lost as much as Lena-- as visible as Lena-- as targeted. No magic words come to him in the silence that follows, but out there in the wilderness, the tension softened with the rustle of a breeze through the pines, the tapestry of stars stitched into the surface of the lake.

“So this is your place,” he murmurs softly, letting a grin color his voice in the darkness. Lena relaxes against him, and James wraps an arm around her shoulders to bring her closer.

“My Fortress of Solitude.” She offers it as a joke but can’t hide the kernel of truth underneath the levity.

“So... do I need to be worried about lasers and gatlings if I go poking around?”

Lena snorts. “No,” she teases. “There’s no security here.”

James freezes. “Are you serious?”

“Unless you want to count the lock on the front door. Which you shouldn’t, because I don’t remember actually locking it last night.”

Alarm tingles across James’ senses, even as he struggles to maintain the levity. “Lena--”

“Before you go all defender of the innocent on me, Mr. Guardian,” Lena delivers calmly, “let me remind you that I’ve lived with security since I was four years old. And I can tell you that after a certain point, it just becomes another cage.”

She presses a kiss to the corner of his jaw. “This is my place to get away. From everything.” When she leans back, she does so just enough to meet his gaze. “I need you to understand that.”

Oh, James doesn’t like that. Not one bit.

But Lena’s message is clear. He doesn’t have to like it. He just needs to get on board.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I do. I get it.”

He’s just not sure he’ll ever be as casual about Lena’s safety as she is.

“If it makes you feel better,” she allows, “I do have a sat-phone for if the landline ever goes out.”

Or is cut. Or if her car is sabotaged, or-- James shuts down his worst case scenarios and plays it cool. “Oh yeah?”

Lena hums. “And a strict no horror movie policy.”

James barks a laugh, earning a toothy grin from Lena that glints mischievously in the darkness.

“That’s a good call,” he chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to be jumping at every sound and freaking out the neighbors.”

Climbing to her feet, Lena’s laugh is low and definitely not in response to his joke.

“Lena… you do have neighbors, right?”

Another laugh answers him, drifting eerily into the night air.

“Lena!!”

#i wrote dis #lake full of stars #guardiancorp #lake house prompt #the lakehouse weekend we were robbed of #i have one more part coming #lena luthor #james olsen #read more

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storytimefromthecreed · 5 years

Text

Mary Had A Little...

(Part 2)

People usually say that morning comes fast. They talk of how they wished they had more time in bed. That was not her case.

From the time she stepped on the vessel, there was nothing more she desired than to be off it. Everything of the journey since she had found Edward seemed... wrong. As if stepping aboard by her left foot, this trip felt fated in the worst way, and this brought on a bought of nerves.

Even sleeping in Edward’s bed without Edward seemed unnatural. Sleep came and went, but the majority of the night was spent staring at the ceiling and/or tossing and turning. In the past, she would’ve climbed up to the deck and stood at wheel with him, tucking herself under his arm, him holding her tightly, they would watch the stars and talk about how small they were. How little this all mattered, and yet how significant.

But that was not the case anymore. Morning came and she rolled out of bed sore. Sleeply, she stumbled over to the basin located on the other side of the cabin and began washing her face. The strength of the lunging ship sent her into the wall. Her head banged against the thick plywood, but she shook off her pain and stumbled to the door. The stumbling occured not because of her weakened state, but because her sealegs were not as they used to. After months, she’d forgotten how hard it was to live aboard a moving ship. Thankfully, this would be a short trip.

Throwing open up the door, she was greeted with skies of bright blue. Men called to one another from high upon their ropes and beams. Stepping out, she covered her eyes against the sun, and listened to the bustle of those around her. A sense of belonging settled back into her stomach, and she watched with a smile the men working the shift. A man chewed on a rope securing the cannons, and she undid her hidden blade, cut the rope for him, and he grinned up at her with cracked teeth. They secured the rest of the cannons then headed to the barrels. Now, she could see why. Off into the distance were dark grey skies. If they didn’t drown from the water it dropped, then surely the sea would take them.

At the head of the ship barking orders was Edward. Sunlight lit his hair golden. On his right stood a man not recognized to her, curious considered she remembered almost everyone on board . While she puzzled the disappearance of Adewale, a crewman approached. “Captain’s orders are you to stay in his quarters, my lady,” he gave her a weak bow, almost unsure how to speak to her. This made her smile. She remembered this young man as a young boy last time from her last time on the Jackdaw. “Storm’s coming.”

“Thanks, Remi.” He beamed, embarassed she knew his name. Knowing better than to disagree with a direct order of the Captain, she just looked at Edward once more, and allowed Remi to walk her back into her room. No doubt the crew already felt uneasy with her presence on board. Laying low was the plan, it seemed.

The only positive she could deem by being dismissed to Edward’s room was the protection from the sun. The heat that steeped in through the open windows only intensified by the humidity of the oncoming storm, but the mist of the sea and lack of direct contact from the rays aided in her comfort.

When the door closed, silence surrounded her. The crew could be heard singing and laughing just on the other side of the wood, and a pang of isolation hit her. Hundreds of miles out to sea, and the only people around her couldn’t be around her. Superstitious lot.

Left with nothing left to lose, she decided to explore the little area she had. Edward hadn’t moved anything around. Figures, she thought, he was very set in his ways. Her fingers ran over the trophies of his travels. A shark tooth, a scale from a sea serpent, and various odd trickets. The shelf still had held books, but judging from the dust around them, they hadn’t been picked them up for a long time. The journals were neglected too. She cracked one open, enjoying his poems. Edward might have a hard shell, but he was a deeply empathic man with a way with words. A small smile on her face as she read, the door behind her opened and the man himself entered.

She quickly shut the book and hid it behind her, but he didn’t notice. Muttering something under his breath, Edward closed the door, crossed into the room, and placed a plate holding bread, jam, and a piece of meat on the table.

“Good morning to you too.” Placing the book on the shelf, she joined him at the table. Edward gave her a hard stare, but his voice was gentle. Restrained, but polite. Even cracked a smile, but didn’t meet his eyes.

“Sorry for the late wake up call, looked like you could use the rest.” He slid the food to her, and she inspected the brown flakes of grain on the bread before dipped it in jam and taking a bite. “I trust you slept well?”

“Thank you, and yourself?” It felt forced being this formal. The bags under his eyes were dark and puffy. “Did you sleep at all?”

Edward shrugged, “We’re a day’s away from the port so I suggest you rest. With luck on our side, we’ll get there before the storm hits. After such a time at sea, the Jackdaw could use some work before braving anything more than a mere battle. Devil among ye,” He fussed at his hair, glaring at the bangs that overgrew at the edges and flopped into his eyes. She beckoned him her way, and undid her hidden blade. Edward gave her an uneasy look, to which she crossed her arms and shrugged.

“Just wanted to help. Not trying to make a move.”

Edward watched her a moment, then sighed, pulled out a chair, and plopped in front of her. He pulled the leather band out of his hair, and shook it loose.

This made her chuckle. It was uneven and long. “When was the last time you’ve gotten it cut?”

Edward rolled a jeweled eye up at her. “You did it last.” Examining the work, she gave him a knowing look and he sighed. “Perhaps I did try my best with it in your absence. It’s tied up anyway! What harm did it do?”

“The harm,” She explained, “is none.” He smiled at her approval. Brushing out his hair as best she could, she wet the comb, made the hair damp, and began to cut. Efficacy over style, she kept it at the length he liked, and pulled it up into a ponytail. “You did well on your own.”

“Do better with your help, I’d wager.” Edward placed the chair back in it’s original place and stared at her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

She put her hand up. “Don’t worry, I didn’t take it-”

“Good.” Edward visibly tensed, and eyed the door. He nodded once to the plate of food. “Please.” His tone became gentle. “Eat and rest. Journey’s gonna be short. Enjoy it.” He tried heading for the door, but she stepped in front of him.

“Are you sure you don’t need help? I’m rested, and I think-”

Edward smiled, a true smile. “Captain’s orders.” The pout she gave him made him laugh. Then he bolted. God, she hated when he pulled that card. Returning to his books, she made herself comfortable.

The jarring sound of thunder shook her awake. Sleep clouded her judgement, and while she pondered over what made her eyes snap open, another roll shook the Jackdaw. Sitting up and throwing off the covers of the bed, her feet hit the floor. Or tried. The ship rolled, and her feet missed the floor.

Her knees didn’t.

Thrown out of the bed, she rolled until she hit the desk. The books fell from the shelves, and her robes and boots flew to the other side of the room. The black leather of her bracers flashed by, and her hands whipped out to secure them. Can’t lose those. Fastening them, she tied her hair back and dashed for the door before another roll could take her. The door flew open, almost smacking her when it opened inward. Clinging to the doorframe, she examined the scene.

The sky was black with pumes of smoke. Men fought on the deck, one falling to her feet, convulsing before he went still. The sight of death didn’t bother her, what got her attention was the colors he wore. It appeared they had run into members of British seamen. The last thing she needed. With a roll of her shoulders, she readied herself and threw herself into the mania. Bodies hit the deck, slick with blood, and the roar of charging men was deafening.

“Close the vessel, men!” Edward’s voice called, but she couldn’t see him among the madness. She ducked her head down and pushed through the wave of charging British. Slashing and cutting through bodies, she spied the planks they were using to board the Jackdaw. The surprised seamen didn’t know what to make of a woman cutting through the ranks, but quickly deeming her an enemy, she found herself surrounded by four of them. One pointed a pistol at her, and she grabbed it just as he shot it, and twisted his arm behind him. The man groaned, but wouldn’t releash the weapon. Grabbing his sword from his side, she used him as a shield and stabbed one of the other men. That man fell to the ground with a whimper, and she used this distraction to shoot the other men. Slashing the shield’s neck, she left him for dead and confiscated his weapons.

“Show them what a pirate’s life really means, man! We’ll never let them take this ship!” Edward shouted words of encouragement, and the battle continued. The crewmen around her shouted and gave heed. They were fighting for their lives. As if to spite him, the sea rolled and the Jackdaw dipped. This gave the British an advantage, thought brief. What they really needed, was those boards gone.

Small brawls covered her sides. Two crewmen against a Brit. Three Brits against two of the crew. She helped where she could. Grabbing one man by the arm, she rolled behind him, cut his neck, and threw his body at a his startled commrade. This man, Remi stabbed.

“Thank you, mistress.” He said, cutting the man behind her as she shot the man behind him. The two stood back to back, circled by British. “How can I repay you for saving my life?”

The last time she’d been in a fight like this was some time ago, and she felt it. She huffed, “Work on your bow for me?” Trusting her strange request, Remi bowed, allowing her to roll backwards over him and spar the men in front of him. The men were trained and ready for battle, but she had her Assassin training, and was a bit of a cheater. Giving one stab to the right and leaving her left side open to attack, she waited for the Brit who did. He got a kick in the knee and a stab in the neck when he doubled over. Stealing his sword, she dueled the other men who quickly fell. Remi was done with his as well, wiping the blood from his mouth and spitting on the deck.

“Your imagination is stunning, mistress. With you on our side, I’m sure we’ll will this battle yet.”

“The battle still rages, friend.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and used it to steady herself as she shot at another Brit aiming for Edward, who had gone over to the other ship with some men. “We need to end this!” She yelled to whomever was around to listen. “Get rid of those boards! I’m getting our men!” The men nodded and cleared the way for her to get to the edge of the Jackdaw. Aiming her blade at a rope tied around the mast, she cut it and was quickly flung her over the space between the ships. For a moment, everything was silent. The rush upwards took her breath away. The Jackdaw grew smaller, the sea was crystal blue, and then....

The weightlessness of being in the air was met by the hard slam of the deck. Men rushed her, but she fought her way through them and towards Edward and his men. Being attacked on all sides, the enemy began to falter. When Remi and the crewmen cleared the Jackdaw and threw the boards off her, the captain was his only way out to surrender. When she came upon the scene, Edward and his hidden blades were covered in blood. The men around him were on the ground, and his own crewmen were twitchy in anticipation for the next wave of attack.

“God damn you, pirate.” The captain spat, but lower his weapon to clutch his side. She stood beside him, lest this be a ruse. Edward recalled his blades, and walked over to the captain, hands behind his back.

“Be that as it may, I’m not the one on the wrong side of my blade.”

The captain gulped, but kept the distain on his face. “Gah, damn you, we surrender.” Edward gave him a curious look, and ducked down to look him in the eye. The man whinced, and shut his eyes waiting for the blade that would not come. “We, we were only delivering goods. Our orders are to attack any pirate ship on sight. We- we were only following orders!” Edward nodded and turned to his men.

“Looks like you’ve picked the wrong ship! Return where you come from! Anyone who causes trouble is an open target.” Edward allowed the surviving men back on their ship, then robbed them off their cargo. The Jackdaw got new cannons, gunpowder, sugar, meats, and maps because of this. For good measure, the flags were set ablaze with their oars, and the victors left.

The crew roared their victory. Once pushed away from the ship, they moved fast to set aside their new cargo. Men thanked her for her part in the fight with hard pats on the back and a mug of ale. They sang and drank as they cleared away the Jackdaw’s deck, and she along with them. On the third mug, she felt a harsh pull on her bicep. Edward had begun dragging her back into the room, and she finished her mug just as they got to the door. Then, she pushed his grip off her and glared.

“What are you doing?” Edward returned the nasty look and lowered his voice. “You were told to stay inside! God, couldn’t do that too, could you? Was it because I asked?” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, and growled. “I can’t be expected to watch your back too.”

“My back,” she shoved him aside and poked at his chest. The care of the men watching no longer concerned her. “Does not need you. I held my own in that fight, Captain.” She shoved him aside before he could respond, and slammed the door behind her.

Edward growled his reply and took off. That was the end of that conversation.

#mary had a little #edward kenway #Kenway is the only way #Assassin's Creed #Assassins Creed Black Flag #my writing

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hgsecretsanta-blog · 6 years

Text

100 Days and 100 Nights

By @titaniasfics

Written for @norbertsmom, my Secret Santa, hosted by @loveinpanem

In-Panem Canon AU, no Games, no Reaping, just a whole lot of pining.

A/N at the end

“The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?”

― Percy Bysshe Shelley

Peeta glanced down at the floor of the kitchen as he slid the empty bread trays under the counter. The dollops of dried dough indicated the floor needed a good sweeping. This was Rye’s chore this week, but he had gone to deliver a last minute order, leaving Peeta alone in the shop. Peeta wasn’t interested in hearing his mother complain about the matter when she returned from her errands, so he took advantage of the lull in customers and swept the debris into the dustbin.

While he worked, he heard a rapping at the back door. He set the broom in the corner, his chest growing tight because he knew who would most likely be there. As he passed the chrome refrigerator, he checked his face in the reflection, relieved that he didn’t have flour in his hair or dough on his cheek.

With a steadying breath, he opened the door.

“Hello Katniss,” he said, smiling his usual, how-can-I-help-you smile, the one he used to greet all his customers, even though his excitement was through the roof. It was automatic. Safe. Even though he’d been in love with Katniss Everdeen ever since they were kindergartners in District 12’s only elementary school, he made sure to never let a hint of his affections for the aloof huntress from the Seam escape him.

“Got some squirrel to trade,” she said. Unlike him, there was a slight smudge of dirt on her cheek and her hair was matted at the hairline with sweat. The humidity was thick in the air outside, the smell of rain filling the alley where Katniss stood.

“Come in,” he stepped aside to give her space to enter. He noticed with relief that her giant lug of a hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne, wasn’t glued to her side today.

She nodded once, her eyes flickering over him as she moved past, wary as the wild animals she hunted.

“How many do you have?” Peeta asked, absorbing, as he was in the habit of doing, every aspect of her appearance in one glance - her braid which hung over the left shoulder, her boyish shirt and pants which were patched in the strangest places, probably from being snagged in the trees and branches as she hunted. He made other observations, quicker ones that struck him in a flash, the ones he spent hours going over after she left each time - the luster of her black hair, the smooth, uninterrupted texture of her olive skin, the slant of her large, almond-shaped gray eyes, the pillowy-softness of her bottom lip, now sucked into a thin line of impatience.

“Four,” she answered, taking them out of her hunting sack and laying them on the table. “I had three times that but Greasy Sae bought most of them. I told her to leave these for your father.”

It was the most Katniss Everdeen had ever spoken all at once, and the husky sound of her voice struck him low and deep in his belly. “That’s kind of you. You know how much my father loves wild squirrel,” he answered. “How about a loaf of nut bread?”

Katniss’s eyes went wide. “That’s too much! Your father usually gives me a roll for each one. I won’t be cheating my customers.”

Peeta quaked, not because he was scared but because he didn’t want her to disapprove of him. “I know, but it’s a day old,” he lied. “And my mother was already going to discount it. It’s worth the same as fresh rolls and…”, he nearly lost his courage but continued, “I know how much you like the nut bread.”

She chewed her bottom lip, thinking. She didn’t know the bread had been baked that very morning, and his mother would certainly have a fit if she discovered he’d given away such a prized loaf. But she wanted the bread - he knew she did. It was her favorite. And he desperately wanted to give it to her. Give her anything her heart desired. But she was stubborn and would not take a gift from anyone.

He considered mentioning her mother and sister, for whom she cared and would do anything, but she finally acquiesced. “I’ll take the trade.”

Peeta, satisfied with himself, took the loaf from the shelf and wrapped it in paper, handing it to her with care. The smell of nuts, raisins and spices wafted from it, making his mouth water. He imagined Katniss eating it, making all manner of small moans of pleasure as she bit into the hard crust to savor the tender, aromatic center. He bit his lip to keep from panting.

“Thanks,” she said as she took the package and made for the door, opening it. Peeta desperately wanted to keep her for a little while longer but couldn’t find anything to say to her.

“Weather’s nice today,” he blurted out.

Katniss turned, raising an eyebrow. “Have you been outside today?”

Peeta glanced past her. The air now entering through the open door had become drenched in humidity and storm clouds swirled overhead. People were moving quickly through the center to get to shelter before the sky dropped its heavy rains on their heads.

“Oh,” he said, feeling like an idiot.

She shrugged. “I’ve got to get home. Thanks again.” She skipped down the steps and raced away even as fat droplets began to land on the ground.

He watched her leave, just as he always did, and stayed in that spot long after she’d disappeared from his sight.

XXXXX

After Peeta’s shift ended, he slipped upstairs to the apartment he shared with his parents and two older brothers. They were more well off than most so he could afford the large sketchbook he kept beneath the floorboard of his bedroom. He rolled the corner of the throw rug and pulled up the plank of wood. Inside was the black, faux-leather bound volume filled with fine sheets of drawing paper. He could also afford the pencils in the metal box he stored with the book. He lifted both up and set them at the small writing table. Opening the book, he scanned the pictures he’d already drawn - sketches of the birds that flew in from the surrounding woods, the snowy tops of distant mountains visible from his second story home in the Merchant quarter, where his family’s bakery was located. Drawings of his brothers, one each of his parents.

And Katniss. Ten, fifteen, thirty sketches of her over the years, engaged in different activities. He passed her face turned in adoration towards her little sister Prim, or one in which she’s scowling at something in displeasure. He’d drawn her with her bow and arrow, though he’d never actually seen her hunt. He’d sketched her standing at his backdoor, with the sun behind her as if she were a magical creature. And sometimes, when he was blind with a need so powerful, he thought it might surely burn him from the inside, he drew her in ways he’d never seen but could only dream of - smiling, soft, open, naked, inviting him close. Those pictures were folded away, saved for only the most desperate moments when he could find no other relief from his wanting.

Today, he was not aflame in that way, so he drew the moment he gave her the loaf, the joy of getting something she so badly wanted but was too proud to ask for. He was completely enraptured, each line he drew as if it were another moment he spent with her. After half an hour, he stared at the final product. It would require some editing, he knew, but it was good enough. It had to be good enough, because these furtive drawings were as close as he would ever get to her.

XXXXX

Later that week, Peeta approached the Hob, a makeshift market at the edge of District 12. It was part oversized shack, part canvas tent, its shape given by piecemeal metal construction, where Seam residents came to trade or find oddities that could not be found in more respectable quarters. Most of the Merchant class stayed away from the Hob, but Peeta had come out of a quiet desperation, hoping to catch a glimpse of Katniss. Each time she came to make a trade, the pressure for another encounter built up more quickly, until lately, it seemed he could not get from one day to the next without at least a glimpse of her. He didn’t care about the strange looks he received - he searched the entire interior, despondent to realize she was not there. Something quivered, brittle and aching in his heart, an ache which bore the name of Katniss Everdeen.

Outside the entrance of the market was Haymitch Abernathy, the old drunk from the Seam, perched on a table as worn as he was, a bottle of white liquor at his side. Haymitch had come into a great deal of money when he was younger, when he was a soldier and fighting wars in far off lands for Panem. It was rumored that he’d made a deal with the government that resulted in him being given a generous stipend for the rest of his life, though no one had a clue what the nature of that arrangement was. A mysterious figure, he piqued the interest of the young people of District 12, who often followed him around, hoping to hear an anecdote about his time beyond the borders of their small country.

Haymitch was surrounded by a small group of people, all awaiting his tale. The old man looked up, clear grey eyes so like Katniss’s and others of the Seam, and captured Peeta’s gaze where he stood at the back, leaning on a gnarled apple tree that had long since ceased yielding fruit. It was as if Haymitch spoke directly to him.

“Once upon a time a king gave a feast and there were all the most beautiful princesses of the realm. One of the guards saw the king's daughter: she was the most beautiful one of all. And he immediately fell in love with her.

“But who is a poor soldier when compared to a king's daughter? One day he managed to meet her and tell her he couldn't live without her. The princess was so struck by the depth of his feeling that she said to the soldier, 'If you will wait a hundred days and a hundred nights beneath my balcony, then in the end I'll be yours.'

“The soldier immediately took up a place beneath her balcony and waited. One day, two days, ten, twenty...Every night she looked out of her window, but he never budged. Come rain, wind, or snow, he never moved from his spot. After ninety nights he was gaunt and pale and tears streamed from his eyes but he couldn't hold them back. He didn't even have the strength to sleep any more. The princess still watched.

And on the ninety-ninth night, the soldier got up, picked up his chair and left.”

Several moments passed before the group came to realize that Haymitch had finished his story. “That’s it?” one man, a young Peacekeeper named Darius, called out. “What kind of ending is that?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Haymitch groused. “That’s just how the story goes.”

The group wandered away, exasperated, muttering under their breath, though they would be back again the next time Haymitch set himself up on the bench to tell his stories. Peeta made his way towards him as he took a swig of the white liquor bottle.

“Why would the soldier give up just as he is about to get what he wants? After all of that effort?” Peeta mused.

Haymitch set down his bottle, eyeing him carefully. “I don’t know. I’ve never wanted anyone that much.”

Peeta frowned. “That’s actually sad.”

The old man shrugged, getting off the table and clutching the bottle to him. He stared at it instead of Peeta. “It is. But I bet you’ll tell me what it means soon enough.”

At that, Haymitch walked away, remarkably composed for a man who had just swallowed half a bottle of powerful drink. As Peeta watched him leave, he caught sight of Katniss approaching the Hob with a silent tread. She had learned from many years of hunting how to move like a shadow and just as silently, slipped inside.

Her unexpected appearance brought a surge of happiness to Peeta’s heart, prompting him to follow her without conscious volition. Her arrival, like the flickering of a star through a cloud-covered night sky, lit up his mood and inspired a powerful sense of possibility, and risk.

She weaved her way through the tables to the back, approaching Rooba, the butcher. Katniss spoke with the older woman, emptying the contents of her bulging hunting bag onto the counter.

Peeta moved as quietly as he could, dodging the tarps and canvases that hung from the roof of the haphazard structure before stepping behind one that hung just adjacent to where Rooba’s was set up, peeking in through a tear in the worn fabric. From his vantage point, he listened to Katniss become more insistent as she negotiated for her meat. He hung back, listening to snatches of her conversation with Rooba until she packed up what remained of her unsold meat and stepped away from Rooba’s table.

Peeta was prepared to move and follow her again but she surprised him by setting her things down on a bench directly in front of where he stood. He was so close, he could see the part of her thick, dark hair. Her braid was neater than it had been when she’d last come to the bakery, perhaps because the day was not as rainy and humid.

A powerful desire to touch her welled up inside of him, and that fragile thing that quivered at the thought of her wailed, threatening to shatter if he did not, at that very instant, do something to satisfy it. His heart beat wildly and his palms were damp with sweat but he gave in, calling Katniss’s name from where he stood.

“Who’s there?” Katniss said, looking around her.

“Sssh,” he said, poking his head through the partition in the canvas. “Just pretend everything's normal. It’s me, Peeta.”

Katniss’s eyes popped open in amazement. “I know who you are.” She glanced around her, and he wondered if she was waiting for Gale. “Peeta, the Hob’s no place for you. What are you doing here?”

“Forgive me, Katniss. I know it’s stupid of me. But I had to talk to you.”

She looked up at him and her eyes were even more beautiful in the dim light of the Hob’s interior.

This time Peeta found the courage to speak to her. Unlike his stammering heart and ragged breath, he was filled with determination. That curtain helped him, allowing him to only partially be seen.

“You're so beautiful...That's what I wanted to tell you.”

Katniss stared, dumbfounded but he pushed on. “When I speak to you, I can't put two words together because...you make me tremble. I don't know what people do in these situations, or what I’m supposed to say. But I think I'm in love with you.”

Katniss leaned into the partition, staring at his face, as if that flood of passion bewildered her. At that moment, an older woman stopped to ask about a trade. Without looking, Katniss snapped at her and told she had nothing left. The woman insisted, pointing at her full hunting bag but Katniss fairly growled that all her haul was accounted for and returned her concentration to Peeta.

Peeta chuckled, provoking a tiny answering smile from Katniss. It overwhelmed him to see her face so transformed. “When you smile, you're even more beautiful.”

Katniss swayed on her legs, as if under a spell but pulled back and fixed a stern, but not cruel look on her face.

“Peeta, that’s really...kind...of you---”

“I promise you, it’s not kindness that I feel,” he interjected.

“Okay,” she said, disconcerted but pushing on. “I like you. But...I'm not...in love with you.”

It was as if a knife had been plunged directly into his heart. He held her luminous gaze, unyielding. He had come this far.

“Is it because of Gale Hawthorne?”

Katniss scowled. “He has...intentions.”

“But you’re undecided,” Peeta insisted, hope springing inside of him, becoming stronger when she refused to answer his question.

“I don’t care about Gale Hawthorne’s intentions,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

“For what?” Katniss asked.

“For you to fall in love with me too.”

She shook her head, beginning to protest but he rushed to explain before he lost his chance. “Listen. Every night, when I get off work, I'll come and wait beneath your window. Every night. When you change your mind, open your window. That's all you have to do. I'll understand…”

He smiled at her, trying to disarm her with his sincerity. Her eyes narrowed briefly in response, as if undecided or unbelieving. “You’re out of your mind. You’re Merchant. I’m Seam. You can’t just walk into my neighborhood and park yourself outside my window.”

Peeta smiled again, this time full of the courage of his certainty. “I am out of my mind with love for you.” He leaned his head from the rift in the canvas. “Don’t forget - your mother was Merchant and your father, Seam. And as for sitting under your window, it’s the smallest price I would pay to have you.” He pulled back again, so that he knew she could not see him, only hear the susurring of his voice. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He slipped out between the tarps that hung low, himself a shadow between the canvas. As he escaped, he saw Gale arrive, his eyes sweeping the interior of the market, no doubt also seeking Katniss.

Even with the presence of his greatest rival, Peeta was filled with hope. He felt powerful and optimistic and did not mind Gale Hawthorne very much at all.

XXXXX

Peeta did exactly as he promised, waiting patiently outside Katniss’s window. He was careful to select a spot where her mother could not see him. Katniss’s house was the very last one in the Seam, next to the fence that was used to keep the animals of the forest from roaming the streets of District 12 at night. He slipped in each night just after sun down and stayed until the lights of the small house went dark. During the hours of his vigil, which were not so many, he watched for Katniss’s silhouette, sometimes hearing her voice. But in those first autumn weeks, she ghosted near her windows, the only evidence of her curiosity was the corner that was gently pulled back to spy on him, but dropped in haste, in fear of being discovered.

He marked the passing days on a wall calendar in his room, each X building like the relics he’d read about in some book or other, each a testament of his devotion, each one pushing him toward the next one. Katniss still came to trade, at times with Gale but many more times, without. She said nothing of Peeta’s escapades - his visits to her house, regardless of the rain that pelted down or the cold that gnawed him to the bone. The courage with which he confronted this challenge waxed and waned, sometimes strengthened by an odd look she gave him when she accepted his trades, or the passing of his body close to hers when he held opened the door to let her in the bakery. Her breath caught, her eyes fluttered, and he knew as sure as his name that she’d felt something in response to him.

But there were other days, days when she walked the dirt roads of her neighborhoods as they wound towards the pavements of the center, in the company of Gale, pretending not to know Peeta - those were the days that sapped his optimism, making him question why he had ever thought someone like Katniss could care for someone as plain as Peeta.

Each night, her window remained closed. There were only a handful of moments when Peeta was sure her resolution wavered, moments when a curtain was pushed aside, a tremulous hand reaching for the handle, only to pull back. Those nights crushed him and sent him with a heavy heart back to his home, where his family eyed his strange, late night expeditions with curiosity and concern.

The nights became longer as autumn brought cold winds and leaves the color of singed metals. It also brought the Harvest Festival with its jocular lights crisscrossing the square, tables of food and drink set up around the center. The entrance to Town Hall was converted into a stage, before which an area which had been cleared for both the young and old to dance the frigid night away. Peeta, like all young men, both Merchant and Seam, prepared himself, with autumn wreath in hand and romantic dreams in the heart in the hopes of persuading the girl he most desired.

He smoothed out the new, green, button-up shirt he’d chosen for the evening and dress pants so typical of District 12. He pulled on a thick sweater which set off his shirt with colors of browns, greens and his favorite autumn orange, which appeared to have been borrowed from a candle flame. His artist’s eye was satisfied with the way it augmented his blue eyes and ashy-blonde hair. When his brothers called for him, he left his room, pulling on his formal coat, and slipped out of the houses towards the center.

They found the square already filled with young people. Groups of parents and older citizens clustered together, Seam at one corner of the plaza and Merchants on the other. There was some mingling between groups, most notably Haymitch and Prim, Katniss’s affable and universally loved younger sister.

Peeta pretended to carry on a conversation with Dillon Cartwright, the son of the shoemaker, while his eyes searched the crowds for Katniss. He greeted the children of other Merchant families, their parents all friends or business associates of his parents. It was second nature for Peeta to be so effortlessly charming.

An hour into the Harvest Festival Concert, where men and women played the local music of the season in makeshift groups, Peeta found Katniss. She wore an intricate weave of beautiful braids, typical of District 12. In fact, many of the girls had their hair swept up in braids like hers, but to Peeta’s eyes, no one wore them better. Under a pale, cream-colored wool shawl, she wore a pastel-orange dress which showed off her figure to lovely effect, to the extent that other boys noticed her as she walked by. But no matter what clothes she wore, no one had the courage to approach her.

Peeta glanced around the square with its decorated tables, twinkling lamplights and festive music and set one foot before the other, moving towards her. She pretended not to notice him but slowed her pace, allowing him to reach her. He fell into step next to her, ignoring the way a group of girls from his former school days watched them and whispered furiously.

“Hello, Katniss,” he said in a low, steady voice.

“Peeta,” she answered, her face impassive but without her usual scowl.

The music started, making it difficult to speak, but he did anyway. “Did you just arrive?”

She shrugged. “I was late in getting here.” Her eyes flickered quickly over him before she looked away.

“I…” he swallowed hard, wishing he’d rehearsed something before he approached her. “I was wondering if you’d like to dance.”

She tilted her head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed. “You dance? I’ve never seen you do it.”

Peeta smiled nervously, trying to hold her gaze and failing miserably. “I don’t usually dance in public.”

“Hmm,” she said, stopping in front of him. “Alright.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “You will? I mean, you’ll dance with me?”

“That’s what I said.” She put out her hand, inviting him to take it. “Do you know the steps?”

He nodded, not believing his luck. He tried not to make too much of the humorous twinkle in her eyes, tried not to read too much in her acquiescence. He took her hand and led her to the dance line, where people were arranging themselves. With her hand firmly held in his, he listened to the beat of the music, and when the dancers moved he led her through the steps of the jaunty song.

Peeta moved awkwardly at first, fearing to tread on Katniss’s toes or commit some other misstep. But when he spun her around and pulled her towards him for several beats, she whispered, “Relax, you’re doing fine.” This had an instantaneous effect on him and he fell into step with more ease. The clapping and stomping of the other dancers made him euphoric. But what lifted his heart, more than anything else, was the way Katniss’s eyes brightened with excitement, laughter bubbling from her like the ale fizzling in a cold glass. Her happiness captivated him and he found within himself an endless desire to always see her that way.

They danced until they were breathless. When the music stopped, Katniss collapsed against his chest, her smile wide and bright. He hugged her to him, pleased that she let him before leading her away from the center.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, indicating the table of ale.

Katniss nodded, catching her breath. “Yes, please.”

Peeta squeezed her hand before leaving her at an empty bench and made his way to the table where Mr. Undersee, the Mayor of District 12, was serving drinks. Peeta’s heart was full to the brim with happiness - he had been able to hold Katniss close to him and she had not only let him, but appeared to welcome his company.

“Two cups of ale, please,” he asked when he reached the front of the line.

“Peeta!” Mr. Undersee smiled, shaking his hand in greeting. “You were dancing up quite a storm out there.” He ladled the drinks into paper cups and handed them to Peeta.

“I’m only really just learning,” Peeta said, almost bashful.

“Well, you have quite the teacher. Enjoy the rest of your night, son.”

Peeta smiled, all benevolence and joy as he weaved through the crowd, which had lined up behind him. He glimpsed Katniss near the table where he’d left her and approached, eager to spend the evening with her, calculating which stands he could take her to, what gifts he could buy her.

But when he emerged from the crowd, he instantly deflated. Katniss was not alone. Towering next to her in clothes that were better than what he usually wore for hunting, was Gale Hawthorne. He stood close to Katniss, speaking to her in low tones. Peeta approached, holding the two cups in his hand, handing one to Katniss, who avoided his gaze by staring resolutely at the drink, a scowl fixed on her face. He offered his free hand to Gale, gritting his teeth as the tall man shook his hand in response.

“Are you enjoying the festival?” Peeta asked, calling forth every ounce of politeness.

Gale shrugged, eyeing the crowd with his usual dour expression. “It’s been fun so far. I was just coming to get Katniss. Her mother’s looking for her.”

“She can wait,” Katniss grumbled, taking a quick sip of her drink.

“It sounds important,” Gale said. It was then Peeta sensed the tension in the air between them, which made him uneasy.

“I can walk you over, if you like,” Peeta offered gently.

Katniss glanced up at him with a grateful look. “It’s okay. I might as well get it over with.” She paused, sipping from her cup again, ignoring the impatience in Gale’s stance. “Thank you for the dance. I’m going squirrel hunting tomorrow.”

Peeta nodded. “My father will be happy to hear it.”

With that, she turned, allowing Gale to lead her away. She cast a last glance over her shoulder before melting into the crowd. Peeta knew he would not see her again that evening. He left soon after, his mind filled with images of her that he would replay and draw for days to come.

XXXXX

After the Harvest Festival, the cold, busy days of preparation for Yuletide raced by. It was a busy period for Peeta and his family, and he worked without pause, filling endless cake and cookie orders in preparation for the upcoming festivities. The weather was icy cold, the ground covered in frost each night Peeta took his excursion to Katniss’s house. Now she made no effort to hide her face when she peeked through the curtains, but still the window remained closed.

The hard work, the frozen nights, the hope that was dashed each time Katniss shut her lights off at the end of Peeta’s vigil at once drove him forward and wore him down. At last, without knowing how, ninety nine days and ninety nine nights had passed beneath her sealed window, that resolute glass and shaded curtain chipping away at the certainty that had brought him to commit to this path to begin with.

Peeta stood at his post, beneath the giant evergreen tree. Few people came this far to the edge of the Seam, unless they required some medical assistance from Katniss’s mother and sister. So it was with some surprise that he saw Gale arrive with a giant package. He watched as Katniss opened the door and welcomed him inside with the easy familiarity of a friend - or lover.

Peeta did not wait for the night to end before turning on his heel and returning home.

XXXXX

The hundredth day coincided with Yuletide’s Eve and the festival of the longest night of the year. All the houses of District 12 were filled with evergreen boughs and holly branches. Fires crackled, warm and fragrant, while cakes and cookies for those who could afford the fine flour and sugar abounded on tables that often remained empty of desserts the other nights of the year.

Peeta woke that morning emptier than he’d ever been in the previous three months. He barrelled through the day, working hard so he wouldn’t have to think of his withering heart. In the evening, he perused the treasure beneath his floorboard, the one sketchbook that had grown into two, and turned first one page, then another, each one a different version of Katniss. He had derived so much joy from the expectation of catching a glimpse of her, the hope he carried each night that one day he would arrive and find her window open. But now that he’d come to this point, he found the energy that had driven him forward all these months was now depleted.

Katniss would never open her window, never feel the way he felt for her. She had Gale and there was nothing more Peeta could do.

He slammed his sketchbooks shut and shoved them deep under the floorboard, as deep as they would go, and fitted the wood slab in place again, lowering the edge of the rug resolutely over it. When he glanced out the window, he saw Haymitch idling in the town square. Peeta grabbed his coat, putting it on as he took to the stairs and quickly found himself before the old, drunk storyteller.

“Now I understand why the soldier went away just before the end,” he blurted out, full of misery. “Just one more night and the princess would have been his. But she might not have kept her promise. And...that would have been terrible, he would have died from it. So instead, for ninety-nine nights, at least he had lived with the illusion that she was there waiting for him…”

Haymitch hung his head, scraping at the snow on the ground. “So the soldier’s dreams were more real to him than reality.”

Peeta followed the design Haymitch etched into the ice. Around him, the light of the afternoon was fading quickly, becoming darker and darker. It would be Yuletide soon, his family would sit around their dinner table, carving the winter fowl, slicing the warm, freshly baked bread, wondering where he was. He himself would not know where he would be until he found himself there, for his heart had exhausted his store of hope, and like the weather-beaten soldier, with chair firmly in hand, Peeta was ready to take his illusions with him.

Haymitch’s gravelly voice interrupted his thoughts. “Boy, go home. Eat well. Tomorrow will bring more fables and tales. Maybe you will find another dream to dream.”

The old man clapped his hand on Peeta’s shoulder, not waiting for him to return the greeting before turning to walk toward Greasy Sae’s, where he traditionally had his Yuletide dinner. Peeta looked to the path he’d taken so many times in the last months, the one that had led him each time to his place beneath Katniss’s window. The pull was weak but it was still there, beckoning him forward to try one more time, to live in his dream for one last night.

He let his gaze linger, his heart filled with a love he would bury for the rest if his life, turned around and walked back to the bakery.

XXXXX

Dinner was agony. His mother had invited their aunts and uncles and myriad of cousins to dine with them. Peeta made a half-hearted effort to appear happy, forcing himself to eat and socialize, all the while making every effort to push each tortuous thought of Katniss from his mind. He was in a bad way by the time dessert was served and only just made it through the end of toasting the meal when he slipped out of his apartment and snuck downstairs to take fresh air outside the bakery.

He didn’t bother to turn on the light in the shop as he unlocked the back door, making sure to leave it unlocked as he stepped out into the alley. There were a handful of people milling around, walking off the meals they’d just shared with their friends and family. Peeta’s stared out at the lamps that were hung with wreaths and holly, fixated on the flickering stars beyond. So he did not hear the shuffling of boots on snow until a voice startled him from his thoughts.

“I opened my window and you were gone.”

Peeta turned and saw Katniss as if in a dream. His heart gave one, resolute thud inside his chest and faltered before picking up speed, beating wildly.

“I thought…” he began, but the look on her face was nothing like he’d ever seen before - wonderful, sweet, the look of somebody who understands she is loved and now realizes at last that she is in love too. Her single braid was gone, replaced with an elaborate array of smaller braids arranged high on her head, revealing the endless, smooth column of her neck. She wore a powder-blue dress, fur-lined snow boots and her father’s hunting jacket, damp with fallen snow. She had never looked more beautiful.

“What about Gale?” he asked, praying that she was not a figment of his overheated imagination.

“Gale?” she answered, taking a step forward. “I got into the habit of having him around. But he’s not what I want.”

Her words overwhelmed him, making the moment almost unbearable. To be met, not with a scowl, but with an invitation. He opened his arms with a timid restraint, as if this was a reality he could not believe. But she stepped inside, without hesitation, and pressed her strong body against him.

“Am I what you want?”

She clutched the material of his sweater, balling it into her fist. “Yes.”

They held onto each other awhile longer, her small body swallowed in his arms. Peeta was filled with both happiness and the fear of letting go. Then, without warning, he lifted her up and brought her into the warmth of the bakery. His action elicited a squeal of surprise from her, which became laughter when he spun her around and around in wide circles. She buried her face in the crook of his neck until they landed, dizzy, against a wall.

They exchanged an intense look. Peeta didn’t know who started but with eyes locked on each other, they kissed, at first timid, almost clumsy, and then with more determination. Katniss’s lips gave way to him, and he kissed her hungrily, heady with the taste of her. They only broke apart when the bell of the town hall chimed midnight, but instead of ending their rapture, it was magnified a thousand times, reflected in Katniss’s glassy eyes and swollen lips.

Peeta was speechless but felt Katniss’s fingers twine through the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer. “Kiss me again, once for each night you waited for me.”

“A hundred kisses,” he whispered, pressing his lips against hers, wanting to get lost in the wet warmth of her mouth.

She pulled back before they became entangled again.“Were they really one hundred nights?”

“One hundred days and one hundred nights,” he answered, dizzy with want.

She shook her head, smiling up at him, a smile so full of love, he thought he might be blinded by it. “Then kiss me again until you lose count.”

XXXXX

Based on a series of scenes from the movie, Cinema Paradiso. Some lines of this story were taken directly from the script. If you get a chance to watch this movie, it’s lovely.

@norbertsmom - I was so happy to get you as my Secret Santa! I’ve enjoyed doing this with you. I wanted to write you more stories but it was not in the cards this time, so I decided to write a longer story for the great reveal instead. Searching for things to put on our blog was a lot of fun for me. Hope you have a wonderful holiday! I got so much out of it. Thanks for being a friend and a supporter over the years.

Betaed by the incomparable @eala-musings and @akai-echo. Happy holidays to my friends :).

#yip 2017 #norbertsmom #secret santa #whee! it's me!

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selinaneveahcrystal · 6 years

Text

Marcos Tries to Fix a Baby Crib—Part 2

Continued from Part 1

“Not again!” Lorna wakes groggily to the crash of something wooden against the hard surface of the floor. She rubs her eyes, stretching out the knots in her muscles as she glances blearily at her boyfriend, who simply glared angrily at the pieces of the wooden crib that had fallen apart.

She glanced at her watch, then lifted her head in surprise at the night sky.

7:36pm.

She’d slept for six hours.

Lorna yawns, before it registers to her that her frustrated boyfriend has spent six entire hours, working repeatedly on the failed crib scattered on the floor.

“You spent six hours on that thing.”

“Don’t even go there.” She tries not to laugh as he scowls at her. “Perhaps it might have been a little faster if you’d tried to help.” He huffed.

“Well, I would have made it faster if the manual was in German, not Swedish.” She’s entirely amused with the frustration he’s experiencing, and she bends to pick a piece of the wood between her fingers, browsing lightly through the manual. “You’re really terrible at this, Diaz.” She shoved the English translation that’s plastered right at the back, upside down, on the manual right in his face.

Lorna watches as Marcos grunts, his eyes staring accusingly at the translation before he throws the wooden plank he’d been holding to the side.

Lorna guesses that it’s his manly pride that prevents him from saying anything, because his cheeks are flushed as he works on the crib with renewed vengeance and odd vigour. She yawns, feeling almost entirely too lazy to continue sauntering around their room (it was the only place she could walk around, because Marcos is kinda lax with her bed rest issue) when Marcos opens his mouth.

“Shouldn’t you be resting in bed?” She decides that it’s the injury to his manly pride that has made him bring out the topic of her bed rest, and she obediently flops on their bed, a sigh of relief escaping her parted lips when a even better idea occurs to her.

A coy smile lights her lips slyly, and she leans slightly over the edge of their bed, chewing her lip as she contemplates her idea.

“Marcos. Maaaaarccooooss.” He barely stirs at the annoying use of his name, committed to his purpose with the crib and Lorna huffs almost exasperatedly.

It seemed like she should go to the next step of getting his attention.

Marcos grunts lowly as he finally twists the first joint of the stubborn crib in place when a pair of dark jeans hits him full in the face, smelling way too much like Lorna for him not to lift his face and look at her.

She’s entirely too smug that’s she’s getting his attention as she lazily lounges half on the bed and half off the bed—and Marcos swallows visibly as his eyes land on her bare legs.

“I’ve got a better idea for bed rest and cribs.” She croons, and Marcos chews on his bottom lip as she lies on their bed, dressed in his oversized shirt with no pants on and leaving little to imagination.

Tempting.

Very very tempting.

It’s a torture as he turns his eyes fixatedly from her stunning visage back to the half completed crib, and he hears her huff of exasperation and annoyance.

“Let’s just go to bed, Marcos.” She flops on his back, her weight pressing deliciously against his back, and her scent almost consuming him as he struggles to fix the next piece of their baby crib.

“I’ve got to finish this, Lorna.”

He can’t believe this, but Lorna whines at that sentence.

Actually whines.

“But that’s no fun.”

“Oh yeah? What’s fun then?”

“Bed rest. With you. Naked.” Her answers are so direct that it makes his mouth dry as his mind wanders to the wild passionate night they had before (John couldn’t look at his face in the morning until he came back with the crib, because that was the sixth time they’ve asked for a new bed post–blame it on pregnancy hormones, and Sonia was trying to hard not to laugh) —and he desperately shakes his head, trying to clear his mind and focus.

“I’m trying to concentrate here, Lorna.” She huffs at him in a typical Lorna way that has his lips curving affectionately.

“Well then, stop trying and come join me. I’ve just taken off your shirt.” Marcos fights back a groan.

It was obvious Lorna was trying to distract him from whatever he was doing—to pretty much a great success.

He was already contemplating the pros and cons of not being in bed with Lorna at the moment and—

He stiffens as he feels her lips trail down his jawline to his collarbone.

Ah, fuck this. He thinks as he throws aside the wooden piece of the half finished crib to grab and press her body to his chest. The crib can wait.

He feels her squeals of laughter that collapse into breathy moans as they collapse onto the bed, and he plans on making such a memorable night for her bed rest that she won’t be able to walk or even try getting out of bed to disturb him for the next few days, and if by any luck, make her start permanently liking bed rest for the rest of her pregnant days.

~~~~~

@eclipsepolarisxauroraborealis

And that’s one down and two more that’s finished to post.

And…not to mention the seven more prompts to start and write on…oh god

#fanfic: the gifted #the gifted #lorna dane #marcos diaz #marcos x lorna #eclaris #i have a trashy eclaris heart.#fanfiction #writing #i am trash for eclaris but i worry about my writing #sexy bits. a little

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floraexplorer · 5 years

Text

The Witches of El Alto, Bolivia: Traditions & Superstitions at the World’s Highest Market

Up in the mountains above La Paz, Bolivia, there’s a market called El Alto.

On a Sunday morning under a crisp blue sky, I stepped out of a minibus beside the ‘Mi Teleferico’ station and felt the air stop in my throat.

Before me lay Bolivia’s El Alto market: a chaotic sight of stalls, products, people and activity, sprawling everywhere and overtaking every block in sight with seemingly no end.

Everywhere I looked there was movement. Huge sheets of corrugated metal were lifted onto men’s backs; long planks of wood were manoeuvred through the crowds; cages filled with the blurry shapes of moving animals; babies passed between women’s arms and deftly tucked into bright aguayo cloth slings.

The noise, the activity, the chatter, the colours: all densely packed together like this, it made me struggle to catch my breath. My head swam and my fingers began to tingle.

This was not what I’d expected.

Although as it happens, there’s a perfectly good reason for feeling dizzy at El Alto market.

The El Alto market, also known as Feria 16 de Julio, is held twice a week (every Thursday and Sunday) throughout the year. It draws so many visitors from the surrounding valley that it’s hailed as one of the biggest markets in South America – if not the world.

It’s also one of the world’s highest markets, however odd a claim to fame that might be.

Sitting at an altitude of 4,150 metres (almost 1,000 metres higher than nearby La Paz), El Alto – a city in its own right – is the world’s highest major metropolis. Tourists fly into El Alto airport before driving straight down into La Paz so they often don’t think to visit, but El Alto is quickly increasing in foreign popularity thanks to the bi-weekly market, the female cholita wrestling matches, the beautifully strange architecture from indigenous Aymara architect Freddy Mamani Silvestre, and the La Paz cable car which takes passengers clear above the city’s rooftops and up into the mountains.

Still, getting altitude-sick in El Alto is totally understandable. The sun beats down stronger, the air is thinner, and your body can often struggle to adjust. It’s why you’ll see so many bags of coca leaves for sale, and so many people absent-mindedly chewing on a handful of them while they walk.

What exactly can you buy in Bolivia’s El Alto market? (Hint: the easy answer is ‘everything’)

Unlike the street stalls which pop up on every corner in La Paz, there are no tourist-friendly Bolivia souvenirs for sale in El Alto: no alpaca jumpers with geometric patterns; no bumbags or pencil cases or backpacks.

This is a local market – so we’re talking hardware, furniture, car parts and mechanical tools.

Hot tip: don’t go shopping in El Alto market for souvenirs! Hit the streets of La Paz instead.

My first visit to El Alto market was with Ivonne, Jorge and Florencio, three of the Bolivians I volunteered with at the artificial limb clinic. Their plan was to pick up various supplies for the clinic, but they also thought I’d enjoy seeing the market too.

Of course, that was the moment for Ivonne (a Bolivian mum) to start worrying about my safety as a white female foreigner.

In the traveller circuit, El Alto market has a reputation as a somewhat dodgy place, mainly because of potential pickpockets amidst the sheer number of people. Ivonne told me repeatedly not to speak – not in Spanish if I could help it, and definitely not in English – and to wear my sunglasses if possible so I wouldn’t draw too much attention to my evidently non-Bolivian face.

So I wandered through the biggest market in South America with my backpack securely on my front while watching people bartering with wizened old cholita women for the price of fluorescent double strip lights, discussing the advantages of curved back chairs, and sawing pieces of hardwood in the middle of the street.

Huge swathes of products for sale in El Alto are second-hand, from CDs and DVDs to furniture and musical instruments.

Jorge took me to the stalls filled with car parts and happily pointed out the makings of an entire car, if we’d wanted to build one from scratch.

I watched dozens of men dragging carts through the street to carry heavy new purchases, and I wondered how long it would take to erase the traces of this market from the city when Sunday finally finished.

But the more intriguing parts of El Alto were the ones I couldn’t quite see.

Small potholes on the roads we walked along eventually made way for huge gashes in the road, exposed pipework and piles of sand and cement. There, away from the hardware and the second hand goods, hidden around corners and amongst tight bunches of gossiping women were where the unidentifiable things were sold.

Unknown things in crates, balanced in the dirt.

There were tiny glimpses of things I knew I shouldn’t be seeing. The used syringes laid out on a blanket. The flash of bright metal from the inside of a man’s open jacket as he boasted to a friend about the gun he’d just bought.

Ivonne wouldn’t let me walk towards the stalls which were selling animals – illegal and exotic ones; monkeys, parrots, frogs and ocelots; both alive and dead.

These are the places of black magic. The market stalls which sell provisions for rituals, spells, and witchcraft.

In Bolivia, traditions and superstitions make up a huge part of the country’s culture.

Despite a firm adherence to the Spanish Catholic faith, there’s also a wealth of indigenous spiritualism and religion woven into Bolivia’s belief system.

Ever since the Spanish arrived to colonize South America in the 1500s, Bolivians have been happily combining elements of Catholicism with their already-existing indigenous Aymara beliefs and customs.

It’s led to a wonderful mixing of worlds: on any given day you could see a solemn religious procession in one neighbourhood of La Paz, and a joyful celebration of local Bolivian traditions in another.

Read more: Learning my way around the neighbourhoods of La Paz

It’s not just about processions, either. Adherence to Bolivian traditions can easily shape a person’s life.

In the city of Potosi, ancient legend says the devil lives inside the El Cerro Rico mountain – which also happens to be where many Bolivian men mine for silver each day. El Cerro Rico is known as ‘the mountain that eats men’ because so many have died here over the years; approximately eight million deaths since the colonial era. Even today the average life expectancy of a Potosi miner is about 35 years.

Because it’s seriously dangerous work, the miners leave daily offerings to El Tio (as the devil in the mountain is known) for protection.

There are statues of El Tio scattered throughout the mine shafts inside the mountain, surrounded by small piles of cigarettes, alcohol, coloured streamers, candles and coca leaves. The miners will often sit with their nearest El Tio: apparently he doesn’t like to be left alone.

[Photo courtesy of Matias Recondo]

Protection is a common theme throughout Bolivia. When any new building is constructed, builders ‘bless’ the project by burying a llama foetus beneath the foundations.

This offering of a pure, innocent creature is regarded as a gift to Pachamama (mother earth) and will hopefully bring good luck and protection to both the builders and the new residents.

Officially, all these foetuses have either been miscarried or were born dead – but it’s difficult to reconcile that fact with the amount of foetuses visible for sale throughout Bolivia. It’s also difficult when you learn that living llamas are often sacrificed as part of a ceremony. Every August in Potosi, the yatiri healers (mentioned later!) will sacrifice a llama at Cerro Rico to appease El Tio.

Daily life in Bolivia means riding a bus filled with Bolivians who cross themselves when we drive past a church. It means scrupulously avoiding the capture of women’s faces on camera, because many believe a photo will steal away a part of their soul.

Somehow I can’t think its a coincidence that seconds after taking this photo (accidentally!), my camera completely stopped working…

But what’s the easiest way for tourists and travellers to get to grips with Bolivia’s superstitious side?

Simple. Just head to the local witches market.

‘El Mercado de las Brujas’: the Witches Market of La Paz

In La Paz, El Mercado de las Brujas is a popular tourist attraction. It sits in the touristic centre of the city close to San Francisco church on Calle Jimenez and Calle Linares, and on first appearance it’s little more than a small cluster of stalls.

But this is where you’ll find talismans and effigies shaped from stone and painted sugar to ward off evil and impotence; spells and potions for falling in love and winning the lottery; huge white sacks of coca leaves, used in all manner of ceremonies – and, of course, the interminable llama foetuses.

Many of these parts will be collected together and assembled to make a cha’lla, a ceremony or offering to Pachamama.

The first day I arrived in La Paz, I went on a free walking tour which explained some of La Paz’s history and Bolivia’s focus on witches and superstition while we explored Mercado de Las Brujas. The place I ended up renting for the next month was close by too, so I often wandered the market as I got to know the area better.

It’s a fascinating area of La Paz, but the market itself always felt much more like a tourist attraction than a genuinely sacred place. You’re more likely to see foreigners buying stone totems as souvenirs or gifts than Bolivians picking up their ceremonial supplies.

There’s still some intense superstition at play here, though.

Pointing to the llama foetuses, my guide said there are rumours about bigger buildings needing a more extreme sacrifice. People say homeless men often go missing in Bolivia: plied with high-strength alcohol until they pass out, they’re then placed in a hole lined with coca leaves in the building’s foundations and buried alive – a necessary element of the ritual to sufficiently appease Pachamama.

As you’d expect from a country steeped in superstition, there’s plenty more magic available in Bolivia.

You just have to know where to look.

Finding the darker side of El Alto market

My second visit to El Alto was with a group of people I’d met at Lake Titicaca. They were in the middle of a ceremonial retreat with the San Pedro cactus (which I’d been invited to join), and needed to pick up some supplies at the market.

As a group, we hailed from America, Australia, Chile, Germany and the UK. We were certainly conspicuous – but we were also there with a Bolivian healer-in-training. And he guided us to many of the areas Ivonne had warned me away from.

A German friend of mine tried to buy a piece of something he thought was dried aloe vera and the Bolivian woman told him it was actually for cursing. The fact that she had a whole bag of the stuff for sale meant there was clearly enough demand for it.

The stall beside hers had the skin of a cat in a plastic bag on display. I tried not to look too closely at it.

As we walked, our Bolivian friend told us that stallholders in El Alto and in the witches market in La Paz sell rituals and spells designed to inflict bad luck or curses on other.

It’s also entirely possible to buy quantities of the ayahuasca vine and powdered San Pedro cactus, both used for medicinal healing ceremonies throughout South America.

NB: as someone who’s taken part in ayahuasca and San Pedro ceremonies, I would highly recommend AGAINST purchasing either substance at a street market. You should only drink these medicines when brewed by a knowledgeable shaman in a trusted setting!

A jug of ayahuasca with two glasses

Read more: my experiences with ayahuasca and with San Pedro cactus in Bolivia

El Alto, Bolivia: where the real witches are

We were at the El Alto bus station getting ready to leave the market when I saw a row of little blue huts, with fire burners crackling merrily away beside their open doorways.

This is where the witches sit.

In Bolivia, they’re known as yatiri – traditional Aymara healers who are spiritually called to work with their communities. In the western world, perhaps we’d call them ‘witch doctors’ or refer to them (wrongly) as shamans.

Tradition demands that the Bolivian yatiri have to wait for someone to visit them with their problems, and also that they have to help whoever approaches. So if the fire outside their hut is lit, that means a yatiri is home and available for business.

These healers will tell you your future for a price. They’ll draw tarot cards for you, read your palm, and read coca leaves by throwing them into the air and interpreting meaning from how they land.

I didn’t get my fortune told by the Bolivian healers. Some part of me wishes I had.

But as we walked slowly past their huts on our way to the bus, my Bolivian friend whispered, “Many people say these witches have the ability to not just read your future, but change it.”

Would you visit the yatiri in El Alto market? More importantly, have you ever had your fortune told by a witch?

Info about El Alto market:

– How do I get to El Alto market?

There are a number of ways to reach El Alto from La Paz: via cable car, public bus or hired taxi.

For the La Paz teleferico, take the Red Line up to the final stop and turn left onto Avenida Panoramica. The ride costs 3 Bolivianos each way.

For the bus, take one of the local white colectivos from San Francisco Plaza and get off at the entrance to the market. It takes 30 minutes to get there and the bus ride costs 2 Bolivianos each way.

– When is El Alto market open?

The market is open all day on Thursdays and Sundays throughout the year.

– Is El Alto market safe?

Although I felt perfectly safe on both visits, pickpockets and bag slashers are known to operate in El Alto. Leave your valuables and original ID documents at your accommodation in La Paz and only take a small amount of cash with you/copy of your passport. If you’re self conscious or scared about visiting El Alto as a foreigner, there are guided tours which show you around the market.

– What else is there to do in El Alto?

El Alto is also the home of the infamous all-Bolivian cholita wrestling matches, which are held every Sunday afternoon at 2pm (cost is 50 Bolivianos / $7 on the door). There are various companies offering tours to the wrestling matches, but you can also make your way independently to the El Alto Multifunctional Centre. Either take the cable car and walk for ten minutes, or catch the bus from San Francisco Church in La Paz and get off at ‘CAJA’ – the ride takes about 30 mins and costs 2 Bolivianos each way.

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