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serendipityrogers · 3 years

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a monday in new york city || b. barnes

one & two

summary: another date with bucky, but this time its in new york city with some familar faces.

pairing: bucky barnes x female!librarian!reader

warnings: some ANNOYING as cliches that i just love, swearing

an: okay so i know its been a week, but hey i’ve been busy! this series is going to have one more part! and it’s going to be spicy, but that is gonna take awhile because it takes a lot for me to write spicy stuff. also, this series doesn’t take place in a specific part of the mcu timeline, i just pick the characters i want and throw them together. the next part of my steve series should be out soon, like within the next couple days! enjoy!!! <3

“You should meet me in New York City tomorrow.”

You and Bucky were talking on the phone, no Facetime or Skype, because this man still had a flip phone. After knowing about his history, this did not surprise you. Funnily enough, you didn’t actually know he had a phone until about two weeks ago. You proceeded to laugh at him for about thirty minutes when he pulled out the phone. It had been almost three months since he walked into your library for the first time. And the two of you had spent nearly everyday together, of course, except for those days he was gone on ‘obligations.’

“Like a date?” You asked, rolling onto your stomach, and moving the phone from between your ear and shoulder and onto your pillow. You heard him chuckle, and your cheeks warmed up. “We could call it that.” It was a Sunday night, and tomorrow was a holiday so the library would be closed, and for once, you had a day off. And you were over the moon about spending it with Bucky.

“What do you have in mind?” You said, propping your head up on the palms of your hands. “Well, before I ask you, promise me you won’t freak out.” This peaked your interest. “Well what is it?” You pushed, “Promise me, first.” He was being stubborn. “Fine.” You sighed. “Well, the Starks are throwing a party tomorrow night…” He started, The Starks..? Like Tony and Pepper Stark? “...for our little group and some S.H.I.E.L.D agents, and he said I had a plus one, so of course, I want to take you.”

You were speechless, and you could feel the nerves creeping up from your stomach, all the way up to your throat. “Hello?” He asked, making sure you were still there. “Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. Just processing.” You muttered, now completely sat up in your bed. There were a few more moments of silence, then you spoke. “So you want me to go to a party thrown by Tony and Pepper Stark, and not only that, but a Stark party that will be mostly all your superhero friends?” You asked more rhetorically than anything else. “Yes.” He said confidently, which for a moment made your nerves waiver, but only for a couple seconds.

“If it’s any consolation, I really want you to come, and everyone really wants to meet you.” Everyone? Who is ‘everyone’..? Like the Avengers? They knew about you? Holy shit. You couldn’t think about that right now though. You broke it down in your head, trying to simplify it. Bucky really wanted you to go, and you really didn’t have a reason to say no, other than being very anxious about the whole thing. “You know what, sure.” You were finally able to get out the words. “Wait, really?” He asked excitedly. That made you feel good, that he was so excited for you to meet his friends.

He gave you all the details, adding to the nerves creeping up your throat. “I’m gonna get some sleep.” Bucky muttered at around 11, which was late for him. “I probably should too.” You said with a yawn. “Goodnight, Doll.” He said in a raspy tone, followed by him yawning as well. “Goodnight, Buck.” You said sleepily, about to hang up the phone, but then he spoke again. “And doll, I promise you won’t regret saying yes.” And with that, the phone line went dead.

It was a restless night, you tossed and turned for a couple hours, thinking about all the ways you could fuck up on this date. The last time you checked the clock it was just after one in the morning. When you did finally wake up, the sun was beaming straight into your bedroom. Warming up the room around you, you felt a thin layer of sweat covering your body, but that honestly could have been from the nerves. The first thing you did was grab your phone, and check if you had any text from Bucky, and you did.

It was a simple ‘good morning, doll,’ the same text he’s sent you every morning since you guys traded phone numbers. You sent him a similar text back, and rubbed the remaining sleep from your eyes. After contemplating staying in bed for awhile longer, you decided against it and figured you could start the day, as it was already almost ten in the morning.

After a warm shower, which consisted mostly of shaving and washing your hair, you decided to make a quick breakfast. While you ate, you contemplated on what to wear. Bucky said it was more on the fancier side. You had a couple ‘fancier’ options, but not a closet full. Breakfast was done and dishes were clean, so now it was time to try on all your options. By the end of you trying on almost everything in your closet, you decided to keep it simple but elegant. It was a black satin slip dress that fell right above your knee, and the shoes were a pop of color and definitely brought the outfit together.

As you pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, you felt those same nerves creeping up the back of your throat. The lot was full of cars, but you were able to get a spot closer to the front. This party looked like a lot more than a ‘little group and some S.H.I.E.L.D agents.’ After sending Bucky an ‘I’m here’ text, you gathered your phone and some little extras into your clutch. While you did some last minute touches and repositioning of your hair in your rear-view mirror, there was a small knock on your driver-side window, making your entire body jump, head snapping towards the noise.

Your eyes landed on Bucky, who was practically doubled over on laughter. After getting in a good laugh, he pulled open your door, giving you a hand to step out more smoothly, which you swatted away and rolled your eyes at him. Once he got a good look at you, his face shifted. The dress you wore accentuate parts of your body that your everyday clothes certainly did

not. And you were not the only one who noticed. You could feel Bucky’s eyes on your as you walked in front of him to navigate through some of the cars.

Once there was enough room for both of you to walk side-by-side, you felt his metal hand slide along your lower back, coming to rest on your furthest hip. His fingers rested on your hip bone, with each step you took, his hand followed the curve, giving it a small squeeze. “You look amazing, doll.” He whispered into your ear, making a layer of goosebumps cover your arms. “So do you, Buck.”

You were glad you wore black, because of course, so did Bucky. He wore a black undershirt, with a black blazer with leather lapels, and of course black dress pants. The two of you looked like a pair, which you liked. The two of you approached the front door of the hotel, pulling his arm away from your body, making you feel empty. He whisked the door open for you, letting you walk in before him.

The lobby was pretty empty, just a receptionist and a couple security guards standing around. You could hear talking and laughter from behind a couple pairs of closed doors. You followed Bucky towards one of the security guards, who was standing in front of one of the sets of doors. “She’s with me.” He explained, as the two of you approached him. Those words made you giddy, and you smiled at the man. “Alright, Sergeant Barnes.” The guard said, pushing the door open for both of you.

“Oh, Sergeant Barnes, huh?” You joked, wrapping one of your arms around his metal bicep. He tensed up a bit, but then laughed, “I like the way you say that.” Then added a wink. You looked away from Bucky, and towards the crowded, very crowded, room. Bucky definitely underestimated the amount of people would be here, but it was a Stark party after all, so you weren’t surprised. Bucky and you walked towards the bar, taking a seat, which you were thankful for, your feet already killing you.

The two of you spoke for awhile, sipping on your drinks. You weren’t sure why Bucky drank, since he physically could not get drunk. But if the drinks were free, you would be drinking too. “Hey Buck, there you are.” A man approached you two, placing a hand on Bucky’s back. Both of you turned your head, eyes landing on a familiar face. “You must be (Y/M/N).” He smiled, sticking a hand out for you to shake, so you did so. “Hello, Steve.” You matched his smile.

After the three of you bantered back and forth for a few moments, Steve spoke again, “Well if you two want to join us, most of us are sitting on the other side of the bar.” He explained pointing to the side of the room. Following the direction of his fingers, you saw a group of some more familiar faces. You knew most of their faces from news articles, but knew their names from Buck’s stories. It was Natasha, Bruce, and Wanda. “Wanna go?” You heard Bucky ask you, placing a hand on your knee. “Of course!” You said, perking up. Going over there was the last thing you wanted to do, because you already knew this was going to be awkward.

Steve led as Bucky followed him through the crowd, pulling you by your hand. Maneuvering through the people, ‘sorry’ and ‘excuse me’ passing your lips every so often. “I’m back…” Steve said, “...and I brought friends.” His use of the endearing term ‘friend,’ made you lighten up a bit. After some, not so awkward, introductions, they all started talking, and you happily listened. Your stories could never match up to any of theirs, so you didn’t even try. “Do you want another drink?” Bucky asked, noticing your empty glass. “Yeah, sure.” You smiled, he grabbed the glass out of your hands. He left your side, walking to meet the bartender who stood closer to the middle of the bar.

“So (Y/M/N), has Bucky read every book in your library yet?” Natasha asked, but by the way she emphasized the ‘your’ in her sentence, you couldn’t tell if she was implying an innuendo, but you decided to keep it literal. “Ya’know, he actually tends to stick around the romance section, his favorites are the damsel in distress ones.” You joked, placing the back of your hand on your forehead, closing your eyes like you were fainting. This got a laugh out of the group, making a small bit of confidence grow inside you. “What’re you guys laughing at?” Bucky asked, placing the fresh drink in your hand. “Nothing.” You said, pretending to lock your lips, making the group laugh again.

After a few more drinks, you had stopped feeling so tense and started loosening up. You started talking with Natasha and Wanda, while Buck, still nearby, spoke with Steve and Bruce. The three of you were sharing some of your dating horror stories. That was until the DJ started playing some more upbeat music, Natasha immediately stopped and looked between you and Wanda.

“Do you guys wanna dance?” He asked hopefully, wrapping one of her hands around yours, and Wanda’s, wrist. “Sure!” You exclaimed, which made Wanda agree. The three of you left the bar, making your way to the large dance floor in the middle of the room. There were a good amount of people on the floor, and everyone was in their own worlds. It took you a while to get into it, but when the DJ played a song you knew all the words to, it was over.

The three of you danced in a circle together. You danced similarly to the day Bucky caught you dancing at the library. Eyes shifting from open to closed, hands running up and down your body, hips moving side to side, fingers running through your hair. You felt eyes on you, and you looked towards Bucky. He had a green beer bottle pressed to his lips, not sipping just sitting there, like he was frozen. His eyes followed every curve of your body as it moved. Knowing that he was watching you made you want to move even more, Natasha and Wanda matching your energy level.

After saying all your goodbyes to everyone, and Natasha drunkenly inviting you to one of her and Wanda’s girls night, Bucky walked you to your car. “You really shouldn’t drive.” He insisted, grabbing the keys you had hanging around your finger. You definitely weren’t drunk, but more like buzzed. “I’m fine.” You insisted, leaning against the side of your car, trying to get any weight off your feet.

“Stay the night with me.” He inisited, both hands resting on your hips, and his forehead resting on yours. You debated back and forth in your head, well the best you could in your buzzed state. “Fine.” You said, trying to sound reluctant, but you were the opposite, but he couldn’t know that. “But, I need to leave by 7:30 tomorrow morning!”

The drive was short, no longer than five minutes. “Now don’t make fun of me, as you know, I don’t spend very much time here.” Bucky explained, hand resting on the doorknob of his front door. “Oh shut up, I’m sure it’s fine.” You laughed, placing your hand on his and turning the doorknob. He stepped in first, flipping on the light switch. Your eyes scanned over the viewable part of the apartment,”I was right, you just need to do some major decorating.”

Bucky walked off as you practically ripped your shoes off your feet, sighing in relief. Leaving the foyer and stepping into the living room, you searched for Bucky and he was standing in the kitchen. So you snuck up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Hi.” You mumbled, eyes fluttering closed and cheek pressed against his back. “Hey, doll.” He muttered back.

You felt Bucky raise both his arms, and you heard some shifting, so you assumed he was searching for something in his cabinet. You heard what sounded like a pill bottle, and he shook some of them out into his hand. “Here take these.” He grabbed one of your hands, placing two small, circular pills in your hand. It was some form of Advil, you could tell by the familiar red color.

Pulling away from him, you placed the pills into your mouth and he handed you a glass of water. “Thanks.” You said, taking a gulp of the water. “But I’m not gonna be hungover.” You insisted, placing the glass into his sink. You could tell he didn’t believe you, but he just smiled. “Let’s go get you some comfier clothes.”

“These are not gonna fit.” You called from the other side of the bathroom door. Bucky had given you a shirt and some red flannel pajama pants. The shirt was fine, you wore big shirts quite frequently, but no matter how tight you pulled the drawstring, the pants fell down to your thighs. You peaked your head out from behind the door, and Bucky was sitting on the edge of the bed. “The shirt is pretty long on me, is it weird if I just don’t wear pants?” You asked him. He shrugged, “I don’t think so, as long as you’re comfortable.” He smiled. You opened the door all the way, and handed him the red pants, and he tossed them on the opposite side of the bed.

“Well, It’s almost one in the morning, you should get some sleep.” He stood up from the bed and walked towards his closet,“You can have my bed, and I’ll sleep out here.” He pulled out a pillow and a sheet from his closet. “What, don’t wanna sleep with me, Buck? I see how it is.” You giggled, acting like you were upset, and rolling your eyes.

“No-no, I-Buck, I’m kidding.” You cut him off, laughing at his sudden awkwardness. “I didn’t want to assume.” He finally muttered out. “I guess I don’t mind sharing a bed with you.” Continuing your joke, and slipping under the comforter. Engulfed by the smell of Bucky, which added another level of comfort. He pulled open the dresser once again, grabbing a shirt and some pajama pants, leaving you to go change in the bathroom.

You scrolled on your phone, setting multiple alarms to make sure you woke up on time tomorrow morning, then placing it on the bedside table. Letting your eyes fall closed, you turned so that your back was towards the bathroom door. Without opening your eyes, you heard the bathroom door open, and then the lights flickered off.

There was some quiet shuffling and you felt the bed dip beside you. Your eyes reluctantly opened, and you were greeted by the sight of Bucky’s back. Without thinking, you placed your hand on the arm that wasn’t tucked under his body, pulling at it softly. He rolled inward, now facing you. There was a sleepy smile on his face, and he blinked slowly, desperately trying to keep his eyes open. You placed a hand on his face, thumb softly running over the stubble on his cheek. His eyes finally shut, face full of content, the corners of his lips still upturned. Wiggling closer to him, “If we cuddled a little bit, I won’t tell if you don’t.” You said, letting some excess air out of your nose, as a laugh. “I know we aren’t dating, but…” Your voice trailing off.

“Yeah, about that…”

#mcu #mcu one shot #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes one shot #james buchanan barnes #winter solider x you #winter solider fanfiction #winter solider imagine #winter solider x reader #winter solider #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan one shot

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theawkwardterrier · 3 years

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When in the Depth of Winter

Summary: Peggy notices how the cold troubles Steve and tries to fix it.

The first part of my Steggy Secret Santa outtakes posting. This one was rejected because it refused to stay as light as I wanted, so take that as you will.

Read on AO3

Something happens to Steve as the temperature begins to drop below freezing. Peggy doesn’t think that anyone else has noticed - when asked if he seems different to her, Angie declares, “Nah, swell - and gorgeous! - as always,” and Bucky points out that just because the current war is a cold one, doesn’t mean that Steve feels he’s through with his responsibilities - but it’s terribly obvious to her. Or perhaps it’s only that no one else is around to see him walk through the house in his warmest socks or take an extra quilt from the linen closet to add to their bed. No one else thinks to notice how odd it is for him to bundle in gloves and a scarf and a hat, even though his core temperature stays consistently high regardless. She seems to be the only one who sees him turn from cheery window displays and tuck himself even quieter and farther inside at the parties they’re invited to.

She asks him about it, of course she does. They’ve been married for a year and had been seeing each other nearly daily for months before then, ever since he’d been recovered from the Valkyrie. There’s no one she trusts as much as she does Steve and she doesn’t think it flattery but mere fact that she holds similar esteem to him. Still, he only frowns and shrugs in response to her questions, says he’s feeling the same as usual, kissing her gently on the temple or crown or mouth and thanking her for worrying about him. And she doesn’t think he’s intentionally lying; sometimes, however, your feelings are buried so deeply that you don’t even recognize them. That doesn’t mean that they aren’t there. That doesn’t mean that there isn’t anything to be done.

Somehow, as if knowing that Peggy has other things to think about and can’t stay in the office until all hours or pop in for emergency sessions on weekends (or perhaps because she isn’t the only one whose family has her focus just now), her agents are closing cases at a top clip and the criminal underworld seems to have settled into some sort of hibernation.

And so Peggy is able to stop at the delicatessen on a Friday and still be home by suppertime.

“It’s the absolute perfect evening,” she says as soon as she comes through the door. “Come for a walk with me.” There’s an excitement to the declaration rather than any martial strictness; after an assessing look at her - this isn’t precisely normal for the two of them - he stands and dons his coat to join her outside.

They live away from the main street and most of their neighbors are already tucked away inside their homes. When they do encounter someone, they exchange nods, but for the most part there is only the soft sound of their boots atop the leftover snow, their exhalations of breath which fog in the air.

Through the larger front windows they can see families eating and couples reading side by side, silhouettes of Christmas trees, and once, a couple sharing a kiss in a dim sitting room. One or the other of them will point out some particularly pretty decorations. It is not late but the winter darkness is so complete that when they step through a streetlight the reality of the brightness is nearly a surprise, a brief dawning which reminds them of how lovely the velvet night can be too.

Pressed close as they are, she feels him shiver as a breeze blows past them. Leaning up, she touches her chilled cheek to his warmer one, both their eyes closed. And without speaking, they turn around and start for home.

Their fireplace has never been used before now, but they light it tonight, sit in front of its bathing warmth to eat the chicken soup that she had brought home, reheated piping hot. They don’t speak much but it is enough, unhurried and peaceful. She can feel him watching her, trying to figure through her intentions, but in the end he seems simply to accept it, leaning back and allowing himself to be thawed.

“What do you think of ice skating?” she asks him as they finish washing the breakfast dishes one Saturday morning.

He gives her an odd glance. “Walking but on ice and with knives strapped to your feet?” he tries.

“Well, I’m sure there’s nothing we have to do today which can’t keep until tomorrow, and I’ve bought you a pair of skates which should fit.”

Steve is her husband, and before that he was her friend, and he is above all her partner. She doesn’t often use with him the tone of voice she does for stubborn politicians or agency heads who disagree with her, the one which is simultaneously so firm as not to brook complaint and a bit blithe, as though whatever is being discussed has already been decided in Peggy’s favor and aren’t they silly for having forgotten. By the way his eyebrows furrow even deeper, she knows he recognizes it and he even opens his mouth to say so, but in the end he instead goes to get his coat.

Their house is a ten minute walk from the skating pond - not even that if you’re Steve - but they’re usually too busy to even contemplate availing themselves of it. It’s already midmorning by the time they arrive and the day is perfect, sunny but frigid, so no one has to worry about softening ice. They are far enough into the season, however, that the novelty has worn off and only a few other groups are taking advantage.

Steve has, through mutual effort, become a passable dancer beyond back and forth swaying and turning in circles (not that the style doesn’t have its own charms). That skill doesn’t seem to translate to the ice, however, and he spends their first turns around the pond clutching her hands with the trembling ankles of a newborn deer taking its first steps. But he picks it up more quickly than she had expected, his serum-induced athleticism activating as he continues to practice, and soon his hand in hers has nothing to do with balance or security anymore.

They get competitive, they can’t help it, laughing as they race, taking care to swerve around the others with whom they are sharing the ice. Steve tries a couple of jumps - daring and occasionally reckless as he might be, he’s smart enough not to attempt flips just yet - and even when he falls, he just laughs and shakes himself off as he stands again.

It doesn’t escape Peggy’s eyes as they switch back over into their street shoes that Steve has stuffed his gloves into his pocket, that he drapes his coat over his arm deference to the sweat they’ve worked up. But she doesn’t mention anything, merely takes his hand once again for the walk home.

They go to watch Angie playing Martha Cratchit in A Christmas Carol the next week, and treat her to supper and hot apple cider afterward. (Steve crinkles his nose but keeps taking baffled sips from his mug, as if a preference for it might sneak up on him if he only keeps trying.) The week after that, it snows again and they spend Sunday in Prospect Park with Bucky so Peggy can experience the site of their youthful sledding exploits.

“Well, we didn’t exactly have a sled then,” Steve points out as they climb Lookout Hill. “But there’s plenty you can do with a garbage can lid or the old instrument trays that the hospital was getting rid of.” It’s the sort of statement which would have Peggy’s mother making faces like she had just sniffed sour milk, but Peggy herself actually smiles at the picture of her husband small enough to curl himself up for a trip down the hill and brash enough to try it.

“Can’t believe you’re forgetting my masterpiece,” Bucky jokes. “Weeks of collecting scrap wood and old nails, borrowing my dad’s hammer to put it all together, and you don’t even mention it.”

Steve shakes his head. “My mother was certain I’d get tetanus just from being near that thing when she saw what you’d made.”

“I think my ears are still ringing from her shouting - and don’t think I’ve forgotten that it was mostly at me.”

“You were the one stupid enough to build it!”

“You’re the one who was stupid enough to ride it.” With a grin, Bucky adds, “I didn’t think anyone could shout louder than my ma, so I guess I learned a lesson in more than woodworking that day.”

“Now I’m even more disappointed that I was never given a chance to meet her,” Peggy says as they reach the top before Bucky can play any further with the word woodworking. He had been discovered in Russia by a SHIELD spy and extracted a year before they found Steve; he is quiet about the professional help he has been getting to manage the pain of the things that happened to him during the war and after, but it’s clearly making a difference: his terrible sense of humor is returning in fuller force even than she knew it could. Steve’s hip nudges against hers, and she knows that it is not by accident. She looks up at him and catches his smile.

After a morning of racing down the hill until the crowds arrive, after they’d handed over their sleds to a group of kids without their own and, picking up food on the way, gone back to Bucky’s apartment to eat and talk and laugh together, Peggy and Steve take the train back home. His cheeks are still somewhat rosy when she looks at him, and the remnants of laughter still dance about his mouth. Halfway there, a pair of seats opens up and they sit side by side, leaning into each other a bit, watching absently through the steamed window as the city passes them by.

“I can tell what you’re doing, you know,” Steve says as they climb the porch stairs, returning from helping out at the Red Cross rummage sale. Steve has plenty of volunteer projects he’s associated with around the neighborhood - the soup kitchen, the community center - but she had been the one to suggest this; she remembers how welcome that bright symbol had been on the battlefield, in the same way as Steve’s shield.

“Unlocking the door?” she asks as she plucks her keys from her bag.

He is so near to her that she can feel his heat and practically his narrowed eyes as well as he says, “Not—Well, sure, but what I meant was that I know that you don’t just suddenly find winter outings appealing.”

She lets them through the door, unbuttoning her coat with her other hand. “Perhaps I’m only just becoming comfortable enough with you to share my love for them.” Until he comes out with what he is thinking, she isn’t going to simply believe the jig to be up.

“Peggy,” he says, and to anyone else listening it would just be her name, but she hears the real sharpness to the word. She turns to him, coat still draped around her shoulders. He’s shut the door with his foot and they haven’t had a chance to switch on the lights; his face is shadowed, difficult to make out in the muted light of the late afternoon.

“When you asked,” he says, and then makes himself take in more air. “When you asked if something was wrong, I didn’t know that there was. But it’s just that—” He ducks his head, then lifts it again, making himself look toward her. “I keep thinking of all those winters of never being quite warm enough, never having a good coat or shoes to keep out the damp, the way I knew that I was getting sick by the way my breath would catch when I laughed or when there was a certain taste in the back of my throat. I can’t forget the smell of trench foot from guys who’d been walking in wet boots for days, or the times I had to be the one to keep digging the graves because the ground was so frozen no one else could get through it. There are nights I close my eyes and see Buck falling, that jacket of his all dark against the snow, even though he survived, he’s back now and safe. And sometimes, when the wind is really bad, I feel like I remember—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, though his shoulders shake as well, broad as they are.

They have talked about their time apart, as they call it, but he has always wanted to keep the focus on her end, on the things she had done and the way she had felt and all that had happened to her, pushing off talk of his end of things with reminders that there wasn’t anything to tell about what was essentially a prolonged sleep. They both know that he shouldn’t be able to recall any of it - he swears he was knocked out by the impact of the crash and he only woke up again long after he had been removed from the shell of the Valkyrie and completely warmed - but even the thought that he might remember a moment of his time frozen beneath the ice stabs at her.

“I could see that this time of year was difficult for you,” she says, and she doesn’t look away from him even as she folds herself inward. Typically her bulling forward has worked in her favor; the idea that it might have backfired and hurt the person she least wants to is intolerable. “I thought we might try to cloud some of the associations for you, to give you some new memories for the season. But perhaps it was a bit too much to overcome.”

He ducks his head and steps toward her; he is very near in the darkened front hall. “You weren’t wrong to try. The thing is that you did give me good new memories: helping people get through the worst of the cold, spending time with our friends, all those new moments with you. Those memories have to fit inside my head along with the old ones; you just made sure that sometimes when it’s cold what I’ll remember instead is kissing you with snowflakes on your eyelashes. I’m just never sure which is going to be the one my brain’ll bring up.”

“I know as well as you do that it’s impossible to erase the other memories,” she says. “But it’s terribly important to me to make sure that you have an entire lifetime’s worth of happy ones too.”

“You’ve given me a million wonderful ones, even when you weren’t trying,” he says staunchly. Captain America isn’t just a persona or a symbol, it’s who he is, the bolsterer, strong and entirely reliable, she’s always known that. But it is so clearly Steve Rogers who, after a pausing moment, asks, low and a bit worried, “But what about—I don’t want you to feel guilty if sometimes the good memories aren’t always enough. It’s only that the bad ones are still in there too.”

She closes her eyes; how particularly privileged she feels for him to allow himself to say such a thing when he spends so much time considering himself last, trying to make sure no one thinks of having to extend a hand on his behalf.

“Well,” she says, stepping forward and tucking herself beneath his coat with him, wrapping arms around his back to hold him tightly to herself. “In those moments, we just stand together and wait for spring.”

#Steggy fic #Steggy #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter #alternate universe - Steve was found in the ice #bad psychology

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likealightsw1tch · 4 years

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BOM 10 Day Challenge - Day 1

Line Prompt: “I’m fine. Let me see your face.”

“We used to drive past this place every Sunday on our way to church,” Connor said as they approached the drab one-story building at the end of the block. The neon “OPEN” sign was flickering, and the “N” was nearly all the way burnt out so it more accurately read as “OPE.” Which, Connor thought, seemed to fit, too.

“My parents always considered it the wart on our town,” he continued, he and Kevin’s intertwined hands swinging happily between them, “They tried to get the city to shut it down several times. All part of their push to make Farmington a dry town.”

“So, there’s no chance of us running into them, then?” Kevin smiled at him.

“Ha.” Connor snorted. “No, I don’t think there will be any grand reunions tonight.”

“Too bad.”

*******

Connor had spent years wondering what the inside of this place looked like.

It was… honestly, underwhelming.

By the way his parents had talked about it with such contempt, he half expected it to be roach infested with hellfire bursting from the floorboards and people fornicating on the tables. Looking around now, he couldn’t be entirely sure about the roaches, but otherwise it proved his parents wrong. It was even charming, in a rustic, down-home kind of way that didn’t exactly mesh with Connor’s usual aesthetic. But there were fairy lights woven through the wooden beams on the ceiling and light music playing from the old fashioned jukebox in the corner, and he was here with the love of his life and really, everything looked a little prettier when teeming with a hint of sweet rebellion.

“Well,” Kevin said, pulling out a barstool for each of them, “Is it everything you ever dreamed of?”

Connor grimaced when his hand touched something sticky on the underside of the counter. He wiped it on his jeans as he settled into his seat.

“I think I’ve found my Orlando, Kev. I really do.”

Kevin’s smirk erupted into a genuine laugh.

“Well, since you brought it up,” Kevin walked his fingers playfully up Connor’s thigh, “I was thinking our next trip should be Disney.”

“Oh, yeah? This is completely brand new information to me. You’ve never brought this up before.”

“Shut up,” Kevin smacked him lightly on the knee before retracting his hand, “We’ve earned a decent vacation after braving this trip to Utah.”

“What can I get you boys?” A grey-haired man with tattoos approached them from behind the bar. Kevin turned to Connor.

“The usual?”

Connor nodded.

“One vodka cranberry with lime and a Jack and Coke, please.”

When Kevin turned back to Connor, he was grinning at him.

“What?”

“I like that you know my order,” Connor smiled.

Kevin rolled his eyes, but Connor saw the hint of a blush creep into his cheeks as he looked away.

“Of course I know your order,” he replied, fidgeting with a peanut shell from the bowl on the counter, “You drink like a freshman sorority girl.”

“You were being cute and you ruined it.” Connor picked up a peanut from the bowl and flicked it at his head.

“I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” Kevin finally freed the peanut from its shell and held it up between his finger and his thumb. “Here, catch.”

Connor opened his mouth on command and Kevin tossed it in, grinning like a child when he made it on the first try.

Connor didn’t doubt that he would, indeed, make it up to him. Kevin Price plus alcohol was the perfect algorithm for affection. He was only halfway through his second Jack and Coke when his hand had found its way to Connor’s thigh, rubbing absently along his jeans as they laughed at some stupid joke he had made. His barstool had mysteriously inched closer to Connor’s as the night went on until their legs were practically overlapping.

It was nice to see Kevin smiling. It had been a tense weekend staying at his parents’ house. While the Price family hadn’t reacted quite as poorly to his coming out as Connor’s parents had, they certainly didn’t approve of it, and made little effort to hide the fact. Kevin put up a good front, but Connor could see through it. He knew how much Kevin missed his family, especially his siblings, since they moved to New York, and it was especially hurtful to feel the weight of their disapproval when he came home. Which was why Connor was glad he had agreed to come with him to this shitty little dive bar, so they could have one good memory of their trip before they went back.

“One more before I call a car?” Kevin slurred happily as he leaned in for a kiss. Connor happily obliged, then placed his hands against his chest before it could escalate.

“Yes,” he said, pushing away from his barstool and grabbing Kevin’s arm for support as he swayed slightly on his feet, “But first I gotta break the seal.”

He nearly tripped over his own foot as he tried to walk away, but he regained his balance and faked a hair flip at his achievement. Kevin snorted.

“You good on your own, there, champ?”

Connor gave an ungraceful attempt at a curtsey in response before heading off to the bathroom.

*******

K: Did you fall in?

Kevin sent the text as he chased his straw around with his tongue, finally managing to wrangle it back into his mouth. He pulled in a long sip, frowning when he slurped up mostly air and melted ice from the bottom. Had he finished another drink already? His eyes shifted to Connor’s full beverage on the bar. He probably wouldn’t even notice if there was a sip missing. He probably wouldn’t even mind. Peeking over his shoulder, he snuck a drink and immediately pulled back, his lips twisted in disgust. How Connor could stand the taste of vodka was beyond him.

He flipped his phone over and saw that Connor hadn’t responded. He sighed. Suddenly he was having flashbacks to the time Arnold brought Naba to New York for her twenty-first birthday and Connor and Kevin had treated them to a night on the town. It had been a good time until Kevin had to scrape his boyfriend off the floor of the public bathroom in their favorite bar, profusely apologizing to the bartender for the mess he left behind. For all of Connor’s strengths, holding his liquor was not one of them.

Sneaking one last swig of Connor’s drink -- after all, he was probably about to earn it -- he laid down some cash and headed for the bathroom to retrieve him.

Kevin knew something was wrong before he even opened the door. His hand was frozen on the knob when he heard a muffled thud, followed by a soft whimper. He yanked open the door and his heart stopped cold in his chest.

Connor was pushed up against the opposite wall with his back to Kevin. One man held him by the neck, the other twisting an arm behind his back. Kevin could only see a sliver of Connor’s profile, but the panic was evident in his face. He was crying.

“Hey!” Kevin’s voice was firmer than he expected for someone who was suddenly trembling from head to toe. He charged forward without thinking about it, his body propelled by pure rage and adrenaline.

The man at Connor’s neck was the first to spin around, being promptly met with Kevin’s fist. He didn’t process the throbbing in his knuckles -- holy shit he had just punched someone in the face -- and he didn’t have time to, because the other man was advancing on him now and oh. Wow. The pain in his hand was nothing compared to pain in his face as a fist exploded against it.

He stumbled back clutching his gushing nose and trying to see past the stars that danced in his vision. Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, he thought he heard a slur being thrown his direction. He steadied himself against the sink. He had to keep fighting. He had to make sure Connor was safe. He nearly swung again when a hand landed on his arm, but his eyes focused in time to see Connor inches from him, looking at him with wide eyes. Kevin blinked, once, twice, trying to clear his vision. When he looked around the bathroom, the men were gone. They were alone.

“Kevin? Can you hear me?”

“Connor.”

The sudden clarity of everything that just happened crashed into him and, ignoring the throbbing pain and the blood he felt dribbling down to his chin, Kevin pulled Connor against his chest, wrapping his arms protectively around his back.

“Connor, oh, my god,” he closed his eyes tight, whispering into his hair, “Are you okay? What did they do to you? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he said, though his voice wavered unsteadily, “Let me see your face.”

Kevin reluctantly obliged when he felt him squirming in his hold, pulling back and scanning over Connor for any sign of injury. Connor took a step back and lifted his hand to Kevin’s cheek, running his thumb lightly over the red skin that was starting to surface. Kevin winced at the contact.

“That’s going to bruise,” Connor noted, moving his hand to the back of Kevin’s neck. Kevin closed his eyes at the soothing brush of his hand in his hair.

“I don’t care,” Kevin said, “As long as you’re okay.”

Connor swallowed hard, attempting to mask the panic in his eyes, but Kevin didn’t miss the way his hands shook against his skin. They would need to talk about this. Somewhere far away from this bathroom, from this bar, from this fucking town that proved to them time and time again that they were not welcome here. Somewhere they were both safe. For now, Kevin pulled him into a protective hug once more, and took comfort in the small words whispered against his shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

#BOM10DayChallenge #Day 1 #Writing Prompt #book of mormon #kevin price #connor mckinley #elder price #elder mckinley #mcpriceley

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musette22 · 5 years

Text

Kiss the Boy

Pairing: Chris Evans x Sebastian Stan (Evanstan)

Rating: G

Word count: 1419

A/N: Fic number two in my 700 followers celebration! I’ll be posting a short fic every Sunday for the next four weeks. A while ago (like, last year lol) I had a conversation with someone on here (pretty sure it was @safire182??) about that interview where Sebastian admitted he tried picking up girls with his rendition of ‘Under the Sea’ from the Little Mermaid. I wanted to see what would happen when he tried it on Chris. So, it took a little while, but here’s the fic - short but (hopefully) sweet! ❤

Read it on AO3

The blinds in Chris’s trailer are adorned with a hundred and twelve tiny, printed daisies. He knows this because he’s counted them. Twice.

With a heavy sigh, he picks up a pillow and puts it over his face, idly considering smothering himself with it. He’s just so bored.

He doesn’t usually get bored because there’s always some adventurer’s biography to read, some political travesty to rant about, but in his current hungover state he doesn’t think he can summon the mental energy for any of that. They’re doing a night shoot for The First Avenger today, meaning all the cast has the morning off. Which suits him fine in principle, since most of them went out on a bit of a bender the night before, but unfortunately, Chris is incapable of sleeping in when he’s had too much to drink. He’s been awake for three hours and already he’s going out of his mind.

On a whim, he digs his phone out from between the couch cushions and shoots Sebastian a quick text.

C: Bro, I’m bored. Are you bored?

Sebastian replies within thirty seconds.

S: OMG I AM SO BORED

C: Wanna come to my trailer and be bored together?

S: Omw

---

Being bored together is a lot less awful than being bored alone, but it still doesn’t change the fact that they’re both still bored as fuck. Usually, they’d be chatting a mile a minute, talking about everything from work to philosophy to space stuff, but today… You know, hangover.

“Let’s watch a movie?”

Slowly, Chris turns his head to look at Sebastian, who’s slumped next to him on the couch, long, denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him.

“Sebastian,” he says gravely, “you’re a genius.”

Huffing, Sebastian counters, “If I was, I wouldn’t have had those last three shots of tequila yesterday, now would I?”

Chris makes a face. “Meh, maybe not,” he grins. “So, what d’you wanna see?”

Seb rubs his tired eyes. “Nothing with explosions, please. My head’s doing a pretty good job of that all on its own.”

“Tell me about it,” Chris groans, cracking his neck and shoulders, then blows out a slow breath before casually suggesting, “So, Disney movie?”

Sebastian chuckles. When Chris just keeps looking at him expectantly, however, it seems to dawn on him that Chris is serious. “Really?” he asks, surprised, before suddenly snapping his fingers. “Oh yeah! You’re a huge Disney nerd.” He grins impishly. “How could I forget?”

Chris doesn’t even bother denying it. It’s not exactly a secret at this point, and besides, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Disney movies are works of art and he’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.

He hands Sebastian his laptop, open on Netflix. “You pick.” He’s feeling magnanimous.

A few minutes of humming and hawing later, Sebastian decides on The Little Mermaid.

“Oohh, excellent choice!” Chris crows, punching the air.

Sebastian winces. “It is?”

Chris nods and claps a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “Did you know,” he says, leaning closer as if he’s letting him in on a secret, “that I know all the words to this one?”

---

Chris wasn’t kidding. He basically recites the whole first quarter of the movie verbatim, including all the different voices. Sebastian is reluctantly impressed.

When the first notes to Under the Sea start playing, Seb is suddenly hit with a memory from his childhood.

“You know,” he says, turning to Chris with a lazy grin, “I used to try and pick up girls with this song when I was little.”

Chris gives him a quizzical look. “As, like, Prince Eric? He’s not in this scene, is he?”

Sebastian blinks. Does… Does Chris think he looks like Prince Eric? He can’t help but preen a little at that. He supposes he has got the hair for it. Still, that’s not what he meant, so he clarifies,

“No, no, as, you know – Sebastian?” He snaps his hands in his best impression of a crab.

“Oh my god,” Chris breathes, delighted. “That’s incredible. So how did that work out for baby Seb, huh? I bet all the pretty girls wanted to hold your pincers, am I right?”

Seb rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I wish,” he sighs dramatically, letting his head fall back against the backrest. “It was not a success.”

That makes Chris’ forehead furrow up into a frown, which Sebastian can’t help but find endearing.

“You’re shitting me,” Chris says. “Surely girls would totally dig that?” He huffs out a laugh and adds, “I know I would.”

Suddenly, an excited glint appears in his eye.

Uh oh, Sebastian thinks, and sure enough, a moment later, Chris pokes him in the side and orders, “Try it on me!”

When Sebastian just makes a face, Chris, the bastard, turns the puppy dog eyes on him.

“Aw, come on, Seb,” he says, pleading. “I’m dying to experience this thing first-hand, buddy. You’ve gotta give me a sneak peek.”

Sebastian stares hard at Chris for a second, then lets out a sigh.

“Fine,” he says, sitting up and reaching for the laptop. He skips back to the beginning of the song and warns, “You asked for it, pal,” before clearing his throat and starting to sing along.

Although, ‘singing’ may be a strong word for it. Mostly, he’s just goofing around, imitating his crustacean namesake, trying and largely failing at a Jamaican accent. To be fair, he does know most of the words, and the ones he doesn’t he just sort of na na na’s, and it’s not long before Chris is cracking up, head thrown back and clutching his chest. His laugh is so infectious that it’s a testament to Seb’s acting prowess that he doesn’t break down laughing too, just keeps on singing, determined now to give Chris the full Sebastian experience.

When the song gets to the The newt play the flute bit, Seb decides to crank his performance up a notch. Turning to face Chris, he spreads his arms wide and basically starts serenading him, throwing in some shoulder shimmies and exaggerated winks for effect. That only makes Chris laugh harder, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes now as he lets himself sink back into the cushions.

As he nears the grand finale, Seb plants one hand on the back of the couch and hovers over Chris, who’s sliding slowly onto his back, dropping sideways until he’s slumped along the length of the couch, clutching his stomach.

“That's why it's hotter, Under the water,” Seb croons loudly, singing the last lines directly into Chris’ face. “Ya we in luck here, Down in the muck here, Under the seaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

As the last note dies out, it’s replaced by a rather abrupt silence.

All at once, Sebastian becomes acutely aware of the fact that he’s basically lying on top of Chris, as well as of all the places their bodies are touching. Since they’re both still breathing hard and there is also only about an inch or so between their faces, Sebastian can feel Chris’s warm breath fanning his face. Chris is still smiling, cheeks flushed and blue eyes sparkling, and his lips… Have they always been this pink?

Sebastian feels flustered all of a sudden, his eyes flitting restlessly over Chris’ features, feeling oddly like he’s seeing them for the first time. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest, and he’s still breathing faster than usual, but all of that’s no doubt due to his rousing performance. Nothing to do with his sudden proximity to Chris, no sir.

A few seconds tick by in which they wordlessly stare at each other. Then, gradually, very slowly, Chris’s smile starts to fade, and Sebastian watches in fascination as the look in Chris’s eyes turns from amused to curious, and then to… intent?

He has a split second to think holy shit, before Chris is surging up and pressing a quick kiss to his lips, there and gone again.

Sebastian sucks in a sharp breath, staring down at Chris with wide eyes, heart pounding in his ears.

“Wh- what was that?” he asks weakly, voice cracking on the last word. His lips are tingling, the phantom touch of Chris’ mouth on his.

Chris blinks up at him, looking a little shocked himself.

“Guess it worked,” he whispers, after a beat.

“Oh,” Seb nods, dazed, and then Chris is burying his fingers in his hair and pulling him down for another kiss.

Sebastian lets him.

#evanstan #sebastian stan #chris evans #chris evans x sebastian stan #my fics #my writing #fanfic #fluff #so fluffy y'all #see #I can do G rated #the little mermaid #ao3 #musette22followercelebration

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ohnojustimagine · 5 years

Text

Dusk Till Dawn, part 2

Pac/Reader; smut and angst leading into fluff (ish), 9350 words.

You can find part 1 here and you probably would need to read that first as this follows directly on from it.

The sun is just beginning to rise as you make your way home. Your torn, ruined wedding dress barely covers you, threatening to fall off your shoulders at any moment as you walk. One of the servants at the castle took pity on you and gave you an old blanket to drape around yourself so as to preserve what little of your modesty is left and you clutch the two ends of it tight over your chest.

The ground is cold in the early morning, rough on your bare feet, but at least it is a Sunday and so there is as yet no one about to witness your barely decent state. But everyone in the town will soon be aware of what has happened, you realize with a sinking heart. You cannot remember the last time a new bride was not almost immediately dismissed from the castle after being summoned on her wedding night, the King's right generally only a mere formality, something that is rarely acted upon.

That you did not return so swiftly but were in fact gone for the entire night will tell the petty gossips all they need to know. You will be judged, likely shamed, but there is nothing that can be done about it, you tell yourself resignedly. Perhaps you should feel ashamed, you think, blushing to remember some of the acts you so eagerly partook in, but there is a strange distance to your recollections. Your lips might still throb from ardent kisses and your sex ache with pleasure, but the past night already feels as if it was not quite real, something so removed from your ordinary life that you are not so certain you will ever be able to truly believe it actually happened.

You quietly open the door of your new marital home, entering, and it seems not as large as you recall; one room that is smaller than the King's entire bedchamber, but it is clean and neat and warm, the remains of good fire glowing softly in the grate.

You see that your husband is asleep, his snores and snuffling breaths loud from the bed in the corner, and so you stoke up the fire, adding a few pieces of wood, watching as the flames flare brightly, crackling as they burn. There is a pot of water sitting on the hearth, heating, and you take off what is left of your dress, folding it carefully.

Your mother spent hours sewing it, and you remember how her eyes shone at you when you first tried it on. "You're so beautiful," she'd told you. "Your husband will be so proud to take you as his wife."

And though you became his wife, it was not your husband who took you. It was the King, and the only thing you can be certain of is that he has changed you, opened both your mind and your body to desires you had not known existed within you, appetites that you did not ever suspect you were capable of feeling, let alone indulging.

But you dismiss such thoughts, finding a cloth and quickly washing your body down with the warmed water, dressing yourself in your every day working clothes, and when you are done, you sit at the table, waiting, staring into the fire.

Your husband finally stirs, sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes at he looks at you. He does not speak as he rises, instead walking over to you and simply resting one hand on your shoulder, bending to kiss the top of your head. You reach up to take his hand, and he says, softly, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," you say, though you are not so very sure it is the truth.

"Good," he replies, and it seems that is the last of it, because your life goes on.

It is not the same as before, of course, as you are a married woman now, having left your childhood home to make a household of your own with your new husband. His family have a plot of land just outside the village where they grow vegetables and keep chickens and pigs, selling the produce at the weekly market in the town square, and you are looking forward to working with them, wanting to remain busy, if only to stop your mind from wandering to places you would prefer it did not go.

And so the next day, as the week starts in earnest, you and your husband make your way there to work. He takes your hand in his as you walk, blushing a little and staring straight ahead of him, and you smile to yourself, because though last night he did nothing but sleep beside you, you are confident that the true intimacy of your married life will soon begin.

His parents are waiting for you, already working, each with a hoe in hand, hilling up the soil around a row of beans.

They stop as the two of you approach, and though they greet your husband warmly, they do not seem so happy to see you, the contrast to their smiling faces on your wedding day stark enough that a swift chill runs through you, settling tense in the pit of your stomach. Your new father-in-law does not address you at all, refusing to even meet your gaze, and your mother-in-law only looks you up and down with a sneer and a sigh, muttering under her breath about 'used goods.'

You blush, humiliated, staring down at the ground. And it is only made worse by the fact that you have known them since you were just a child, and they have never, until now, been anything but kind to you, encouraging their son's courtship and seeming to approve of the match between the two of you. But it would appear that their attitude towards you has now changed, and you cannot pretend you do not know why.

Your husband looks back and forth between his mother and yourself, then gently suggests that you could perhaps begin by cleaning out the chicken coops and collecting the eggs ready for market day tomorrow. You nod, and wander off in the direction he points you, feeling your mother-in-law's eyes at your back, her scorn so palpable it is like something burning on your skin, a mark that is visible to all.

But the day passes, spent mostly in solitude for you, even eating your noon meal on your own, but you do not complain. You would rather be alone than be subjected to such judgment, and while you know what happened to you was not something you freely chose, you cannot help but feel guilty about how you conducted yourself while in the King's presence.

Dusk is falling by the time your work is deemed done, and you walk back through the village with your husband, yet this time, he does not take your hand. He seems deep in thought, and is silent even as you enter your home. You both wash your hands and faces, scrubbing off the worst of the day's dirt, and you ladle out two bowls of the stew you prepared early this morning and left simmering over the fire while you were gone.

"Market day tomorrow," you say, trying to make conversation, lighten the heaviness that seems to hang weighted in the air between you. But he only nods in reply, seeming to barely hear you, so you do not speak again, finishing your food as the darkness of the night begins to close in. You light one of the candles that sits in its holder on the table, gathering up the bowls and spoons, setting them to soak in water overnight.

There is a tightness in your chest, a tension that you cannot seem to shake off, but you tell yourself that it is nothing.

Your husband takes off his working clothes, stripping down to his undergarments and climbing into the bed with a sigh. He lies on his side, facing away from you as you change into your nightgown. It is made of white linen with a simple lace edge, and is really is too fine for daily use, made as it was for your wedding night, but seeing as it never fulfilled that intended purpose, you have decided to wear it regardless, hoping that it will please your husband to see you in it. But he does not even look at you as you blow out the candle and slip into bed beside him.

You can hear him breathing next to you, inhalations that are strangely rapid and deep, and then, without warning, he is suddenly on top of you. You let out a small, surprised gasp, and he kisses you, his tongue fat and limp in your mouth as he reaches down to push your nightgown out of the way. And you are not nearly ready, but it does not hurt too badly as he enters you, thrusting into you rapidly just a few times before his body stiffens, trembling, and he lets out a brief, anguished-sounding cry.

And then he grunts slightly, as if content with this conclusion, and rolls off you. Within seconds you hear him snoring, and you do not move, lying there, shocked, unable to fathom what you have just experienced. Because while you were not expecting your husband to take as much time over things or be as skilled as the King, you were not expecting... that. Perhaps, you console yourself, he was simply nervous, ill-prepared for your first time together. You have heard talk that men who are not practised in the physicalities of married life can be too hurried about things, overexcited as they are with the newness of it all, and so you can only conclude that you will need to be patient with him, allow him to get used to the act.

You feel strangely restless, uneasy and so very keenly unsatisfied, but eventually you drift off into sleep. And yet it feels like you have barely entered slumber before you are awakened, even earlier than usual, needing to make your preparations for market day.

You work with your husband and his parents to set up their stall, piling it high with vegetables and eggs and newly-cured bacon, and when all is in readiness, your mother-in-law looks at you. "I'm sure you can manage on your own, my dear," she says, smiling, but there is no warmth in her eyes. "We will go back to work."

"I can stay with her," your husband offers, and you are grateful for his kindness, but your mother-in-law's response is both immediate and sharp.

"No," she orders, the word barked out harshly. "She is better left alone."

"I am all right," you tell your husband, and he nods. He will not defend you, you know that, and perhaps it is better this way. The three of them do not bid you good bye as they take their leave, but you try not to let it bother you. And soon you are busy enough, people beginning to file into the market, making their purchases for the week.

You are standing idle, waiting for your next customer when two younger men approach the stall, and though you do not know their names, their faces are vaguely familiar to you as locals. They are nudging each other, trying to contain their laughter as they stare at you, wide-eyed. "It's her," you hear one of them whisper.

But you ignore their childishness, and say, "May I help you?"

"You may," the other one says, affecting an accent that you assume is supposed to be humorously reminiscent of the nobility, though you find no jest in it. "I was wondering," he goes on, "if I might ask you a question?"

"Yes," you reply, warily, because you are certain he is not interested in the price of the eggs or the quality of potatoes you're offering for sale.

You can see how desperately he is trying not to laugh as he asks, "Is the King's prick as big as they say?" And as soon as the words are out, both he and his companion collapse into helpless giggles.

Your face burns bright with humiliation, and you look away, wishing you could sink into the earth and disappear, but then you hear two yelps of pain, and when you look up, it is your cousin, Gwen, who has cuffed both boys none-too-gently about the ears. "Find yourself someone else to bother," she scolds them, sending them on their way, and you sigh in relief to see her.

When they are gone, she smiles at you, but there is concern in her eyes. "I heard about..." she begins, but then stops. "After the wedding," she says.

"I'm sure everyone has heard by now," you say, bitter, and she nods, understanding.

"Don't listen to them," she tells you. "It's just the tradition, people know it's the way of things." And you want to believe her, wishing with all your heart it could be so simple. "Was it..." she asks, lowering her voice. "Was it so very bad?"

You shrug, giving her a wan smile, as you cannot think how to answer such a question. She does not reply, simply laying a consoling hand on your arm, squeezing lightly, and you are well aware what she is thinking, what you are allowing her to assume. You feel as if you are somehow betraying the King by not correcting her, trying to explain what actually occurred, but, if you are honest, you are not so very sure you could explain it.

So you say nothing.

"Best to put it behind you," Gwen says, firm but sympathetic. "Move on."

Other customers approach the stall, and she waves a quick farewell, walking away with a sad smile. You sigh to yourself, but you consciously put on a falsely bright face, refocusing your energies. And perhaps Gwen may have misunderstood what happened to you during your night with the King, but she is right in that you do need to put it behind you, and you are determined to do so.

That evening in bed your husband again rolls on top of you and while this time he lasts slightly longer, it is still over in a startlingly brief amount of time. You lie awake afterwards, staring up into the rafters of the cottage, wondering how you ever thought you could be satisfied with such a life.

Because each day and each night is the same: you work alone, separate from the others, you come home and eat, you go to bed and your husband takes what you can only imagine is his meagre pleasure. Thus, you realize, it is becoming clear that if anything is to improve, it will be up to you to take the initiative. So the next night, as your husband is about to begin, you turn to him.

"Wait," you say, and he looks at you with some confusion. "Can we not..." you ask, shyly. "Can we not take a little more time about it?" He stares at you, as if not understanding, watching you in apparent puzzlement as you pull the bed coverings back enough to expose him, then reach into his underclothes, taking his manhood tentatively in your hand. It feels hot under your palm, and he gasps as you stroke it gently, your fingers loose around the shaft of it. For a moment you think he is going to finish right then and there, but you let him go, and he seems to stop himself. You look at him, hopeful, and lower your head, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his member, lips barely touching it. He stares down at you, his expression one of horror rather than the delight you expected, and pushes you from him with enough violence that you are barely able to keep your balance, crawling backwards on the bed away from him, suddenly afraid.

"That is what whores do," he spits out, abhorrence written plain over his features, as if what you have just done is so repellent it cannot be borne. "Not good women."

And you don't understand, stammering, "I... I'm sorry, I only wanted to please you."

"That is not how a decent wife pleases her husband."

"I am sorry," you repeat, "I did not know, I promise I will not do it again if it is not right."

His face changes, hardening into anger, and your heart sinks with dread at the sight. "Did you perform such acts on the King?" he asks.

You hesitate, then reply, "No," the lie unconvincing even to yourself.

"You did, didn't you?" your husband says, bitterness in his voice. "I..." He shakes his head. "I wanted to believe that you had no choice, that you were forced. But I understand now, that you were corrupted, that you... that you let yourself be corrupted by him."

"It was not like that," you plead, the beginnings of tears prickling sharp in your eyes. "I am sorry," you say again. "Please."

But it seems your husband is set in his opinion, not to be swayed, and he gets out of bed, dressing himself, every movement tense, betraying his fury. "I will not stand for it," he says, pointing his finger at you, and you can only pray he does not see fit to give you a beating for your foolishness. "I will not stand to be disrespected in my own house by my own wife."

He slams the door of the cottage behind him as he leaves, and you want to cry, but you know there is no point, that it would only be self-indulgence and so you bite down on the feeling, swallowing the sob that threatens to well up in your throat, willing your weakness away. This is your life now, and you must accept it, whatever that costs you. You climb back under the covers of the bed, curled up on your side, and for the first time since that fateful night, you allow your thoughts to wander unrestrained, thinking of the King, of how he looked at you, how he touched you.

You had never before experienced what it was to be truly desired by a man, and now, you are quite certain, you will never experience it again. And yet still, the memories stir fresh longings inside you, your body suddenly alive with yearning, an insistent pulse between your thighs as wetness begins to gather there. And though you blush at your own wanton sinfulness, you do not stop yourself as your hand slips under your nightgown, your fingers swiftly finding the place that you know will bring you satisfaction.

You burn with shame to hear yourself, the noises you are making, crude sounds of pleasure as the feeling of it reaches a peak inside you, and it is the King you think of as you tremble through your completion; his face scowling and cruel, softening into a reluctant, guarded tenderness.

You turn over with a sigh, falling into a troubled sleep.

When your husband returns in the morning, he does not speak to you, and you remain silent, staying out of his way, making yourself as small and unobtrusive as you can, not wishing to provoke him. You are hoping his anger will subside at least somewhat, given time, but it seems what you have done is unforgivable to him, because from then on he begins to spend his evenings at the tavern, not returning home until late, the stench of ale invariably on his breath. But he never touches you, not ever, no matter how drunk he is, lying every night unmoving in the bed beside you, his body turned away.

Sometimes, while you are alone, waiting for him to come home, you give in to temptation and satisfy yourself, but the feeling it brings you is empty, hollow.

Weeks pass, and you settle into a kind of dull and aching numbness, resigned to the fact that this is your fate. There are times you would like to make yourself wish that you had never been chosen by the King, had been merely dismissed like so many other brides, but you cannot ever manage to regret that night, whatever trouble it has brought to you.

But then, one afternoon, you are busy in the fields, as your husband and his parents are digging over one of the the vegetable plots, ready for new plantings, and you are walking back and forth with a hand cart laden heavy with dirty straw from the pigs' sty. You unload the cart next to where they are working, struggling to upend it enough that it will empty, and no one speaks to you, but you are so accustomed to silence by now that you barely notice, trudging back to the muck heap next to the sty, mud slippery under your feet with each step. You pick up your pitchfork, ready to refill the cart, your back aching with the labor of it, but then someone calls out your name.

You look up in puzzlement, wiping the sweat from your brow with a filthy hand. There are two royal guards standing there with your mother-in-law and your chest is suddenly tight, you breath caught somewhere in your throat, though whether that is caused by delight or dread you could not say.

"It seems you are being summoned again, my dear," she informs you in a poisonous tone. "I suppose you must have impressed his Majesty with your talents last time."

"I..." you start, hesitating as you glance over at your husband, who only shrugs, turning back to his work. It breaks you inside to know that you mean so little to him, that he does not even care that another man wants to make use of you. "Are... are you certain?" you ask the guards. "The King asked for me?"

"By name," one replies confidently. "You are to come with us."

"Now," says the other, beckoning to you impatiently.

You look down at your dress, covered with mud, and you have no doubt that you must reek of sweat and the worst of the pig sty. "Please allow me to change my clothes," you tell them. "I cannot appear before the King in this state."

"Sorry," the first guard says. "His majesty commanded you be brought to him immediately, without the smallest delay."

"Please," you repeat, "I am sure the King would not wish for me to be presented to him like this."

The guards roll their eyes, and one strides over to you, grabbing your arm, pulling you with him roughly, almost dragging you along until you fall into step with him, walking quickly. They flank you, either side, and you glance back over your shoulder to see that everyone has seemingly calmly returned to their work, not sparing even a look at your retreating form.

Which is no more than you would expect, and so you try to brush some of the mud off your dress as you walk, using your sleeve to scrub off your face as best you can. You are at least grateful that being on the outskirts of town means that you are not being paraded through the main streets for everyone to see you taken back to the castle, but there are people enough to stare knowingly at you as you are marched along.

Tension builds cold in the pit of your stomach as the guards lead you up the staircase that you recall leads to the King's private chamber, because you are certain he will not be pleased by your appearance.

They knock at the door, opening it as the King's voice calls out, "Enter," and you are pushed into the room, holding your breath. The King is facing away from you, wearing dark-colored breeches and riding boots, still adorned with spurs, his white shirt untucked so that it hangs off his broad shoulders, dark hair tumbling in loose, untidy curls down his back.

He turns, a goblet of what you assume is wine raised to his mouth, but when he sees you, he lowers it, lip curling up in obvious disgust. "Good god," he says, looking you up and down.

"I am so very sorry, Majesty," you say quickly, stumbling over the words in your hurry to apologize. "I was working in the fields and your men would not permit me to change before bringing me here, I know that to appear before you in this manner is disrespect of the highest order."

The King does not reply to you, but he glares silently at the guards, raising his eyebrows at them, as if demanding explanation.

They look back and forth between each other, hesitant, and one says, "Your majesty told us it was urgent, that we should bring her with all haste."

"I suppose I did." The King rubs his forehead, seemingly resigned, and then waves at the guards, dismissing them. "Go," he tells them. "And have someone bring up hot water for washing without delay."

They both nod curtly, standing to attention before leaving the room, closing the door behind them, and the King turns his focus back to you. He stares at you for perhaps a full minute, and you keep your gaze lowered, your eyes on the floor, for if you have to see the utter disdain in his expression you are sure you will begin to cry.

"You smell of shit," he says, with a sniff.

"I am sorry, majesty," you say, again, looking at him, pleading. "I was cleaning out the pig sty and..."

He holds up one hand, saying, "Please, spare me the gruesome details of it." He sighs. "I could have any woman in the kingdom and yet it seems I desire..." He gestures at you, disgust written plain even in the movement of his fingers through the air. "This." He seats himself, gulping down a mouthful of wine and looking at you with an undisguised revulsion that is so very similar to the way your husband regards you that you have to bite your lip in an effort to quell the sobs that are burning in your throat.

"At least take off your clothes," he tells you, and you hurriedly obey, carefully folding your dress so no dried mud spills onto the fine rug that covers the floor. You look around, unsure where to place it, and the King says, "Put it all by the door. I will have them taken and washed."

"You do not need to do so, majesty, I can..."

"I would ask you not to argue with me, child," he interrupts, a warning in his voice.

"Sorry," you reply, nodding in deference.

"And stop apologizing," he snaps. "It is most tiresome."

You do not say anything, swallowing the urge to say 'sorry' yet again and hurriedly removing the rest of your clothes. You set them in a neat pile by the door of the room as instructed, then return to your previous position, standing in front of the King, uncertain if he wishes for you to do anything other than wait. But for now, at least, he seems content to simply gaze upon your naked form, and while his expression is not exactly one of unbridled lust, he no longer seems quite so revolted by your appearance.

"Well," he muses, "that's somewhat better. At least you are now pleasing to the eye, if not the other senses."

He takes a swig of his wine, and then leans down, easing off his boots, casting them aside carelessly and then sitting back with an exhaled breath. "And so how is married life?" he asks you.

You are not sure how to answer that without being untruthful, so you settle on evasive. "It is... quite well," you say.

"Quite well," he replies, with the hint of a smirk, as if he guesses that you are deliberately avoiding his question, but before he can say more, there is a knock at the door. "Enter," he says in a commanding tone, not taking his eyes off you.

Two serving women walk in, one young, one older, carrying a low wooden tub of water between them, steam rising visibly off the surface of it. The younger woman stares openly at you, wide-eyed and curious, but the older one merely looks you up and down with a cynical, knowing gaze, and though you do not cover yourself, you shrink back into your body a little in response, your shoulders instinctively hunching as you feel her judgment.

They place the water in front of the fire, and the older woman lays out some generous lengths of towelling and a piece of soap on a nearby table. "Anything else you require, your majesty?" she asks, and the King points at your clothes by the door.

"Take those," he tells her. "Have them washed."

She nods, and you can see her irritation in the line of her mouth, the set of her jaw, and you want desperately to tell her that you know your station, that you should not be being waited on by her or indeed by anyone in the castle, but you are keenly aware that will not please the King, so you bite your tongue, watching pained as she gathers up your things, holding them slightly away from herself as if in disgust.

She and her companion take their leave in silence, closing the door behind them, and you let out a breath.

"Well then," the King says expectantly, nodding towards the water, and you hurry to obey his implied command, stepping into the tub. It is pleasantly hot, the level of water reaching only to just below your knees, and so you assume you are to remain standing as you bathe. Thus you take up the soap and one of the shorter pieces of towelling, dipping them both in the water, and quickly as you can begin to clean yourself off, fearful of making the King wait any longer than necessary.

But almost as soon as you have begun, you hear him emit a strained sigh of obvious irritation, and you stop, looking up at him, confused as to what you could possibly doing wrong now. "For god's sake, woman," he exclaims, exasperated, "you are not scrubbing down a butchered pig. If I have to watch you bathe can you not at least make a show of it for me?"

"Oh," you murmur, because that did not occur to you, used as you are to washing for only practical reasons, rushing when tired at the end of a working day. You are not entirely sure what he is asking of you, uncertain as to what a show of bathing should be, but you hold one shakingly hesitant arm out in front of you, running the soap up it slowly, rubbing gently back and forth over your skin, glancing over at him to gauge his reaction.

"That is more like it," he says, approvingly, and you exhale in relief, continuing.

And it's strange, you muse as you go on, so very strange to be taking your time over something as simple and every day as washing yourself, but to your surprise, you find yourself enjoying it, finally able to relax just a little. The fire is hot at your back, the water warm as it sluices over your body, dripping down across your breasts, your stomach. You lather the soap on your skin, the feel of it soft and creamy, far more luxurious than the rough lump of bitter-smelling soap you use at home. This is scented with lavender, and you close your eyes, inhaling the sweetness, running your hands over your body, unhurried and sensuously indulgent.

For a minute you forget where you are, but then you open your eyes, looking over at the King, blushing at your own lack of modesty, but he does not seem to mind. He still holds his goblet of wine in one hand, but the other is resting on his thigh, near to his manhood, and there is an intentness to his gaze, a focus that tells you his desire is growing.

You lower your eyes as you wash between your legs, too embarrassed to linger over that particular place, especially when you can feel the beginnings of arousal there, wet and full, and when you glance back up at the King, he is smirking slightly, seemingly amused by your sudden awkwardness.

He does not comment, but instead rises to his feet, setting down his wine, pulling his shirt off, over his head, and you try not to stare at his upper body, which seems to be even more remarkable than you remember, with its carved-out muscles and pale, smooth skin, but you do not have time to reflect upon him, as he walks around to stand behind you. He holds out his hand, palm up, next to you, and for a moment you do not understand, but then you realize, and hand him the soap.

You step back so that you are at the edge of the tub, closer to him, listening to the slick sounds of him lathering up the soap, anticipation quivering inside you like something alive, threatening to spill over as you wait for him.

But then he touches you, and you breathe in, the sound of it somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, his hands gentle but assured as he smooths soap over your back, drawing slow circles, as if exploring, mapping your skin. There is a tensed knot of muscle above one of your shoulder blades, still sore from your afternoon's work of shovelling out the pig sty (though you can barely believe that that was only a short while ago, distant as it now seems) and he finds it quickly, unprompted, unerring. He makes a small noise of displeasure at the feel of it, pressing one thumb into the tightness, and you cannot stop yourself from moaning quietly as the muscle releases.

He hums to himself, briefly, as if satisfied by his work, and then bends, picking up one of the cloths, wetting it and carefully washing the suds off your back. Water drips down your spine, over your buttocks, and you can hear him behind you, breathing.

You swallow, nervous, heart beating faster as he leans in to kiss the nape of your neck, his lips tender yet ardent, the promise of something more hanging thick in the air. "I would have you know that I have thought of you," he murmurs. "Many times, since our night together." He kisses you again, then says, "I do tend to find women quite forgettable, but you..."

He does not finish, but you can feel him closer behind you, his hands reaching around you and sliding up over your stomach, under your breasts, lifting the weight of them. His thumbs rub at your nipples, pressing against them, and you feel your flesh harden and peak under his touch, responding to him, unashamed and needful.

"Have you thought of me?" he asks, voice catching so very slightly that you barely hear it. "Since we parted?"

"Yes, majesty," you reply, your face reddening to recall exactly how much you have thought of him, and under what particular circumstances some of those thoughts have occurred.

"Ah," he says, the sound of it low, as if that pleases him, and he presses one last kiss to your neck before shifting away from you. "Dry yourself," he orders, and you nod, stepping out of the tub, careful to keep your balance.

You take up the largest piece of towelling, dabbing the moisture from your skin, and the sudden impatience in his expression tells you that he would prefer you do not linger over this particular part of the process, and so you try to be graceful with it even as you hurry.

He watches, standing there, waiting for you, and when you are finished, you turn to face him. He is still for a minute, but then he moves forward, his hands coming to rest on your waist. You hold your breath as he kisses you, mouth against yours, soft, his lips closed yet full.

He pulls back, looking at you, his eyes dark with a want so blatant you feel it. And you know it is not right, that you should allow him to take the lead, but you cannot stop yourself, your own need an insistent throb inside you, and so this time it is you who closes the space between you. You breathe against him, lick his mouth, and when he opens to you, your tongue slides against his, tangling, gently at first, as if exploring, relearning one another, but then intensifying as he demands more and you respond in kind.

"Yes," he whispers, pulling back just enough to speak. "You are hungry for it, are you not?"

You cannot bring yourself to reply, and he laughs at you, the sound of it something akin to a growl, deep and so very masculine that you feel yourself tremble, weak in the face of it, of your own desire.

"I did appreciate the blushing little virgin last time, but I think perhaps I like this more," he muses, and heat pulses inside you. Still, you wait, knowing your place, trying to contain your restlessness as he seems to consider his next action, but then he takes your hand, lifting it gallantly, leading you over to the bed. He helps you up onto it, and you lie back without being asked, sinking into the thickly-laid coverings of fur and silk, the sensation of it briefly returning your mind to the first time you laid here, so fearful and tensed.

It is strange to realize how little time has passed since that night and yet how much you have changed, now willingly allowing the King to part your legs, baring yourself to him as he kneels between your thighs. He stares at your body, eyes trailing over every inch of you as he slowly rubs himself through his breeches, his gaze so arrogantly possessive that it is as if it burns on your skin.

He leans down, hands firm and assured as he spreads you even wider, his face so near to your sex that you can feel his breath, warm against your own wet heat, and you should be blushing or protesting or resisting, not letting this happen without the slightest modesty or shame, not waiting eagerly, your heart racing, barely daring to imagine what he is about to do.

You swallow, nervous, as you feel him draw closer, and then, at last, his mouth is on you, the first touch of it strangely tender and unexpectedly, almost shockingly intimate. He kisses you, lips pressed against you as his tongue snakes out to draw gently through your folds, beginning to lap at you; softly at first, but then with an increasing vigor, concentrating on that small nub that you yourself have previously focused on as the source of your pleasure.

You bite down on the sounds that well up in your throat; whimpers that threaten to become moans, base and wanton, but the King stops, raising his head enough that he can address you. "Do not hold yourself back, pretty," he tells you, stroking down your thighs. "I want to hear what I do to you." He makes as if to resume his task, but then all at once pauses, giving you a curious look. "Does your husband not do this?" he asks.

And perhaps it is not something that you should reveal, but you shake your head, and say, quietly, "No, he has never."

The King raises his eyebrows slightly, and you think he is about to offer an opinion on that fact, but he seems to stop himself, and instead only smiles at you, perhaps thoughtful. "A cunt this sweet deserves to be tasted," he says, licking his lips before again lowering his mouth to you. And though you are not certain it is proper, it seems it is what the King desires, so this time you do not silence yourself as be begins anew, letting the gasps and cries that his tongue elicits from you echo off the walls of the room, becoming louder and louder.

He licks inside you, moving in and out, and your hips lift up off the bed as if of their own volition, your response purely instinctive as you feel your approaching climax building uncontrolled inside you with an intensity that far exceeds anything you have managed with your own hand during your nights alone. The King's tongue moves on you, his hands gripping your thighs as he holds you down and open for him and just when you are sure you cannot take anymore, overwhelmed with it as you are, something breaks within you, letting go. Your body tenses, releases, tenses again as you cry out, abandoned and unheeding and the King does not relent in his attentions for one single moment, bringing you to even further heights, over and over until at last one final shudder rushes through you, and you fall back, utterly spent.

The King presses a gentle kiss to your throbbing sex, then pulls away, but you can still barely catch your breath, every panted exhale a desperate little whine as he crawls up beside you. His eyes are alight with something that you would not dare to name, his face framed by tangled strands of hair that brush over his bared shoulders. His lips are shining wet, and as he kisses you, you taste yourself on him, his tongue in your mouth just as commandingly skilled as it was between your legs, and you moan, barely recovered as you still tremble with echoes of your completion, gradually fading.

He lies back, next to you, and you turn onto your side, now somewhat calmed, at least enough so that you can look at him. You have never not thought him attractive, but it would seem those distinctive features have arranged themselves into something much more than that; something strangely, wondrously beautiful to your eyes. Without thinking, your hand hovers in the air, but you stop yourself, uncertain. "May I..." you ask, swallowing nervously at your own daring. "May I touch you, majesty?"

"You never need ask permission for that," he says with the hint of a smile, taking hold of your hand and placing it on his chest. He guides you across to his nipple, the small peak of it stiffening as you stroke it.

"Oh..." you murmur, needing no further encouragement as he releases your hand, caressing him of your own accord, your fingers smoothing across the rise and fall of his breast to rub his other nipple. The muscle beneath it flexes, pushing up, and you gasp quietly at the suddenness of it, but you do not stop, moving downwards, feeling out the other muscles that run down either side of his stomach in sectioned-off ridges.

They are tight and firm, so much so that you wonder if he is consciously tensing, holding himself taut for your touch, and the idea that the King might be taking the trouble to present his best self to you sends a small thrill through you.

"Now lower," he tells you, his voice soft, and you swallow, obeying, your hand sliding down to tease at the edge of his breeches, which are still securely laced, though it would be difficult to miss the proudly erect outline of his manhood that is visible through the material.

You trace your fingers lightly over the length of it, brave as you dare, and he inhales, sharp and quick. "Oh, you have grown bold, haven't you?" he says, laughing breathlessly, again smiling at you, but this time it is wide and easy. "Take it out for me, if you want to play."

You breathe, biting your lip, not daring to look at him for fear that you will blush as you kneel up beside him, your fingers shaking and your heart racing as you untie the knot at the waist of his breeches, easing the laces open. He is not wearing any underclothes, and you force yourself to not yet look at his... cock, you say in your head, as you pull his breeches down and off, over the solid bulk of his thighs, past the sinewed curves of his calves.

He does not say anything, but he shifts himself enough to make your task easier, watching you with darkly fascinated eyes, and when you are done, you do not hesitate, taking his cock in hand.

It is thick in your grasp, fitting perfectly within the circle of your palm and fingers, as if that is where it belongs, and you stroke it, careful, slowly moving up and down. The King closes his eyes, letting out a groan, his mouth slightly open, his hips arching up to push into your touch.

And it makes you feel something you do not entirely understand, to see such a reaction from him, to suddenly be aware that he is, in some sense, at your mercy while in this position. This is a man who holds more power than you could possibly ever even begin to imagine, but there are, perhaps, other kinds of power, ones which you yourself might wield, even over a King, and that is a knowledge that does not quite sit comfortably with you.

But then he opens his eyes, one hand slapping at your buttocks. "Get on me, my pretty," he says. "I want to feel that hot, tight little cunt of yours."

You nod, rushed and obedient, breathless with your own need as you straddle his thighs, somewhat uncertain as to the correct way this might work, but it seems obvious enough as you hold his cock, lining it up against your entrance. You inhale a long, steady breath, and begin to take him in, lowering yourself down onto him; slowly, slowly until his full length is inside you. And you feel for a moment as if you might cry with relief, with the feeling of it, because this is what you have needed, what you have been longing for, to be filled like this once again, that ever-present yearning ache within you finally beginning to be sated.

But there is more, you know. "Ride me, then," the King tells you, his voice hoarse. His hands grip your thighs, squeezing tight, and he says, "Show me how you move."

And so you do, and though you may never have been taken like this before, it is not difficult to intuit what needs to be done, lifting yourself enough that you can again sink down onto him, your body seeming to know this as something familiar as you repeat the motion, taking to it easily and instinctively.

"Yes," he whispers, the word extended into a hiss, his grasp on you keeping you to a rhythm that only seems to grow more intense, more urgent.

Your hips roll into it and he moans, the sound of it like something desperate. "God," he grits out. "Oh, my sweet girl, you fuck like a whore."

And you freeze, instantly. Reality crashes down upon you, an overwhelming shame suddenly sliding cold up your spine, because you knew, you knew you were being too forward with him, allowing yourself to behave in a manner not fitting to a woman who is being shown the King's favor, but you were so lost in it, unable to help yourself, lustful creature that it seems you are. "I'm... I am sorry, majesty," you whisper, your voice shaking.

"For what?" he asks, looking up at you, confused, his hands remaining on you, attempting to urge you on, but you do not respond. You cannot, not now, and you kneel up, letting his cock slip out of you, bowing your head submissively as you sit beside him, trying to ignore the emptiness already throbbing at your core.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" he snaps, sitting up. "Tell me," he demands, roughly grabbing hold of your wrist, but you do not dare to look up, unable to receive his gaze, too ashamed of yourself.

"I do not mean to be improper," you answer. "I only wish to please you."

"You do please me," he says. "You are pleasing me..." He shakes his head, clearly irritated. "How did I indicate otherwise?"

"You said..."

"What?"

"That word..."

"What word?"

"Whore," you whisper, barely able to say it, humiliation burning hot on your reddened cheeks, because that is what you must be, you know it now: a whore.

The King does not say anything for a long minute, but then, without warning, he reaches out, grasping your jaw in a firm hand, tilting your face up toward him, forcing you to meet his eyes even as you struggle to look away.

"Has someone called you that?" he demands, his expression hard. "Has someone shamed you for taking enjoyment in the physical?" You do not reply, but he does not release you, glaring at you with an authority that makes you quake with fear. "Answer me, girl."

You nod, as best you can, and he relaxes his grip on you, sitting back, and you hear him take a deep breath.

"Then they are a halfwitted ignorant who is not deserving of a woman like you." He closes his eyes for a moment, as if consciously containing his anger, and it is only then you realize with some surprise that his disapproval is not actually directed at you. "That was perhaps an indelicate way to put it," he says, "but I meant it as praise, I promise you."

"You... you did?" you stammer out, not understanding.

"Yes, I did," he says, and takes your hand in his, holding it, his thumb stroking gently across your palm. "I like that you bring me pleasure, but what gratifies me the most is to see the pleasure that you take for yourself when we are together." He pauses before going on, seeming to choose his words with an extra care. "It is... beautiful," he says, looking at you, and there something soft in his face, so openly tender it makes you shiver. "It is a most precious thing and anyone who would say otherwise is a fool of the very highest order. Are we understood?"

"Yes, majesty," you answer meekly.

"I will not allow you to feel even the slightest shame," he tells you, "not for one single second."

You nod, blushing, trying not to smile, because it would appear you have not displeased him, and a weight seems to lift off your shoulders, lightening.

"Now," he says, "may we go on as before?"

"Yes, majesty," you reply, again, and now you do smile, shyly, but you know your eagerness shows.

"My good girl," he says, smiling back at you, and your heart flutters inside your chest to see it. "Begin slowly, if you wish, but keep on in the previous way," he tells you, giving you a sly glance, as he adds, "if you would be so kind."

He lies himself down, and once more you are over him, but this time with no hesitation, again taking his cock inside you, easy and full. You move, just as he has asked, just as before, and he breathes out, his hands settling on your hips. You rest your own hands over them, holding on to him, watching him, his face, as you go on.

His eyes close, and he soon starts to moan, again, but even louder this time, the sound of it seeming to fill the room. He thrusts up into you, pulling you down onto him as his body stiffens, every last remarkable, powerful muscle visibly tensing, his hands tightening on you, his head arching back.

He is even more handsome like this, you think, and though you do not finish along with him, you do not mind, for you know there will be more to come, that he will not allow you leave him until he has satisfied you again and again.

You wait, then climb off him, lying down beside him, and he pulls you into his arms. His skin is warm against yours, his body somehow managing to be soft and hard all at once, and he kisses you, lazily unhurried, his mouth wet and open until he breaks from you.

"So lovely," he murmurs, gazing at you, eyes shining as he smooths your hair back off your face. "So very, very lovely."

You lean over, daring to initiate another kiss, and he delights at your boldness, laughing wickedly into your mouth.

But this time, when he pulls away, he is more serious. "I have something to ask you," he says, taking your hand, fingers threading through yours, idly moving back and forth. "And I know that as your King I can compel you to do whatever I wish, but I am granting you explicit permission to deny me if that is what you would prefer. Is that quite clear?"

You nod, curious as to what he might require of you, what would need such a disclaimer.

He does not speak for a minute, and you remain silent, watchful, until he finally says, "I want you to stay here with me, to be of use to me whenever I desire you."

And such an offer may be more than you could ever have imagined, but you cannot be certain what he is actually proposing, what the reality of it might mean for you. "For.... for how long?" you say, haltingly.

"I do not know," he replies, careless. "As long as you satisfy me. Until I grow tired of you."

A sharp chill runs through you at the thought that he will indeed one day perhaps no longer desire you, and though all you want to do is say yes and disregard the consequences of it, you still have other loyalties, duties that call you.

"What about my husband?" you ask.

"What about him? Would he even care?" the King counters, and you have no answer to that.

"I have..." you say, aware how naive you sound. "I have to work, on the land. His family need my help."

You know it would not be right to abandon your obligations, however tempting the idea, but the King waves his hand, as if it is nothing. "I will send them one of my own laborers to use as your substitute. A woman as fine as you should not be shovelling pig shit for a living."

"Oh," you say, because you are not accustomed to being so casually provided for. But it seems you are in the King's world now, and things are different here.

You are not so foolish you do not know that if you stay, you will likely have no life to return to, that by the time the King grows weary of you your husband and his family will never accept you back. But then, you muse, what do you have to return to even now? Because what you have been living since your marriage is surely no life at all.

"Tell me, then," he says, holding you tight against him, encircled in the warmth of his embrace. "Will you remain with me?"

"Yes, majesty," you state, firmly decisive. "I will."

He stares at you for a second, almost as if you have surprised him, but then a slow, triumphant smile spreads over his face and he kisses you, again. "Well," he tells you. "It seems we can take our time, then." He runs his thumb softly over your mouth, looking at you. "Oh, my sweet one," he says, "we are going to enjoy ourselves, aren't we?"

And you cannot know what the future holds, but you do not think of that, only nodding in agreement, because for now, you could not ask for any more.

#ohnojustwrites #pac #pac imagine #wwe imagine #aew imagine #only literally TWO YEARS #after part 1

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howlingheartdemigod · 5 years

Note

if ur still taking prompts how about any of the m-9 realizing beau's dad was physically abusive and trying to comfort her abt it and/or Fighting her parents on it

thank you for this anon.

i am very proud of the first ¾ths of this. and okay with the ending. it is long. and it is not happy.

I lack the ability to keep my ships out of shit as well so, light beauyasha. But very light. this is mostly a story about Beau.

TW for descriptions of abusive behaviors, gas lighting, abuse typical negative self talk, and mentions of alcohol

title from milk and honey

the weakness to fall

Beau stumbled back into the house early Wednesday morning, wrist clutched to her body. she’d been steadfastly ignoring the pain for an hour and a half of the two hour drive, just focusing on getting away, getting back. The cold night air chased her into the front hall of their rental, all too small for the eight of them, but feeling like home nonetheless. She leaned against the wall buy the door, toeing off her shoes. she closed her eyes, taking careful breaths to stop of the tears that threatened to fall. She’s been biting them back since the argument with her father grew from their normal fight to the more nasty cutting bites. She forced ragged breaths to steady, pretending the tears on her face weren’t there.

“Beau?” Nott’s high reedy voice was unexpected, causing her to jump, causing the pain in her ribs to rear its ugly head from where her father had gotten in a good jab before twisting her arm up behind her.

Nott’s small thin form appeared from the darkness of the kitchen, a glass of amber liquid clutched in her hands. Beau didn’t even have the sense of mind to think about Nott’s promise of no drinking during the week. Nott blinked at her, her light brown eyes almost seeming to shine yellow in the flickering porch light. “I thought you’d gone home for the holiday. Are…” Beau felt Nott looking her up and down, gaze growing heavy with worry. She set the glass on the entryway table. “Are you alright?”

Beau took a breath and pushed herself away from the wall. “I’m okay, Nott.” her voice was rough, raw with the swallowed sobs. She didn’t want them to know. Didn’t want them to see her as weak. She’d hid it from them for over a year, she could keep it up.

Going home had been a mistake, but her mother had called repeatedly in the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, talking about tradition and family and just how happy it would make her father. The guilt of not going home that summer, of instead taking a mission trip with Darion and her other Physical Therapy majors that had taken her to another continent, won out over all reason. So, while all her friends, the Mighty Nein, as they had dubbed themselves, prepared for friendsgiving, Beau packed to go home.

It was two days. She could make it through two days with her parents. She could come home Thursday night and fulfill her duty as a child and it would be fine.

Except, it wasn’t. Except a year of not facing her father had left her careless. She’d started to forget rules, started to become comfortable with herself. She’d gotten in trouble within an hour of being home. The longer she spent there the more tense she felt. The more bullshit he hurled her way the more she wanted to snap back at him.

As soon as she did, she felt the familiar sting of his backhand, heard the familiar disappointed tutting of her mother. She didn’t let it stand this time. This time she swung back. He’d paid for years of martial arts training, and just because he couldn’t lower himself to show up to her tournaments doesn’t mean she won them any less. She got in three smart good jabs before his height and anger beat out her skill handedly. He twisted her arm, bruised her ribs, and bashed her lip, then pinned her face first to the wall.

“You insolent child!” He roared, trying to manhandle her towards the stairs, towards her room where he would certainly try and lock her away until Sunday night. “You don’t deserve the Lionette name.”

Beau had never been so thankful for Jester insisting she and Nott go with to the self defense course one of the sorority houses had put on. She swallowed, and ran through the way to break this sort of grip in her mind, then tried her best to execute it. Apparently, she hadn’t learned well enough. She ran out the door, of the house, and realized as she fumbled with her keys, that it was already swelling. She took off anyway, watching her father fume in the doorway as she backed down the drive as fast as she could.

“Beau,” Nott’s voice pulled her back to reality. Her gaze was stern. “You are not fine. Let me help.”

Beau almost ran, almost darted up the stairs and locked her door behind her. This could only be deceitful kindness. She could nearly feel her mother hands turn from soft and careful, applying bandages and ointments, to hard and cruel, digging into her bruises, telling her that this wouldn’t happen if she would just behave.

But this was not her mother. This was Nott, her friend. This was Nott, who’d never been unkind to her before. Who’d helped patch her up after drunken fights at frat parties, who’d held her hair back when she was puking her guts up, who helped her learn how to recognize her mistakes and apologize. Nott had never been unkind.

Beau slumped against the wall, defeated, and gave a nod. “Alright.” She relented, sliding down to sit on the floor.

Nott let out an audible sigh of relief, which only started up the guilt kicking in Beau’s gut. “I will be right back with the first aid kit.” Nott said, as she turned to scramble up the stairs.

Beau nodded, swallowing. She could let Nott help. Not understood secrets. She’d get Beau cleaned up and then they could pretend this hadn’t happened in the morning. It would all be fine. She wouldn’t have to let them all know what a wreck she was. How undeserving she was.

“Beau,” She hadn’t realized that she’d let her eyes drift shut until she opened them to see Nott, and behind her, another tall figure. Beau let out a groan of protest at the sight. “Oh, come on. I need help to get you to the kitchen. And Fjord was already awake.”

Beau Shut her eyes, and heard Fjord come closer. “Come along, now Beau.” He hooked an arm under her, shifting his grip when she hissed at the contact with her ribs, and hauled her up. This was the worst, this was horrible Fjord knowing was nightmarish/ She opened her eyes again, and limped along side him towards their brightly lit, light yellow kitchen. That stupid paint color was normally so comforting, but now it only seemed to magnify the light Nott had turned on, it only seemed to expose her more. Fjord helped her into one of the mismatched chairs, as Nott flipped open their expansive first aid kit.

Fjord dropped to a knee next to her, trying to get a good look at her. She refused to meet his stare. “What the fuck happened…” He muttered, pushing to his feet, to go dig in the freezer for an ice pack.

“Ask her when she isn’t bleeding.” Nott replied, voice a little louder than Beau would have liked.

She closed her eyes again, wishing she’d slept in her car, or gone to Darion’s to crash, or… She didn’t know She just wished she hadn’t come home. Wished she could have kept them from worrying so much.

“Guys?” A familiar accent voice called from the door. Beau turned to see Jester, bleary eyed, dark hair half tied up and mussed, in the doorway. Guilt washed over Beau as she watched her state settle over Jester. “Oh, Beau, what on earth-”

“Ask when she isn’t a mess.” Nott said, caring and stern all at once. Beau was thankful for that, for Nott, and her unspoken understanding. “Jester, could you deal with her wrist while I get the blood off her face?”

Jester nodded, and moved quickly, her instantaneous switch to business mode reminding Beau firmly that she’s Pre-Med for a reason.

“This is unnecessary.” Beau complained. “I just need to take an ice bath and I will be fine.”

“You look like absolute hell, Beau.” Fjord said, handing her an ice pack. “Put that on your ribs and let us help you.”

Beau pressed her lips, trying to come up with another argument when they all heard the front door crash open, hitting the wall. There were muttered voices, like someone who is bad at being quiet trying to be quiet. Beau stiffened and curled into herself all at once, terror creeping through her. Of course he followed her. Nothing like the chance to show her friends that she was worthless. She ducked her head, muttered “No, no, no.” to herself.

Fjord moved quickly, holding up a hand to tell them all no to move. He peaked around the corner, and his defensive stance dropped. “It’s Yasha, with drunkass in tow.”

Molly’s voice rang clear as he walked towards the kitchen. “Of course it’s me, handsome, who else would it- Oh dear Gods.” Beau curled deeper into herself, head away from the door, not wanting hear whatever snarky thing about losing a fight Molly had to say. He didn’t get it, this was her fault. She didn’t want them all to see her like this. To her shock, she only heard him call, “Yasha, make sure the door is locked.” then the sound of his feet on the wood, heading deeper into the house.

“I always lock the door, Mollymauk.” Beau could hear the fond smile on her lips, and shuddered at the thought of that fading as soon a she saw Beau. She closed her eyes before Yasha reached the room, but heard the soft, shocked, “Beauregard,” regardless. Yasha drew near her side, where Fjord had been standing. Yasha’s fingers grazed the tender, bruised skin of Beau’s face. “What happened?”

“I have to ask the same.” Caduceus’ low voice called from the door.

Molly had returned with him and tow. At Beau’s groan of annoyance, Molly shrugged. “Two pre-med students equal at least an intern, right?”

Caduceus joined them, sliding in as Nott ducked away, darting out of the room off to who knows where. He and Jester discussed her wrist, deciding that it wasn’t broken, just badly sprained, and the splint they had would be fine until they could get her to a proper clinic in the morning.

Yasha didn’t move away, just kept trailing her fingers over Beau’s face, avoiding the bruising and swelling. “What happened, Beau?” she asked, voice soft, calm, the clear blue before the sky started raging.

That’s what broke Beau, ultimately, caused the sobs to start up in her chest, which caused the pain to kick up, which only caused more tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” she rasped, leaning into Yasha’s touch, as someone moved around behind her. “If I was just, if I was just good this wouldn’t have happened. I don’t-” She gasped in a breath, looking through tears at Yasha, who seemed horrified of her. Gods she couldn’t even apologize right. She was worthless. “If I had just behaved then you wouldn’t all be up worrying about me, and, and if I could have behaved he wouldn’t have touched me, and this is all my stupid asshole self fucking everything up again.” Beau dissolved into sobs, leaning forward onto Yasha’s shoulder. There were several seconds where the only sound was Beau’s sobbing. Beau could only assume that they were sharing knowing looks, understanding how pathetic she truly was.

“Perhaps,” Caleb’s voice was soft from the door, and Beau shuddered to think of how much of her outburst he’d heard, that he too knew she wasn’t worthy of the kindness they showed her. “Perhaps, we should talk in the morning.”

There was a moment as that suggestion, really more of a warning it seemed, settled over them. They moved slowly, dispersing out of the room. Jester secured the brace on, then took Fjords hand and led him away. Caleb disappear into the darkness of the hall, Nott following once she’d dumped the drink she’d been awake for down the sink. Caduceus gave Beau a firm command to come talk to him first thing in the morning, then he retreated down towards his room. Yasha took a breath, and waved Molly over. Together, they helped Beau back to her room. Yasha lowered her onto the bed, as Molly checked that her window was locked.

Before Yasha could move away, Beau caught her wrist. “Stay.” she pleaded.

Yasha swallowed, the unspoken thing between them sparking with the force of her worry. Beau knew she didn’t deserve that, didn’t deserve Yasha, but she wanted it. Gods did she want it.

Yasha nodded, her agreement washing over Beau in a wave of relief. Yasha went over to whisper something to Molly, who nodded, came over to press a kiss to Beau’s head, then disappeared, closing the door behind him. Yasha settled into bed with Beau, careful of her injuries.

Beau certainly didn’t sleep well that night, but she slept, and that alone was nearly a miracle.

Beau woke up with a warm weight on her chest. She cracked her eyes open in the pale light of the room, and saw Frumpkin curled up, right on top of her. She smiled, moving to pet him. The brace on her wrist, however, reminded her what had transpired the night before.

“Fuck.” she muttered. Beau looked over, finding the other half of her bed empty. “Fuck.”

Beau coaxed Frumpkin to her lap, then pulled herself upright, breathing through the pain in her side. She scratched the cat behind the ears, looking around the room. Someone had brought her bag up from her car, and set it by her desk. She dragged herself out of bed, and went to change out of her day old, slept in clothes. She knew a shower would really do wonders but as soon as she left that room she was certain it would be something of an interrogation, or maybe just a firm ‘move out.’ She always paid her share of the rent, but maybe they really did just keep her around because they thought she was strong. Maybe this was a tipping point.

Beau stared at herself in the tall mirror Jester had moved in there when she got a new more ornate one. She was a mess. She lifted her shirt and ran her fingers over the her side, blooming with red and purple. It was an ugly one, probably a broken rib, or at least fractured. It hadn’t felt that bad the night before, but sleeping on it without wrapping it had definitely aggravated it. She dropped her shirt, and looked to her face. Her lower lip was busted, on the left. Nothing much to do there but let it heal, maybe apply some ointment. She darted her tongue out, tasting the rust from it. At least he hadn’t cracked a tooth. That would have been hell to deal with. The bruise on her cheek was almost familiar, almost reassuring. She could see where his wedding band had hit, the slightly darker line among the red. It looked like the bruise she’d been sporting in her yearbook photo senior year of high school. She’d told everyone she wiped out on her skateboard. Her mother had told her she’d wiped out on her skate board. She’s insisted she’d wiped out on her skate board. She forced Beau to repeat it back, through tears. Beau had kind of started to believe it.

Beau turned away, feeling dejected. Frumpkin had laid in the warm spot she’d vacated, and was staring at her with wide eyes. “Mrph,” he blinked, head tilting.

“Yeah, bud.” She replied, moving to scratch behind his ears. Frumpkin pushed into her hand, then jumped off the bed and headed towards the door. He waited patiently, looking back at her. Beau took a breath, nodding a little, realizing Caleb’s cat was right; she needed to face the music.

She cracked the door, and Frumpkin trotted out ahead of her. She padded softly, hearing the quiet murmuring of voices, and the sounds of cooking from the kitchen. She moved quietly, dragging her feet, listening.

“…saying we need to know the story.” Fjord was saying. “We need to know what she wants to do not just want we feel.”

“We can’t just let this go.” Yasha now. Beau would have felt bad for eavesdropping if they weren’t clearly talking about her. “I’m not going to let this go.”

“She’s not going to want to talk about it.” Caleb sounded tired, sounded like he hadn’t slept. “She has spent this long hiding it from us, probably from everyone, and… It messes up your head.”

“I am going to kill the bastard.”

“Yasha, as much as I’d love to, we don’t know for certain he did this, we might just be making assumptions.” Fjord replied.

“I think it was pretty clear, seeing as she’d gone home, been there for a few hours at most, and got back bloody and bruised. I don’t understand why we’re sitting here discussing this instead of burning the house down.”

“That isn’t our decision to make.” Caduceus now, sounding like his back was turned from the group.

Caleb spoke up again. “It takes a lot of, uh… a lot of time to get to a point where you can talk about it, especially if you’re alone in it.”

“She isn’t alone!” Jester replied, sounding haughty. “She has us.”

Molly cleared his throat before speaking, and Beau knew how he ran his hand through his obnoxious purple hair when he did that. “I think his point, love, is that she is has been alone.”

“Secrets isolate you.” Nott added.

“That’s true.” Fjord said. “I just wish we knew what to do.”

“How about we ask her?” Caduceus’ voice was accompanied by the soft sounds of a plate of food being set out. “Her door opened a few minutes ago. I’m sure she’ll be down soon.” Beau took a few quick steps back down the hallway, swallowing. She tiptoed backup a few steps, then took heavy stomps, making it clear that she was only just now coming down stairs and in fact had never been down stairs ever before in her life. It was stupid, but it made her feel better.

She ducked into the room, to all eyes on her, and nearly ran. “Hey.” she said, voice strained. “Uh, I think I may have a cracked rib. I need to first aid kit.”

“Oh, I put it back away, I’ll go get it.” Nott said, pushing to her feet.

“Thanks Nott.” Beau said, moving towards the sink. She wanted to grab a glass of water, but it was frustrating with the brace, and the tense silence in the room. She dropped the cup, clattering it into the sink. She jumped, gasping a little. “Sorry,” She muttered, almost on instinct.

“Beauregard.” Yasha had moved closer. She looked soft in the daylight, she looked worried. Beau swallowed, not looking at her. Yasha reached past her, grabbing the cup. She filled it, and pressed it into Beau’s good hand. “I think you should sit.”

Beau pressed her lips, head shaking a little. “I’m… I’m alright. I uh…” she stared down at the cup, turning a little towards the rest of the kitchen. She couldn’t bring herself to look at them. Couldn’t force herself. “I’m fine.” she said.

Before anyone could speak, Nott came back in the room, digging through the kit. Yasha put a hand on Beau’s back. “Please sit.” She said softly.

Beau swallowed, and relented. Jester came over, band-aids in hand. “Beau, can I wrap your ribs?” she asked. Beau nodded, and Jester dropped to a knee in front of her, making her lean forward to wrap around her middle. Yasha sat next to her, and the room fell silent again. Jester put the clips into place, and settled down on the ground. “Beau.” she said. “Will you tell us what happened?”

Beau bit her lip. “It doesn’t matter, It’s…”

“You matter to us, Beauregard.” Caleb replied softly from the other side of the table. She met his eye, seeing the deeply furrowed brow, the worry, the… she must have been projecting, but she could swear she could see understanding in his eyes. She looked from him to Molly next to him, to where Nott was settling down next to him. She was surrounded by her friends she realized, protected by them. Caduceus was by the stove, turning the burner off, Fjord leaning by the door, protecting her. She heard Caleb snap a little, and heard Frumpkin make a noise of reply. He muttered something in German, and Frumpkin trotted under the table over to her. She let out a little huff as the car jumped up on to her lap.

She swallowed. “I’m sorry.” she said again. “About last night. I’m sorry. I… I went home, and I picked back at my dad and he just… he just gets upset. If I didn’t upset him this wouldn’t have happened.”

“This isn’t your fault, Beau.” Yasha replied without hesitation.

Beau scrunched her nose, head shaking. “It’s… If I had behaved, I hadn’t spoken back, if I hadn’t hit back he wouldn’t have escalated things.”

“Your… Your father?” Jester asked from the floor. “Your father did this?”

Beau looked at her, guilt welling up. Jester had so much faith in the world. Her mom had always been so good to her. She’d always taught her to expect the best. Beau was ruining her. She forced herself to nod at Jesters question.

“Oh, Beau.” Nott’s voice rang out. “And your mother…”

Beau shrugged. “She, uh… I mean… She doesn’t fly off the handle like him. She… she isn’t… it’s… everyone’s parents are assholes, right, mine are just, worse than some.”

“No, Beau.” Fjord said. “That’s… when people complain about their parents it’s because they got in an argument about curfew, or about like… I don’t know, over using their gas card.” He shook his head. “Not this.”

Beau looked around the room, scowling as she realize they were all making faces of agreement. She dropped her eyed back to the drink. “Oh.” She said.

“It’s okay, Beauregard.” Yasha said softly. “It’s not your fault.”

Jester put her hand on Beau’s knee, nodding.

Beau took a breath, trying to accept that new reality. She looked around the room, swallowing, then shrugged. “But, upsetting him, that, it was my fault, though-”

“Step one for you is going to include a lot of positive self talk.” Molly said. He’d taken to leaning his chin on Caleb’s shoulder, not quite meeting Beau’s eye. “And learning to keep from ever thinking that what they did to you is your fault.”

Caduceus brought a cup of tea over, trading the glass Beau was holding out for the warm ceramic. “We’ll help you on that.” He promised.

Beau felt almost dizzy, almost sick, but she looked around the room, and realized that if they were willing to go to all this trouble for her, to help her, then maybe, just maybe she did deserve it.

Beau remained on edge all of Wednesday, as they talked through things, moving from the kitchen to the couch, talking about options and if she wanted to go to the police, and when she could get in at the student mental health clinic. She kept expecting it all to fall apart. But the more they deconstructed it, the more they talked, the more she realized the way her family treated her was not normal. She realized it, but it was still hard to keep from pulling blame to herself. It had been drilled into her so long that it was just habit. Yasha never really left her side, Frumpkin wasn’t ever far from her either. (She really didn’t understand how Caleb had so effectively trained a cat. It almost seemed impossible.) They decided, late Wednesday night, to call it good, seeing as Beau hadn’t called herself an asshole or apologized in nearly an hour, and they’d finally remembered to eat. Jester hugged her as tight as she could without making her rib situation worse before she skipped up to bed. Fjord gave Beau a nod, smiling a little before he followed her. Caleb gave her a firm pat on the shoulder, that she returned. Molly, a kiss on the head. Nott hadn’t really strayed too far from Beau either that day, but she gave Beau’s hand a squeeze before heading off to her room. Caduceus took a breath, and promised her that things could only get better, before disappearing down the stairs.

Yasha stared at her from the corner of the couch. Beau stared back.

“Beauregard, I…” Yasha cleared her throat. “I have to be honest, I’ve never been this angry in my life. I want to drive out there and kill them for what they did to you. You didn’t deserve any of that.” Beau swallowed, feeling too many emotions to parse how she felt about that. Yasha dropped her eyes before continuing. “I just… I wanted to say that… I will never let anyone hurt you like that again as long as I’m in your life. And I plan to be in it for a long, long time.”

Beau swallowed, nodding a little. “I want you in for for a long, long time.” She replied.

Yasha looked back to her, and Beau could swear she saw a weight shift on her shoulders. She knew that Yasha had lost someone dear, though she didn’t know the details, and she hoped, she prayed, that she wouldn’t ever make that list longer.

Yasha pushed to her feet. “Let’s go rest.”

To Beau’s shock, Yasha joined Beau in her bed. To her amazement, she fell asleep so easily when Yasha was there. To her wonder, Yasha was still there when Beau woke up again.

Beau should have been expecting the loud insistent pounding on the door. It was after their thanksgiving dinner, where they (Molly, loudly) had mostly discussed the hypocrisy of early European settlers, and they were half way through Love, Actually. Jester had insisted, declaring that it was the only way to start off the Holiday season right. Beau had nearly forgotten about the pain in her side, and the brace on her wrist. She was tucked in to Yasha’s side, and Caleb was on her other side, and she felt safe. She felt good. And then there was a violent pounding at the door, and the sound of the doorknob being rattled, and she immediately felt that being taken away from her.

“Beauregard!” A voice roared from outside, and Beau could do nothing but freeze as Fjord scrambled for the remote. “Beauregard Lionette, I know you’re in there! That piece of shit car of yours is parked right out front! Answer this door immediately.”

“That’s it.” Molly muttered, pushing to his feet. Yasha was spurred to action at that, pulling away from Beau. She tried to cling to Yasha’s shirt, but she was too slow. She watched Jester push to her feet as well.

“Guys.” she said, voice a half broken whisper. “Guys, don’t…”

“Beau,” Caleb said, turning to face her as their friends stormed down the hall. “Unfortunately, you don’t get to choose who cares for you. That’s not a choice you get to make.”

With that, Beau was silence, shocked. It was a conversation they’d had freshman year, it was what she’d said to him when he was trying to hard to push them all away. His reply had been cutting, about how the trouble with friends is that you have to care about them, but all of the sudden she saw it, saw what he’d meant. She swallowed, head shaking, as he stood, putting himself between her and the door, arms folded.

She pushed to her feet shakily, moving to stand just behind Caleb, as Molly unlocked the door, backed by Yasha and Jester, Fjord and Nott a few feet back from them. Caduceus stood behind Beau, and patted her shoulder. “We’ve got you.” He promised, before taking a step back, his tall form creating a wall of security behind her. She reached a hand out and set it on Caleb’s shoulder, like he often did to her when the stress and panic got to be too much.

“Beauregard-” Her father’s voice cut off as Molly swung the door open, his other fist curled at his side.

“You have no right to be here, and should get off out property before we call the police.” Molly said, glaring.

Beau’s father returned the stare, sneering, in fact. “I don’t care much for what a fag college boy has to say. Where is Beauregard?”

Yasha seemed to grow a foot, rage bubbling up. “Don’t say her name.” She cautioned, voice a deadly sort of calm. “Don’t so much as think of trying to push past us or touch her, or you’ll be leaving with bruises much worse than hers.

Beau almost wished she’d been closer, been able to see her father recoil with fear more clearly. He looked at the assembled group, then past them. His eyes locked on her, and he raised a finger, a tiny gesture that felt like a threat. “You, you are a rotten beast. You run off with no warning, then don’t come home for dinner. This is a sacred holiday, Beauregard.”

Yasha stepped a little bit towards him, and Jester, arms folded, did the same. “We told you not to say her name.” Jester reminded.

He looked from Yasha to Jester, then back to Beauregard. “Come with me this instant. We are going home, and I will think, think of allowing you to return to your studies on Monday.”

“She isn’t going anywhere with you.” Molly said, sounding incredulous. “You think after what you did to her we’re going to let you come anywhere near her? No. In fact, I think it might be a good idea for you to turn tail and run.”

His eyes snapped to Molly, anger bubbling up. “You dare to speak to me like that-”

“Yes, I think you’ll find he does.” Fjord spoke up. He was leaning on a wall like a hero in a western. “See, we don’t tend to stand on manners when abusers are involved.”

Nott, Beau realized, was flipping a kitchen knife in the air. She hadn’t noticed her pocket it, but the threat in the action was clear.

Beau’s father swallowed. “Beauregard, I’m giving you one last chance to come home, then I’m cutting you off. No tuition, no allowance, no trust fund, no nothing.”

Beau scowled at him. “Those-” Her voice broke. “The allowance I’ve refused since I was ten, you mean? The trust fund you already changed the name on so I only am allowed it if I take on the family business?” She felt like a coward, shouting retorts from down the hall, but it was better than nothing, she figured, or at least it was a first step to feeling brave again.

“I think you’ll find she’ll be fine when it comes to tuition.” Jester replied. “She’ll be just fine without you and your bullshit.”

Beau swallowed, feeling like she was about to fall apart.

“In case you aren’t getting the point,” Caduceus called from behind her. “You aren’t welcome here.”

“It is time for you to go. Now.” Caleb added. She saw his head tilt forward, and saw fear settle into her father eyes. She didn’t know what he was seeing, but she knew she never wanted to be on the receiving end of that look. “And if you ever dare to come back here, or reach out to her in any way without her reaching you first, you’ll find that all your anger and brutality, it is nothing compared to what we will do for our friend.”

Beau watched her father tremble. She saw how small he looked. Molly was a good inch taller than him, Yasha a few more than that. He looked so weak. His eyes, the steely grey that had scared her so much for so much of her life, flicked to her. He swallowed, seeing the hardness in her face, seeing how every line of her body, even in her terror, was giving him no room for leeway. Then he turned tail and ran.

Molly waited until he saw the taillights turn the corner down the street to close the door. Beau waited until he’d locked the deadbolt, and slid the chain into place to completely fall apart.

Beau cried, feeling like that’s all she could manage anymore. But even as she did she was surrounded by her friends, her family, and she realized, all at once, that it would be okay.

#my writing #mine #critical role #beauyasha #critrole #a couple of things #trying to balance every single person in a scene #is hard #i might rewrite parts of this #but right now i'm happy to have finished it #caleb comes in the room right as beau's breakdown is starting #Caduceus lives in the basement #Marion pays 50% of the rent on their brownstone #Beau had a roommate #then Jester and Fjord started dating #Nott was in with Caleb #then she found out that they had an attic they didn't use #they're siblings in this i know that isn't clear sorry #there are only four rooms #plus the attic and the basement #I am building the brownstone in the sims because I can #frumpkin is probably still a magic cat in this #don't worry about it #also Molly cares very much about Beau and is just incredibly bad at expressing that #i probably have other notes #or things I should say #about the guild abuse victims feel #about how beau's mom sucks too and I should probably have included her in that last scene #but it made more sense not to because that's the kind of abuser she was and it's complicated #but I need to go change my laundry over now

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theangriestpea · 5 years

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Mercy Killing

A/N: Reminder that this story is somewhat AU and does not follow the story line of the show. There's not a lot of Sweets in this chapter and I apologize but we need some mounting tension. It's a slow burn, remember?

Purpura serpenta roughly translates to “Purple Snake”, Purpura for purple and serpens for snake. Serpens is masculine so I altered it to “serpenta” (from the genitive sperentis) to make it feminine since Lav is a girl. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve taken Latin so if I’m wrong, feel free to correct me.

Anyway that's the title of the collection of all things Lav x Sweet Pea. I have Sunday off but I work eight hours tomorrow. I have a few plot points figured out with this new character coming in. Sorry my roll has seemed to have slowed. I've burned myself out a little. Cross posted to AO3

Chapter Six: Familiar Faces

It went on for two weeks. Mostly it was Fangs or Toni or Cheryl in her bed but a few times it was Sweet Pea and he held her the closest. Those nights Lav slept the best. Her dreams weren’t as vivid. She’d wake with a start sometimes but be instantly calmed by that now familiar scent. Woodsy with tiny notes of citrus fruit.

During the first week that school back, Lavender was excused. Cheryl brought her work and notes that she needed. She begrudgingly did her homework, mostly because she was lonely and didn’t know what else to do in her spare time while her friends were at Riverdale High.

Lav hadn’t looked at her reflection since before the incident. She had avoided it at all costs. Now she was staring at it, unable to look away as she added more concealer onto her bruises. She no longer needed the gauze pads and her external stitches had been removed. No amount of makeup could cover the four scabs set across her cheek.

The darkest spots of her bruising still showed through in a strange purple undertone. The swelling had gone down but hadn’t disappeared completely so even with most of the bruising hidden, you could tell something was off with her face. The longer she looked in the mirror, the more self-conscious she became. Her breathing became labored as panic invaded her chest. Underneath her shirt, her ribs ached at the sharp shallow breaths she was taking.

“Lavender,” Fangs called out to her from the front door. “Let’s go! We’re going to be late!”

She finally broke eye contact with herself and grabbed her book bag. She walked out of her bathroom and to the front door. Fangs was beaming at her as if nothing was wrong. As if it wasn’t too early in the morning to be out of bed. Why was he such a charmer?

“Want me to carry your books?” He asked, looking almost hopeful.

Lav quickly shot him down, “its fine. Maybe if my ribs start acting up more you can. We only have one class together, you can’t follow me all around school.”

He sighed at her logic, “Alright, just get in the truck so we can go before all the good parking spots are gone.”

She got into the passenger’s side and when they arrived at the school, she noticed Sweet Pea leaning against his bike as he smoked a morning cigarette. Their eyes connected for a brief moment before he quickly looked away as if he hadn’t noticed her.

“Can I just skip?” Lavender asked, not liking the sinking feeling in her bruised gut. “I don’t need to come back today.”

Fangs didn’t know exactly what was up with her. He figured she was just being self-conscious about her appearance. “You look great, Lavie. No one is going to say anything with us around. No Serpent left behind, remember?” He asked, his voice hopeful.

“Right.” She muttered. “And in unity there is strength…” Lav wasn’t feeling any unity right about now so she sure as hell wasn’t feeling any strength.

“Atta girl, let’s go.” Fangs said as he hopped out of the truck. He came around and got the door for her. She thanked him and held the straps of her book bag tightly.

Throughout the school day, Lav could feel eyes on her. She could hear the whispers floating around her. Students sharing rumors of what had happened to her in tones they thought she couldn’t heard.

But Lav had great hearing.

And every word tore at her. Every syllable like a bat to her already broken ribs. More than once she found herself locked up in a bathroom stall, crying softly at just how hard this was.

She had decided to skip her last class, not wanting anything more to do with this school or the people in it. After fixing her makeup she stepped out of the bathroom and headed for the door.

“Hey, Serpent Slut,” Reggie called out, stepping in front of her to cut off her exit. Her bruised eyes narrowed at the smirk on his face, a few other bulldogs behind him looking equally as cocky. “Maybe you can clarify something for me and my boys.”

Lav clutched the book she had in her arms close to her chest, her heart beat fast and loud in her ears. Reggie had never been her biggest fan. He always had some comment to make, usually something along the lines of her and Fogarty fucking. This was all because she shot him down when he made a pass at her during freshman year. After the scandal with Chuck came out, she was happy that she had dodged that bullet. She wasn’t a Serpent yet then. She still lived on the Northside. Both her parents were still alive…

A lot had changed about her but nothing had changed about Reggie.

“Rumor has it you stepped out on Fogarty to go suck off some Ghoulie.” His smirk seemed to widen as a horrified look crossed her face. He mistook it for meaning that she was guilty. “And some other Serpents found out and jumped you. Surprised they didn’t kick your loose ass out. You really think all that makeup is hiding anything?”

Tears clung to her lower eyelids. Lav normally didn’t cry in front of people, choosing to shed tears in solace. She normally didn’t show weakness to anyone outside of her close circle of friends. However recent events had made her so damn emotional, so sensitive, so touchy…plus the comments she had heard all day circling around her in the halls and in the classrooms. The looks her teachers would give her.

The other jocks were laughing at the look on her face, Reggie had the ultimate look of triumph for bringing her to tears. Now if only they would fall. He opened his mouth for the finishing blow, but stopped abruptly when a very tall Serpent loomed behind her.

He placed a heavy hand on Lav’s shoulder, guiding her back gently to create space between the football captain and herself. She allowed herself to take a few steps backwards to accommodate him as he moved in front of her. “What’s wrong, Mantle? Can’t pick on someone your own size?” He seethed, exuding a protective kind of anger that made Lav’s heart flutter.

In the time he spent blatantly ignoring her, she had convinced herself that he didn’t care about her. That those soft moments he showed her were only to pacify Fangs’ and FP’s requests to watch out for her. Perhaps that’s what he was doing now but it felt different.

“What, she fucking you too Sweet Pea? Damn, she really gets around. Surprise you want her after she had her way with some Ghoul-“ Sweet Pea didn’t give Reggie a chance to finish before punching him square in the jaw.

The shorter boy stumbled backwards. He was about to spring a counter attack with the help of his teammates when Principal Weatherbee intervened. “Both of you, my office, now.” He demanded in a tone that left no room for question. Sweet Pea looked utterly proud of himself as Reggie rubbed his bruising face. He straightened out his letterman’s jacket before following the principal to his office.

Sweets glanced over his shoulder, giving Lav a once over to make sure she was okay. Their eyes connected just like they had this morning. And once again Sweet Pea turned away, this time to make it way towards the principal’s office.

With the cost clear, Lav started to make her way towards the door again. Her insides a flurry of emotions. Hurt over what Reggie had said, relief for Sweets stepping in the help her, and a twinge of lust from him punching the football star. She shook her head, not liking the way that last one felt.

One head of fading pink and one bright red head of hair came into her line of vision as her path was blocked once more. “The gym is that way.” Toni said flatly, pointing in the opposite direction in which Lav was headed.

“I’m excused from gym.” Lav said a little too quickly. Her eyes were still inflamed from crying as she bit her lip nervously.

Cheryl put a hand on her hip as she shifted her weight, “you still have to actually attend, Purpura Serpenta.” She said back without a beat, using the overly complicated nickname she used for Lav whenever she was scolding her. It roughly translated into purple snake in Latin.

Lavender let out a low groan of annoyance as both girls forced her to turn around and walk to class. “Now,” Toni said as she walked to Lav’s left, “why were you crying?”

She hesitated, her steps faltering to the point where Cheryl grabbed her arm gently to tug her along. “Everyone is talking shit.” She mumbled, not wanting to go into specifics. “Sweet Pea had to punch Reggie…” She left it at that.

“How are things with Sweets?” Toni asked with a small, victorious smile. “Fangs told me he caught you two very close in bed the other morning.”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “He’s been ignoring me.” Lav admitted to them. “He won’t look at me. He won’t talk to me. He gives me the cold shoulder. The only time he pays me any attention is when I ask him to come to bed, which is only when you three can’t be there.” There was a hurt look in her eyes. Nights with Pea had been such good ones that she didn’t understand his coldness to her during the day. In front of their friends he was a complete different person it seemed.

She had the notion that he was ashamed of her. Ashamed of the time they did spend together. Sometimes it made her feel more used than from what the Ghoulies did to her. As if she was just a means to an end for him. A little physical contact to carry him over being lays. Her brain screamed at her, telling her she was nothing and worthless and ugly underneath all the makeup.

Tears didn’t come to this time. Instead a quiet rage built up inside them. Fury for what had happened to her and for how her fellow students were treating her. How he was treating her.

“Sweets is just not used to actually having someone to hold all night.” Toni insisted. “Usually he makes his booty calls leave before morning. He’s been extra moody lately for some reason too. He probably just have stuff going on that we don’t know about. I know FP has been extra hard on him and Fangs recently. Telling them how they need to be taking care of you because it’s their job. I know him and Sweet Pea got into it. I could hear the yelling but couldn’t make out what they were saying.”

They arrived at the locker rooms to change into their gym clothes. Lav wondered what SP had been yelling at their leader about. It wasn’t like him to catch an attitude with the Serpent King. Maybe he was just sick of her and was trying to get out of being her personal body guard. Though she certainly felt safer with the two boys around, it wasn’t totally necessary. She had healed enough that she could fight back and she never went anywhere alone. Really it was overkill for them to still be spending the night with her. Not that she didn’t appreciate it.

Lav undressed slowly. She still couldn’t move her torso a whole lot without getting shocks of pain riveting through her. Taking her shirt off was especially hard. Toni and Cheryl were done way before her and the warning bell sounded for them to go out. Her fingers ran over the scab on the stomach, feeling ever tiny ridge in the healing mar. Her skin was now a sickly yellow color with large blotches of faded purple. “Come on, let’s get you dressed.” Toni said softly as she helped Lav pull her shirt on and get into a pair of sweat pants. She had opted not to wear shorts due to the bruising still on the majority of her legs. Though the shorts would cover the deep gashes, they wouldn’t cover the handprints and sporadic dark yellow spots littered across her light skin.

Eventually she dragged herself to the gymnasium. The students were lazily sitting on the bleachers, waiting for the roll to be called. A few gave her a look over, making her shift uncomfortably.

A pair of bright blues eyes caught her gaze. It was a boy she’d never seen before. He wore his dark brown hair short and had sharp features. His cheekbones looked like they could cut glass. His eyes roved over her before a pleased smile crossed his lips. There was something distinctly familiar about his eyes, as if she had seen them somewhere before. She couldn’t place where, but she knew him.

Cheryl saw the brief interaction and nudged Lav forward, as if telling her to go sit next to him. She hesitantly obliged, her hormones getting the best of her. “Class, meet James Colt. A new transfer.” The coach drawled as he looked over his class list. “Everyone give him the warm welcome Riverdale is known for.”

The Serpents that transferred from Southside High all snorted in response. None of them had been given a warm welcome. Hell, even after Lav donned the Serpent leather she’d been given the cold shoulder and she went to Riverdale the entire time. “Rhodes, you’re doing laps today. Everyone else, we’ll be continuing our Soccer segment of the semester.” He continued, “Start stretching and we’ll begin our warmups.”

*~~~~~~~~~~~*

During the entire class, Lav couldn’t keep her eyes of James. He so expertly worked the soccer ball between his feet, making goals through even the more experienced goalies. Their eyes would catch and she’d see that bright smile. It was a little unnerving how familiar he felt. How she still couldn’t place him. The class ended with James walking up to Lav, running a hand through his sweat soaked hair. She had to admit that it was a good look for him.

“So I’m new around here.” He started, his voice confident from the minimal interactions they’d held so far, “and I’ve been looking for someone to show me around.”

She looked at him as if he had two heads. There was no doubt he had heard the things people were saying about her. Certainly he could see the bruises that her makeup couldn’t hide. Distrust curled in her stomach as she continued to stare, wondering what his end game was. “I can’t.” She finally said, her voice concealing the uneasy butterflies she had from someone giving her positive attention. It didn’t make any sense to her.

He was the same height as Fangs which made him considerably shorter than Sweet Pea. Lav cursed herself for thinking of him.

“Why not?” He prodded, obviously not going to leave without an answer despite the dismissal bell ringing loudly. His head cocked to the side cutely, blue eyes blinking as he looked at her.

She felt her face flush. “It’s complicated.” She muttered. How could she explain that she had two equally buff body guards waiting to take her home? “But…” She added, biting her lip. She grabbed his hand and took out a pen, scrawling her number onto the back of it. “I’ll tell you all you need to know about Riverdale.”

There was a glimmer of something in his eyes, a second of mischief that Lav didn’t actually catch. She was too busy staring at his soft lips. “Looking forward to it.” He said as a smirk tugged on the right half of his mouth. Lav noticed she was still holding his hand and quickly dropped it. “Don’t leave me hanging.” He added before turning to leave.

All she could do was watch his retreating back as he headed to the showers.

*~~~~~~~~~~~*

Lavender let out another tiny giggle as she stared at her phone. She and James had been texting back and forth for a couple hours now, flirting heavily as she told him all the juicy details about Riverdale. The murders, the drugs, the gangs. Everything. He had moved here from Greendale and while he had heard some of it, he didn’t know the nuances that she did.

Fangs snatched her phone from her, his curiosity finally getting the better of him. “Who keeps making you laugh like that?” He asked, flipping through the messages. Lav let him, not caring if he saw. He was one of her best friends after all.

“This new guy in my gym class.” She said with a smile. She noticed Sweet Pea stiffen on his place on her couch. Lav dismissed it as him not liking her newfound giddiness. He seemed to prefer her to be miserable and moping.

Fangs was smiling, “oh, he’s smooth.” He said, eyes sweeping over the texts quickly. The sound of a hissing snake signaled that she got a new message. “Looks like you’ve got a date, baby girl.” He said as he handed the phone back to her.

Lav looked at the message. James had asked her to take him to this Chock’lit Shoppe she had gone on about. She looked at Fangs, “can I?” Her voice was small and needy.

“No.” Sweet Pea quickly said in a harsh tone. It was the first thing he had said to her in days. “It’s too dangerous. You don’t even know this kid. Is he another Northsider?” Inside he was raging that she had seemed to fall so quickly to this new kid. He’d never seen her actively flirt with anyone before. Not anyone other than him that night at the Wyrm.

Her face fell, eyes darkening in a pained sadness that pulled on Fangs’ heartstrings. “We can go with her.” He suggested, “Sit a few booths away?”

Lavender grinned at him, throwing her arms around his neck in the tightest hug she could manage without hurting herself, “Thank you, Fangs.” As she hugged him, she sent daggers in Sweet Pea’s direction with her eyes. He only returned the favor.

#mercykilling #sweet pea x oc #sweet pea fanfic #sweet pea fanfiction #riverdale fanfiction #sp x oc #purpuraserpenta #sweet pea #fanfic #fanfiction #I can't stand reggie #so he's a douche #james played by colton haynes

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writing-royza · 5 years

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Tainted Blood, Tainted Soul: Chapter Sixteen - Apaavan

A/N: Happy Wednesday, everyone! I'm sorry for the delay; this is getting into a busy timeof year for me. This weekend, I helped my husband host a public trivia night on Saturday and then Sunday we played D&D with friends and it ran late. Since then, I’ve just been trying to get enough sleep and unwind where I can. So please enjoy this chapter, even if it is a little late!

I do not own FMA.

Chapter Sixteen - Apaavan

EAST CITY MILITARY HOSPITAL

1743 HOURS, APRIL 21

As soon as the man entered the main lobby of the hospital, once he was out of the infernal sun, he felt the irritating weakness in his limbs fade. It wasn't entirely gone, not while the sun remained above the horizon, but as long as he wasn't directly within its beams, he would manage.

He was careful to carry his bouquet of flowers upright, so that the canvas bag folded in amongst the stems wouldn't fall and draw unnecessary attention. Just a man visiting an ill friend, he thought to himself. Or perhaps my wife just gave birth to our child. That would certainly garner more sympathy, if any staff become too nosy….

Pausing in front of the directory board mounted across from the entry, he let his eyes skim over unnecessary departments such as Obstetrics, Podiatry, Emergency…. Ah, there.

'Phlebotomy Clinic.'

Perhaps the Emergency department would make a good exit once he was finished; it appeared to be located the closest to the hospital's blood donor facility. And why not? If the blood was to be used on incoming patients anyway, why should it travel farther than it needed to?

Starting off down the corridor, he kept his pace measured and his expression neutral. He passed mostly nurses and orderlies who were too absorbed in their duties to pay much attention, visitors or patients looking for specific rooms, the occasional doctor in the white coats that identified their positions, and once, a cheery, pink-pinstriped candy striper with her small cart.

Unfortunately, of all those he passed, he made eye contact with her.

The girl couldn't have been older than 17, and she was nearly impossible to ignore. Between her curly blonde hair, wide blue eyes, and dazzling broad smile, she drew attention like iron filings to a magnet. The man began to feel the weakness returning, brought on by nothing but an overly sunny disposition.

"Good evening, sir!" she chirped, her tone oozing friendliness and the pep of three dozen pep rallies. "Can I interest you in anything for the person you're visiting? Nothing gets somebody back on their feet like a good pick-me-up!" She giggled at her own joke.

"That would be rather difficult," the man said, making his voice as bland and bleak as possible. "My friend was in a rather unfortunate accident and appears to be in a coma."

The smile dropped off the girl's face so quickly that it was nearly comical. "Oh my gosh… that's terrible!" Those blue eyes swam with emotion and what appeared to be the very beginnings of tears. "I hope they come out of it soon. In fact, I'm sure they will — East City has some of the best doctors!"

"Yes, I'm aware." Stepping past her, he continued down the hall, reimagining the moment the annoyingly bright smile had vanished. "Please, excuse me."

"Sir, one moment!"

Annoyance washed over him like high tide, and he took a deep breath before turning to face her. It wouldn't do to snap and draw the stares of onlookers; even the excuse of an ailing friend could only support so much blame. When he turned, the girl was so close, it felt that she was practically nose to nose with him. Taking one of his hands in both of hers, she pressed something into it with that same cheerful smile.

"Here, sir. Perhaps your friend might not need anything, but here's something to keep you going in the meantime. Got to keep your strength up!" Turning, she bounced back to her cart and set off along the hall with a wave. "Take care, now!"

Looking down at the cookie in his hand, the man grimaced at the icing smile drawn across the oatmeal chocolate chip surface. With his teeth gritted, he glanced about to make sure he was unobserved before shoving the thing into the nearest waste bin and stalking off down the hall.

He followed the relevant signs to the phlebotomy clinic, using the time to regain his composure. When he finally reached it, he stood, ostensibly examining another directory board, but watching from the corner of his eye through the open clinic door. Two donors sat in the tiny waiting area, a petite female orderly behind the check-in desk. This woman got up as a male nurse escorted a third donor into the waiting area, and presented him with a cookie and a small paper cup of juice. The nurse disappeared back into the depths of the clinic after an exchange of a few words, taking one of the waiting donors with him.

The man pasted a friendly smile on his face — dim, compared to the candy striper — and headed inside.

"Hello there," he greeted the orderly as she returned to the desk. "I have a flower delivery here for the clinic manager."

"For Mr. Lanceton?" The girl looked puzzled. "I didn't know he liked flowers…. I'm sorry, he's already left for the day. If you like, you can leave them here and he can pick them up first thing in the morning."

The man's smile turned knowing. "It's kind of the idea that he left before I got here. The customer asked specifically that we deliver them after he left at five, so that they would be on his desk first thing tomorrow morning. A nice sort of surprise to start the day, you know?" Leaning over the counter, he gave the girl a wink. "Are you sure you can't let me in there? Just for a minute?"

The girl blushed prettily, looking away. "Well… okay. He usually leaves his office door unlocked, just in case any of us need files or anything after he leaves." She pointed back over her shoulder. "Go ahead – third door on the left. Just be quick, okay?"

"As quick as I can, so that I can get back here and see that cute smile again," he promised, before passing the desk and heading off down the hall.

The right side was apparently devoted entirely to exam rooms, with the left side being reserved for offices… and the cold storage lab. Bypassing the manager's office, the man glanced briefly over his shoulder before hurrying to the lab and slipping inside.

A cool draft pervaded the room, spiralling off the glass-fronted coolers that lined one wall. With it being after five, the lab techs had all gone home for the day, leaving the room empty and dimly lit.

Taking the folded bag from inside the flower bouquet, he dropped the bundle on the floor and kicked it aside, scattering petals and leaves. It had served its purpose. He shook the bag out, his tongue running over gleaming white teeth as he approached the coolers and the life-filled glass bottles stored within. They were lined up in neat rows, their labels showing that they were grouped by type and date.

The man reached in, taking three bottles at random. A, B, O, AB… none of that mattered to him; he was swallowing the stuff, not taking it intravenously. Arranging the bottles in the bag, he selected two more, nestling them alongside the others. His long fingers were just brushing against the sixth and seventh selections when the silence of the lab was shattered.

"What are you doing?!"

When he looked back, the male nurse from earlier was standing in the doorway, a bottle of fresh blood in his hand. One hand rested on the doorknob, his mouth slightly open and eyes wide in surprise.

The man smiled, letting his pointed canine teeth show. "Inventory inspection. For… quality control."

He gripped the open bag in his fist, keeping any of the stolen bottles from spilling out, and launched himself across the room at the nurse. The other saw him coming and took a surprised half-step back before the intruder landed against his chest and forced him to the floor.

Leaning back, the man raised his free hand and brought a newly-formed fist crashing against the nurse's temple. The unfortunate man had time for a single violent twitch, before sharp teeth were buried in his throat. He gasped once, dazed eyes open wide, the sound turning into a wet gurgle as the piercing teeth ripped.

The man didn't wait to see the life drain out of his victim; a shame, really. He enjoyed that part. Taking the bag, he glanced down once at his suit: the chest and entire left arm were covered in a spray of bright red arterial blood, more still coming from the choking, dying man on the floor. There was no way to explain this, no way to calmly walk out of the hospital like nothing was wrong….

Hugging the bag of blood-filled bottles to his chest, the man broke into a run.

The exclamations, when he dashed through the reception area, were more surprised than horrified. Out the door, he turned right, toward the emergency room, hearing the shouts and surprise behind him turn horrified as they realized just what the red stuff on him was.

Patients, visitors, and staff alike pressed themselves out of his way as he hurtled through the halls, often crying out as he passed as they spotted the blood. One or two of them screamed, and an elderly man who had the misfortune to get a clear look at him stopped in his tracks before passing out in shock.

The man burst through the doors into the busy emergency room, skidding to a halt mere feet from the nearest set of chairs. The breath heaved in his chest, his head swivelling this way and that as he tried to locate the exit. A shocked hush fell over the scene, the only sound his own ragged breathing as he breathed in the scents of fear, antiseptic, sickness, and blood.

Two uniformed security guards stepped slowly from an adjacent hallway, their hands resting on the guns holstered at their hips. They paused, eyes taking in the blood on the man's suit and the wild look in the eyes that swung their way.

The man grinned, revealing blood-streaked, pointed white teeth. A woman nearby gasped and clutched her coughing child closer, shrinking away from the man as she did.

"All right, sir," the first guard said cautiously, one hand held out in a calming gesture. "Take it easy. You don't want to make things any worse for yourself than they already are."

"I'm relatively sure that's impossible," the man shot back, still grinning. It wasn't his usual assured, confident smile; his held more than a hint of manicness, betrayed how his brain was tilting toward imbalance… how the bloodlust had its hold and was keeping a firm grip. "At least… things can't get worse for me. You…. You might not be so lucky."

The guard frowned, puzzled. "And just what is that supposed to —"

His words disappeared in screams, both his own and those of the people around him as the man lunged forward. A hand fisted itself around the uniform's tie, dragging the unfortunate man close to where his attacker's teeth could sink into his throat. The man jerked his head back, twisting as he did so for maximum power, feeling the lacerations spread into shreds.

He shoved the dying guard back into his partner, then turned and bolted toward the wide doors across the room. He dodged walkers and canes, leapt empty seats, and pushed bodies from his path regardless of age or health. At one point, a man in dirt- and oil-smudged overalls stood up, a bloody rag wrapped around an injured hand, and attempted to catch the fleeing man in a bear hug. Had he been a fraction of a second faster, he would have succeeded, but the man ducked his would-be captor's arm and shot through the doors into the gathering dusk.

The sun hadn't been down long, probably only having slipped below the horizon a few minutes before. His limbs lacked their full strength to sustain his top running speed, and transferring to a less corporeal form wouldn't be possible until it was a good deal darker.

Slowing to an easy lope, the man headed off along back alleys and little-used streets, his arms wrapped tightly around the bottles of hunger-sating blood.

RECONSTRUCTION OUTPOST OFFICE, JADAD, ISHVAL

0723 HOURS, APRIL 22

He was waiting outside their office when they arrived to begin the work day. Roy stood with his back to the wall beside the front door, his arms folded and his expression entirely composed. Dark eyes watched the two men approaching from across the plaza, not missing the way they exchanged a glance before reaching him.

"You're up early, Colonel," Miles commented, once he and Scar were within earshot. "Did you sleep well?"

"Bold of you to assume I slept at all," was the acerbic answer. Roy shifted to stand straight, but otherwise held his ground. "Given that I was forcibly separated from my Lieutenant thirty seconds after she was screaming her head off for some reason I still don't know, and no one will tell me anything." Hard, dark eyes went from one man to the other and back again. "Nothing about what was wrong, nothing about where she was taken or who she was taken by, and nothing about when she might be back or when I can see her."

Grim-faced as ever, Scar stepped past him, unlocking the door and allowing it to swing open. "Come inside," he said tersely, entering and not bothering to see if he was followed. "You won't want to discuss this out in the open."

Roy couldn't help but glance around as he stepped inside what had once been a single-family house. The door opened into what had likely been a general family/living room, with an archway off to the right leading to what he could only assume was some sort of dining room. A doorway there permitted the barest glimpse of a kitchen area that Scar disappeared into. Stairs in the main room led to a second floor, and — one would assume — what had once been bedrooms.

And every direction he turned, every surface was covered in scrolls, maps, books, blank paper, and writing tools.

"Welcome to our newest outpost of the Reconstruction Office," Miles commented offhandedly. "Perhaps not as tidy as a military office, but it's a functional sort of chaos."

Roy didn't answer, watching as the Major closed the door and moved to kneel behind a low writing desk off to one side. "What's going on that you didn't want to discuss it outside?" he finally asked, moving to where he could see both Miles and Scar, the latter moving about inside the kitchen area to the clinking of earthenware cups.

The warrior priest spoke without looking over. "How long has your Lieutenant been apaavan?" he asked quietly.

"…Has she been…?"

"Apaavan," Miles repeated, already sorting through the books on his desk, apparently in search of one in particular. "It's our word for 'unclean' or 'unholy.'"

For a long moment, all Roy could do was stare at the other man. He was barely aware of Scar re-entering the room, automatically accepting the steaming cup of tea the warrior passed to him. Finally, when he found his voice, all he could think to say was, "…Why would you think she's that?"

"Her reaction to the blessed sand speaks for itself," Scar answered. He settled behind a second writing desk Roy hadn't noticed; the surface was piled so high with maps and scrolls that it was hard to recognize the furniture underneath. "You'll notice that you didn't react when it touched you, but —"

Roy gritted his teeth, cutting across the other man. "Let me get this straight. Lieutenant Hawkeye reacted so strangely because the sand was holy and she was… not?" His felt his fingers tighten on the cup and forced his grip to loosen before he shattered the thing. "Why wouldn't she be?"

"A very good question," Miles commented. Apparently finding the book he wanted, he looked up. "Please, sit, Colonel. Standing can't be that comfortable." He pointed to a cushion in front of his desk, and Roy sank reluctantly onto it. "To answer your good question, it's rather simple. Something the Lieutenant has done has, to oversimplify things, corrupted her soul. That which ties us to God."

Roy's mind flashed him the briefest of images: the way she'd thrown her head back in the back of the truck, literally screaming in pure, unadulterated pleasure —

"What sort of thing could she have done?" he said, forcing his mind back to the task at hand. Taking a cautious, thoughtful sip of tea, he added, "It can't be anything to do with our roles in the civil war, or else I'd be… apaavan?" He glanced at Scar, who nodded confirmation. "— as well. I would have reacted just as badly as she did."

"There can be several reasons a person is considered unclean," Miles assured him. "Things like… well, as Major General Armstrong said once or twice, if there were 'bears in the forest,' so to speak."

Roy lifted one eyebrow, waiting for the other to explain, before Scar quietly cleared his throat. "A woman being on her cycle is considered physically unclean," he clarified. Something in his usually unreadable mask of a face took an uncomfortable edge. "A reaction like the Lieutenant's points to unholiness of the soul, not the body."

"And that returns to the question of how she got that way." Taking another sip of the tea, Roy allowed himself to relax a little in posture; staying angry and uptight wouldn't help Riza any faster. "What causes corruption to a soul?"

Scar's shrug was about as expressive as the man ever got. "In our modern times, it's relegated mostly to what you would 'cardinal sins.' Things like murder, rape, adultery… things on that level. In times past, I would also include pacts with otherworldly beings, selling her soul to a demon, or unnatural creation at the hands of someone like the Homonculi's Father… but those would seem to be a bit farfetched."

Miles had the book open in front of him on the desk, skimming through it carefully. He paused on one page in particular, then looked up. "Possession," he suggested.

Roy went cold all over, seeing again the Central/East City serial killer forcing his blood down Riza’s throat.

Deep frown lines etched Scar's forehead as he thought. "I would consider it more likely than the other supernatural options," he said at last, "but still quite a reach."

"More likely how?" Roy took a sip of his tea to counteract the sudden dryness of his mouth.

The large man shrugged expressively. "There were millions of souls flying loose during the Promised Day," he answered. "If one lost its spiritual connection to its body, it stands to reason it might try and attach itself to another host. And if that host happened to be your Lieutenant, it would create a kind of corruption."

At least he doesn't suspect what I do…. Sitting straight, Roy glanced between the two men, putting his years of command into full play. "Regardless of whatever is causing the problem, I want to see her," he said firmly. "I won't stay separated from a member of my team when they need help."

"No one is saying you should, Colonel," Miles soothed. He gestured toward the stairs before looking back to his book. "We'll continue trying to find an explanation. Your Lieutenant spent the night upstairs, under observation."

It took most of what Roy had not to scramble for the stairs at top speed. He instead forced himself to calmly set down his cup and rise smoothly to his feet. His steps were purposeful but unhurried as he ascended to the second floor, finding Scar's master sitting cross-legged on the floor outside a closed wooden door.

The older man smiled in a fatherlike way, getting to his feet and offering a small bow. "Good morning, Colonel," he said, quietly. "I told her you would be here before too long. I'm pleased to see I was right."

"Thank you for looking after her," he answered, just as quietly. "Is she awake?"

"I believe so, though she's been silent for some time." His expression turned solemn. "As to what happened yesterday at the temple…. Once the two of you have had a chance to catch up, I'd like to go over some of the options for your Lieutenant. On how to help her."

Roy inclined his head in an abbreviated bow. "Thank you. I'll let you know when she's ready. Now, if you don't mind?" He gestured to the door.

When it was opened for him, it was onto a severe interior. The walls and floor were bare, as was the lone window that looked out over the expanse of sandy dirt that was the small building's 'backyard.' The only light came from the window, and Roy stepped inside into shadows that only deepened as the door closed behind him.

"I didn't think you'd keep me waiting long."

His head turned as the voice came from a dark corner, his eyes taking a moment to fully see her as they adjusted to the gloom. Riza was just getting to her feet, one hand on the wall for balance, though she winced and pulled it away after a moment. She still wore the simple desert dress and sash, but the headscarf was gone, allowing her bangs to fall freely into her eyes.

"Hey, there you –"

He broke off, staring as exactly what he was seeing sank in. His feet had only taken a pair of steps in her direction before he froze in his tracks, mouth falling open. A long, loud silence fell before his voicebox remembered its function, although the only words his brain could muster were "…Holy shit."

Riza smiled wryly, though there wasn't much strength behind it. "That seems to be the sentiment of most people who have seen me," she replied, far more calmly than Roy would have thought. She held up her hands, palms out. "Though it's mostly in response to this."

On each palm where her hands had touched as they were cupped to receive the blessed sand was an angry red half-circle. Spreading out from that, as though each vein and capillary were traced in ink, was a network of fine, red lines. It looked like the web of some crazed spider, with the arachnid itself sitting large and menacing in the centre.

Carefully, he took her hands in his, bringing them closer for a better look. Her skin was cool, almost cold to the touch, and pale enough that the red stood out starkly even in the dim light. "Riza… are these burns?"

"Why do you think I screamed?" She tried to gently tug free of his grasp, but he didn't allow her to slip away. "It's all right; our… hosts gave me some salve to take the heat out of them. They're mostly just tender."

"Yeah. Our hosts." He glanced around the room, seeing the sleeping pallet in one corner, the small mirror on the wall, but no other furniture. "Are they treating you all right? Did they let you sleep?"

She was smiling, the expression fond, and tolerant of his worrying. "I've been left to my own devices since ten o'clock last night," she informed him. "The guard outside is for my own protection from any citizen that may have heard what happened, and to assist me if necessary." She shrugged. "He and I talked for a few hours. He's very nice."

His irritation was rising at her apparent disregard for her situation, and Roy had to grit his teeth to stop himself from saying anything too harsh. "Riza, do you know what happened after the blessing went south? Miles and Scar's Master pulled a disappearing act with you, while Scar himself pretty much pinned me to the floor so that I couldn't go after them."

Unable to hold himself back completely, he wrapped her in a fierce hug, burying his nose in the fall of her hair. "I've spent the last twenty hours replaying it all in my head, trying to figure out what happened, hoping you were all right, wondering where you were…. They wouldn't tell me anything, other than that you were in a safe place, that they were looking into it, that the best thing I could do was to keep a low profile and talk to them this morning." He hugged her tighter as her hands rested gently on his back. "Do you have any idea how hard that is?"

"I know. I'm sorry you were so worried." She pulled away just enough so that her hands cupped his face, lifting his head to where she could look him in the eye. "I'm all right. You're all right. Things are going to work out for the better."

But his dark eyes were tracking over her face, scrutinizing, trying to see that comforting shade of brown, but the colour hidden by the shadows. "Are you sure everything's okay with you?" Standing straight, he held her at arms' length for a better look. "You're white as a sheet, your hands are like ice…." His gaze went to the spots of bright colour in her cheeks, and he frowned. One hand lifted to press the back against her forehead, brushing her bangs aside. "You didn't have any problems stemming from those burns? No shock or anything?"

She shook her head, ducking away from his hand. "No, Roy, and I'm not feverish either."

"Okay, okay. I was just checking." The same hand touched her cheek, the gesture intimate rather than analytical, before he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I have to make sure my Lieutenant is in top form. She knows I'd go under without her."

From the moment he walked in, she was biding her time. It hadn't taken Riza long to discover that even the faint light of morning was enough to kick off the feeling of weakness in her limbs if she stood in it directly. It was the sensation if a body preparing to fall unconscious, though the associated blackness never came.

So, Riza stayed in that shadows, out of the direct fall of sun. She was there when he found her, something inside her chest giving a happy leap at the sight of him. Even with his face in shadow, she could pick out the mixture of worry and relief when those dark eyes landed on her, could see the way the frown lines in his forehead deepened when it was obvious her hands were injured.

She almost pulled him close at the first touch, but forced herself to hold back. She couldn't appear too eager to see him, or risk alerting the Ishvalan outside her door to their illicit little affair. There was the chance that it would be interpreted as relief after being forcibly separated from him under strange circumstances, but until she had a better handle on the culture, it was better not to risk it.

Her eyes stayed on the marks on her hands as he examined them. "Riza, are these burns?"

"Why do you think I screamed?" She watched the neckline of his tunic pull away from his throat as he looked up, his pulse visible as the tiniest flutter of a vein beneath the skin. An overwhelming feeling of desire rose like thick fog in mind, and she tried to tug away from him before she could act upon it… but his hands held fast to hers. "It's all right; our… hosts gave me some salve to take the heat out of them. They're mostly just tender."

"Yeah. Our hosts." Riza's eyes started drifting back toward the side if his neck as his head turned, looking around the small room. "Are they treating you all right? Did they let you sleep?"

She could faintly hear his heartbeat, now that she was consciously listening for it; the sound drew a smile to her lips. "I've been left to my own devices since ten o'clock last night," she answered almost automatically. Her attention was taken up with the steady th-thump th-thump th-thump coming from his chest. "The guard outside is for my own protection from any citizen that may have heard what happened, and to assist me if necessary." She shrugged. "He and I talked for a few hours. He's very nice."

The sound of his teeth clenching carried over the sound of his pulse. When she met his gaze, it was full of frustration, worry, and something close to desperation. "Riza, do you know what happened after the blessing went south? Miles and Scar's Master pulled a disappearing act with you, while Scar himself pretty much pinned me to the floor so that I couldn't go after them."

Roy abruptly wrapped her in a tight hug, and though Riza tried to pay attention to what he said – he was concerned, that much was obvious – the sudden proximity of his heart drowned out the words. Her ear, so close against his neck, could hear nothing but a rushing roar of pumping muscle and flowing blood. Lifting her hands, she settled them on his back, holding hm closer so that she could keep listening to that sound….

And abruptly realized he had stopped speaking and was probably waiting for an answer. "I know. I'm sorry you were so worried." Easing herself away from him, so that she could hear, if nothing else, she cupped his face in both hands. "I'm all right. You're all right. Things are going to work out for the better."

He was watching her closely, brows slowly lowering into a frown. "Are you sure everything's okay with you? You're white as a sheet, your hands are like ice…." He stepped back as he spoke, giving her a brief once-over before reaching up to press the back of one hand against her forehead. "You didn't have any problems stemming from those burns? No shock or anything?"

Ducking away from his hand before he could notice how her eyes looked, she played the evasion off with a smile. She couldn't let him see her eyes just yet; she had seen them in the mirror, but thanks to the dim lighting, he had yet to notice. "No, Roy, and I'm not feverish either."

"Okay, okay. I was just checking." His fingers brushed down one cheek, before he leaned in to press a kiss to the other. "I have to make sure my Lieutenant is in top form. She knows I'd go under without her."

The roar of his pulse sounded briefly again in her ears, and Riza unconsciously moistened her lips with a flick of her tongue. Roy stepped away as suddenly as he had moved closer, heading toward the lone window and leaving her in the centre of the room.

"I have to say, this has taken a turn from how I pictured our return to Ishval," he commented. Riza watched his hands reach reflexively for pockets that weren't there, instead folding behind his back. "But with any luck, we can move past this and get down to business in the next day or two."

Her mind was beginning to drift away from her, most reasoning fading into the background as what felt like mental white noise took over. Her muscles felt loose and lithe, her body moving with more ease of movement than she ever remembered having before.

"Hey." Roy glanced back over his shoulder when she spoke, finding her with her arms held out to him. "I think you and I have some business of our own that needs attending to."

He glanced briefly toward the door, weighing his options; Riza waited. She could wait forever if she needed to… but she knew he wouldn't last long before giving in. After the stresses of the day before, she was the tall drink of cool water for the man just emerging from the desert, and he would not resist her.

When he stepped into her embrace, his arms settling comfortably around her, he was smiling. "Sorry, I thought we were done with this…." He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "Though the way you've been going the last few weeks, I shouldn't be surprised."

She smiled, watching the way his eyes dropped toward her lips… and then widened at the sight of her teeth. "I suppose I have been a little… demanding, haven't I."

The takedown happened as though she were dancing with an inordinately clumsy partner. Her arms still around him, Riza twisted sharply on the spot, throwing him off-balance. Roy gave a surprised yell as he started to fall, and she braced herself as his hold on her dragged her along.

He hit the floorboards on his back, with her hugged to his chest. Riza pressed both hands to the floor and pushed herself up, keeping herself astride his chest to ensure he would stay where he was. "Sir, if you keep making noise like that, it's going to be very hard to explain to our hosts," she commented mildly.

"Riza, what the hell –"

"Sshhhhh." She leaned over him, one finger pressed to his lips, though it was a needless gesture. His eyes flitted from her eyes, to her teeth, and back again. "Language, sir, there's a lady present."

Sitting straight, trailed the finger from his lips, down his throat, and to the centre of his chest with feathery lightness. She shook the half-concealing bangs from her eyes, allowing the slit-pupiled amethyst purple to show, her smile hinting at the pointed canine teeth he had already noticed.

"Besides, you've never fought me before. Why start now?"

#fma #fmab #Roy Mustang #Riza Hawkeye #royza #royai #fma fanfiction #royai fanfiction #tainted blood

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pinkletterday · 6 years

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Title: You & I

Pairing:Barry Allen/Iris West

Other pairings:Coldflash, Coldwestallen, Olivarry, Queenwestallen, Queenwest, Superwestallen, Superflash, Superwest, Superflarrow, Westcanary, Iris West/OFC, Iris West/OMC

Summary:On the face of it, they have the perfect polyam marriage. Well, almost. No matter how loving the relationship, polyamory brings it's own set of problems.

Notes:

It's 5am and I've been up three hours with a fever. I wrote a Westallen polyam marriage negotiation thingy. Probably gonna cringe at it in a few hours but am still gonna post cause reality is meaningless and future me can suck it.

Iris watched her husband from the doorway of the twins' bedroom. She loved listening to him sing as much as her children did. It engulfed her in warm contentment, transporting her back in time to her own father's crooning by her bedside.

"But you're so

precious to me

Baby of mine..."

Donny was asleep but Dawnie, as usual, was actively fighting it.

"One more, Daddy."

"Nu-uh."

"Purrty pleease?"

"I'll sing you another one tomorrow night," Barry pressed a kiss to her temple, "Go to sleep, ladybug."

She sighed and acquiesied, snuggling under the covers. He tucked her stuffed rabbit next to her, dropped kisses on both their heads and slipped out, giving Iris a (very quiet) high-five.

She had just closed the bedroom door when his arms slid around her waist. He turned his face into her neck, pressing kisses to her bare skin.

"Mmm," she leaned back and smiled lazily, arcing into his lips. "Mr. Allen, you better not start something you can't finish."

"Why would you think I can't finish it?," he murmured and she felt his hardness press against her ass.

She tried not to grind back against it. "Because your boyfriend has already been waiting for you for an hour?"

Barry froze and drew back. "An hour? Shit, is it that late?"

"Uh huh," Iris fought down her disappointment and rolled her eyes at him. "I swear those two take longer to give in every night."

"Not possible. I vividly remember none of us sleeping for three months straight once," said Barry, but he was distracted calling Leonard on his phone.

"Hey babe, just wanted you to know I'm on my way. Just give me ten minutes to shower and change....yeah, I guess. Okay, I'll bring my bag. See you soon."

A familiar bleak feeling opened in her stomach, but she carefully schooled her features into wry amusement. "Ten minutes, huh?"

"Yeah, it's our code for "I'm having a quickie with my wife before I come over"," Barry crowded her against the wall, eyes dark with lust.

"Uh-uh," she tried to stop him with a grin and a hand on his chest. He ignored her and went back to kissing her neck. "Barry," she tried to be stern, but the dratted man knew her weak spots too well, "Barr, I'm really not in a quickie mood."

He drew back to look at her quizzically. "You sure? This morning you were all over me."

"No, I definitely want sex. I just want something slower and more thorough right now, and that's not what I'm going to get with a quick fumble before you run off to Len."

She immediately felt bad when his face fell.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said, eyes full of contrition.

"It's okay. You haven't seen him in two weeks," she smiled encouragingly at him. Of course they hadn't had sex in two weeks either. But it wasn't like they didn't see each other every day.

He still looked troubled. "Are you sure? Maybe you could come with me. I don't think Len would mind," he kissed her in reassurance. "You have a standing invitation, you know."

The thought of being wrapped up in the bodies of both her husband and his lover sent pulse of desire through her, but her heart wasn't in it. "I know. But I'm not horning on your reunion sexathon. Seriously, hon, its okay," she grinned at him salaciously. "I'll just pour myself a glass of wine, switch on my vibrator and get myself off on our bed thinking of all the dirty things you two are probably doing."

Barry's eyes went dark. "Mrs. West-Allen, are you objectifying us?"

"Yes," she breathed close to his lips. "And you can tell Len exactly how."

He crushed him to her in a hard kiss.

They had a rule of greatly reduced superspeed in the house unless in case of emergency, so he had to take a few seconds longer to gather up his things than he would have.

"Have fun," she raised on her tip-toes to kiss him. "What?"

He was looking at her with a considering expression. "It's been a while since you've gone out with someone yourself. Not since Daniel."

"I go out," she said defensively. "Sara and I are going strong. And I get to join you and Oliver and Len and Kara whenever I want to. Plus, I had a fun afternoon with that intern last week," she slanted a sultry grin at him. Barry had been very interested in her detailed recounting of the encounter.

But he ignored her deflection. "I mean something serious. You see Sara like three times a year, we never know when Kara turns up to crash and I'm the one actually dating Oliver and Len."

A frission of irritation ran through her. "Why is this a problem? Not all of us have speedster sexual appetites, Barry. I barely have time for you between work and the kids."

"I know that. And it's not about sex," he framed her face and kissed her soothingly on her forehead. "I just. Want to make sure you're happy. I never want any part of you to go unfullfilled," his eyes were so loving and tender that her heart ached even more.

Then stay. "I'm fine, babe," she smiled, hoping she sounded convincing. "If I do feel "unfulfilled" you can help me find someone. Now shoo! And don't come back till at least afternoon, I can cover the kids till then."

He kissed her hard once more. "God, you're the perfect woman. Len and I'll take the kids out on Sunday, let you have the house to yourself. And tomorrow night," he husked against her ear, "I'm going to take you apart for hours until you pass out from cumming."

Her knees were weak when he flashed out the window. But the hollowness persisted.

Iris ruminated on it while she poured herself a glass of wine and snuggled under the covers of their bed. The feeling been rather pronounced lately, mostly whenever Barry had to rush out on family time for superhero emergencies or rush out on her for well, everything else it seemed. But more so when he had to leave her to make time with his lovers.

She couldn't figure out why that was. They had never begrudged each other their partners; there was some healthy possessiveness yes, but not jealousy and insecurity.

She had seen exactly when Barry had fallen in love with Oliver before he knew it himself, had been with him every step of the way over their subsequent I-don't-deserve-you-stay-away-before-I-hurt-you-why-won't-you-love-me ridiculousness; had held his hand during his hilarious spazzing out over Len. Thankfully he and Kara had been blessedly drama-free and cute as puppies, although she was more his queerplatonic partner with benefits.

In turn, Barry had encouraged her to explore her sexuality with Sara and Kara and other women. He had met and approved of Daniel and comforted her through the heartbreak of their breakup. He had even hoped for a while that she and Oliver would form a relationship of their own, but they had decided not to go down that road in the end. She had grown to love Oliver and was quite fond of Snart, and enjoyed the occasional romp with them immensely, but she was certain there would be murder involved if she was actually in a relationship with either of them.

She really held no resentment against any of them. Maybe Barry was right and her break up with Daniel was getting to her more than she knew. Maybe she should get out there and find another relationship for her own.

The thought made her feel tireder than ever. The obvious perk of marriage was to not have to navigate the hellscape that was dating strangers.

She opened the drawer in their bedside table and looked disdainfully at the assorted vibrators and sex toys.

She didn't want anyone else. She wanted her husband. And there just wasn't enough of him to go around.

Maybe she should have taken him up on that quickie.

She shut the drawer and slumped back against the pillows with a sigh. And waited.

The door creaked open right on time and small socked feet padded to the foot of the bed.

"Mommy, I can't sleep." Dawnie clutched her stuffed rabbit and stared at her with the hazel eyes that were so much like Barry's.

Her heart melted, the bleakness finally dissapating. "Come here, boo," she held out her arms and snuggled her baby against her chest.

...

Her Dad knew. He knew but carefully pretended he didn't know, probably for his own sanity. Joe West might go along with whatever science fiction shenanigans the universe saw fit to throw at him every year, but he drew the line at his daughter and son-in-law's sexual proclivities. Iris had once tried explaining to him that it wasn't just sexual, Len and Oliver and Kara were all relationships as meaningful to Barry as their own was, that they were part of their family too. He had simply ignored her.

She could have let it slide if not for how much it hurt Barry. He pretended that it didn't matter that Joe couldn't accept his relationships, that he even understood where he was coming from. But the boy who had sought his surrogate father's approval still hurt inside and that Iris could not forgive.

Fighting only distressed him more, so after two weeks of mutual silent treatment, Iris and her father had begrudgingly slipped into a status quo of "don't ask don't tell".

This had only been broken once. Iris had come home from spending the night at Daniel's to find Joe babysitting the twins, Barry having been called away on an emergency.

He had said nothing, but let Iris settle the kids down in front of the tv and followed her to the kitchen. She had gone about making lunch, determinedly ignoring him despite her own anger and embarrassment rising under his disapproving eyes.

"You're playing with fire, Iris," he told her. "What happens if you get pregnant by this guy? Or someone else?"

Iris resisted the urge to tell him it was none of his business, since he was so hell-bent on not even acknowledging it. "Then we bring up the kid together," she said evenly, staying focused on buttering the bread. "Me, Barry and whoever it is."

"You really think it'll be so easy? That Barry and "whoever it is" won't have problems down the line?"

"We probably will, but no more than other blended families," she finally looked Joe right in the eye, jaw set in a mirror of his own. "We've actually talked about these things, Dad. Any child of mine is always going to be Barry's as well."

"And what if Barry knocks someone up?"

Iris hid flash of amusement. If Joe had bothered to notice, Barry's extra-marital tastes mostly ran to men, and even then only to long-term relationships. Kara was an exception but then she was unable to procreate with humans.

They had discussed it though. Particularly in case Oliver had a yen to have another kid with Barry.

"There isn't one rule for him and one for me, Dad. Barry's kids are mine, my kids are Barry's, end of."

Her Dad had sighed and rubbed his temple in that "I'm-done-here" way. But he hadn't brought it up again. Iris figured it was the best they could hope for.

...

tbc

#myfic #the flash #olivarry #westallen #wip #coldflash #polyamory #kids and family #bad posting decisions at 5am

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geisterwrites · 6 years

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On An Old Battered Couch, We Found A New Home

My second work for the @voltronrarepairflashbang !

For this fic I have been paired up with the amazing @lionswaps, who drew an absolutely amazing art and I'm fully in tears TTwTT. You can check their art HERE.

I'm again very thankful for my two beautiful betas - Nigg @onpointedfeetandbrokendreams and Peggy, who smoothed my typos and errors out <3

Rating: T

Word Count: 1490

Warning: fluff and humor, does that need warning? a bit suggestiveness at the end

Pairing: Zethrid/Ezor/Allura

Read on AO3

Summary:

Two women in dire need of money.

A princess at their fingertips they should've known better than to kidnap.

A ransom that's not paid, but borrowed.

Who knew that would be the start of something more than a friendship, but something equally beautiful.

Zethrid and Ezor are in constant need of money and come into close proximity to Allura, the Princess of Altea. It's a chance that has to be taken, right? Well, even if they should have known better than to squabble over the ransom letter, things turn out more in their favor than they would've ever expected.

“Don’t gobble it up like that! It’s our last one.” Ezor punches Zethrid into the upper arm, who isn’t really fazed by the punch, but more so by the words. She grumbles when Ezor reaches into the bowl of snack and plops next to her on the couch. Something crumples. Ezor shifts and throws the crushed newspaper on the makeshift coffee table in front of them.

“The part time is just not cutting it. This building is going to collapse sometime soon and we barely get enough for the rent.” Loud crunching comes from Ezor’s closed mouth and Zethrid wonders how many bites it takes to pulverize the snack. “We need to do something about it, you hear me?”

Zethrid hates being nudged, and luckily for the others no one really dares to, but since this is Ezor, the urge to throw her across the room isn’t as strong.

“We’ll find something else.”

“You say it like it’s soooo easy.” Zethrid watches Ezor’s colorful appendage twitch and her eyes twitch as well.

“The mall is…” She stares at the offending hand sneaking into her snack again. What was it about the gobbling? She presses the bowl of Quintessence tighter into her chest.

“Hm? The mall is what?”

“The parade is happening next week.” Ezor raises a brow at her, on which Zethrid can clearly read ‘How is this suddenly about the parade?’

“The mall is looking for people to help with the booths. Selling. Promoting. Guarding. They might pay well. Mostly at the Royal stall.” Ezor’s face crumples like the newspaper. Her brows fold into themselves and she pouts. Her lips loosen only for a split of a second as she pushes another Quintessence piece into her mouth and sucks on it like a child.

“That won’t help us get out of here fast.” Her eyes are trained on the table, but her look is distant. Zethrid’s eyes flick there as well. Brush over the newspaper just as Ezor dives like a hawk and grabs it. She looks at Zethrid, who recoils at that and feels scrutinized to the bone.

“What?”

“You said Royal stall, right? I think I know someone, who might pay well.” She shoves the newspaper right into Zethrid’s face. There is a large photo on the front page. It’s crinkled and wrinkled, but it’s still clear what it shows. A bright smiling, wide waving princess of Altea.

Allura wakes up with hundreds of horses pounding in her head, which makes the hard book covers digging into her side barely noticeable. Just as the voices. They still alert her enough to not let the groan forming on her lips escape. Especially combined with the fact that her wrists are tied behind her back. She tugs at the bindings and shivers. It appears she is bound with simple rope. How atrocious. And old fashioned. And cheap. Magnetic cuffs are sold everywhere nowadays, why not use one of these? She needs to see who in this time would still use rope.

Her lashes flutter as her eyes crack open.

There are two. At least two is what she can see, hunched on an old, tattered sofa. It’s patchy, and stained, and its insides are sticking out everywhere. Allura scrunches her nose.

The rest of the room she sits in, huddled in a corner and propped against a stack of books, looks similar. Holes and torn down wallpapers decorate the walls. The table and chairs curl in shame about rubbed off paint and missing chunks of wood.

She expects dirt when she looks at the ground at her bare feet. Expects to shrivel away in disgust.

The wood is old and battered, but clean enough to eat from. Allura blinks and looks around again with different eyes.

No dust. No cobwebs. No dirty laundry strewn around or dishes cluttering the sink. The mirror has a large bit broken off, but she sees herself as clearly as in the ones at their castle.

“No, no, you can’t write it like this.”

Allura bangs her head against the wall, her heart skyrocketing all the way to her throat. Right, her kidnappers. Her eyes shut down and stay squeezed close with effort. She counts every tick until the approach. There is no clock so she can’t be sure, but the first minute sways into the second without the sound of steps. Too engrossed in their discussion, perhaps?

“Fix this.” Allura opens her eyes and sees the taller person crowding onto the other, whose right shoulder moves in a regular pattern from left to right, again and again.

“This is a ransom note.” Their voice is filled with the bite of repeated statement. They don’t even glance up, but still when a hand falls on their other shoulder.

“That’s no excuse for bad grammar.”

Allura’s mouth curls up, but she bites on the lower lip to stop any snickering noise. Is this really a point to argue over in a ransom letter?

‘And do you have the time to ponder over that?’ A little voice inside her head scolds sharp. Of course not. Of course she should grab this opportunity as long as they are distracted. Her eyes slide close again. Concentration pulses through her veins. A tingly feeling licks at her wrists and spreads up her arms as they shift. Thinner, smaller. Until the rope falls and she can rub at sore skin.

Now quick. At least she doesn’t have to observe the room for a weapon anymore. Crouched, she sneaks behind the sofa with a heavy book clutched to her chest.

“There should be a comma here.”

“Listen Zethrid, no one is going to pay-”

There is a loud thump and Zethrid slumps on the table. Ezor stares, tense and rigid. Gasps. Her head whips around.

Allura sees shock etched in Ezor’s eyes before the book connects with another skull. A third thump sounds when the book falls on the ground.

Allura could go now. She could call the Altean guards and have these two arrested. Have them rot in prison for such an offending action. But a look through the apartment tugs at her to not do that. They live in such a run-down place and yet they keep it sparkling clean. Allura snickers. They were arguing over grammar in a ransom letter. Maybe they aren’t that bad. She still collects the rope and binds their hands. ‘Better safe than apologetic,’ as her father’s adviser always says.

Intrigued by a bowl of strange snack, she settles down on the sofa. Nibbles on piece after piece until the whole bowl is almost gone. The taste adds to her decision. She is willing to offer time for an explanation, at least.

Damned be the stupid curtains. Ezor is sure they always shift in a way to let sunlight slam right into her face and wake her up way too early. Way before what’s considered too early on a Sunday morning, when none of them has to be anywhere.

She groans and stretches her legs tangled with another pair. The arm around her waist wraps tighter and pulls her closer. Flowery scent that has conditioned her to smile by now fills her nose. Ezor nuzzles the soft shoulder and chuckles. Allura has shifted during the night again. Her need to curl around Ezor while she has Zethrid curled around herself is adorable.

Just like now. Zethrid is draped over Allura like a blanket, face buried in her lush locks. Allura sleeps with her lips open enough for a finger to slip in between and spills soft snores into even softer sheets. A chirp bubbles up from deep within Ezor’s chest and she squeezes her limbs around Allura. The next snore stumbles on its way out.

It’s hard to believe the time when they weren’t like was already four years ago. They kidnapped a princess for money and got more than they bargained for. Instead of a ransom they got a loan Zethrid insisted they have to pay back. In small rates that kept them in touch. And with every paid one, Allura became more lovely.

“What are you thinking about?” Ezor’s eyes flick up to meet with the softest look. Allura’s fingers run along her cheek. Ezor hums and kisses her palm.

“How lucky it was we decided to kidnap you.” She slides up and their chuckles melt into each other’s mouths.

“Get back to sleep you two!” Zethrid’s arm stretches over them both, squeezing them into one heap. Laughter bounces through the sheets. They can barely think about sleep now.

Ezor’s eyes catch on the newspaper clipping hanging above the bed as she heaves herself in Allura’s lap. It’s almost lost among all the other photos of the three of them. It’s a photo too, crinkled and wrinkled, and shows a bright smiling, wide waving princess of Altea.

But why look at a crumpled photo if the real deal is sprawled right here?

#zethzorllura #vld allura #vld zethrid #vld ezor #vld wlw #vld #rarepair flash bang #geisterwrites

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taegienthusiasts · 6 years

Text

REQUEST #2 - This Particular Sunday [Jeon Jungkook]

SUMMARY: [Requested by @olivia1439] can I have a BTS writing were your dating Jungkook? you were in the dorms taking a nap and he was getting ready to head out for a photoshoot, but an earthquake hit and a heavy bookshelf had fallen on top of you, so you were trapped. when the earthquake stopped jungkook rushed up to the dorms to see if you were ok, with the rest of the boys following him. he had to pull you out while the rest of the boys had to slightly lift it up because it was so heavy. sorry, it’s so long.

GENRE: Angst, Fluff

WARNINGS: None

A/N: So sorry this is late. I hope this is what you were looking for! I feel like it’s very tell-y, but I think your request was very well thought out and cute :) Hope you enjoyed!

Sundays were usually your favorite days. They were the days that you could take a break from the boring, yet hectic week. They were the days you could settle down and hang out with your best friends. Your best friends, also known as BTS, never failed to make it exciting, even though their weekends usually consisted of laying back and relaxing.

However, this particular Sunday, Jungkook, your boyfriend, and the boys had a photo shoot to attend to. It never really bothered you when they had a schedule; they of course had work. Thus, when work called, you had to make way for it.

The night prior, the boys and you ended up having a movie marathon. You and Jungkook sat together on the couch closer toward the wall, while the others situated themselves on couches near the middle and other side of the room.

During the night, you weren’t sure when, you ended up falling asleep with Jungkook on the couch. At some point in the night as well, the others had shut off the movie and went into their rooms.

You knew that Jungkook had fallen asleep with you though since you felt his warmth all night, but this morning, that warmth was gone with a peck on your forehead and a soft “I’m going to get ready” cooed into your ear.

Your only reply had been a soft hum with you curling up further into the couch and pulling the covers Seokjin most likely placed on you two closer to your body. Sometime during your nap, you felt a hand slowly stroke back locks of hair behind your ear. Not only a few seconds later, did you feel a pair of lips pressing themselves on your temple and cheek this time before saying, “I’ll be going now. I love you.”

It wasn’t long before you heard several pairs of feet stampeding the door at different paces, shaking you slightly in your spot. You even heard their frantic whispers of “I hope we get out early!” and “Sh! Y/N is still sleeping!” The latter was probably whispered mostly by Jungkook, Seokjin, and Namjoon, who were very mindful of your sleeping schedule, even though they most likely needed it more.

You were sure the shaking that later occurred at a slightly more rapid pace was caused by a few of the members rushing back to grab something they had forgotten, so you ended up curling up tighter into yourself.

That wasn’t until you felt several hard objects collide against your head, the side of your stomach, and your thighs.

Shaking slightly in terror, you peeled open your eyes and found that…

That you could barely see anything.

You could barely move your mouth and make any noises as you tried to figure out what was going on. Instead, tears flew down your cheeks rapidly.

It was only when you noticed by the little light filtering in and shedding onto the books that had fallen on you, you realized what happened.

An earthquake had trapped a bookshelf on you while you were taking a nap. You knew from the way that your breath could barely escape your lungs, you were trapped tightly underneath it. Thankfully, its weight didn’t bear down on you too much. However, its weight was far too heavy for you to lift on your own, especially in a fetal position. Most especially since you were downright terrified.

You couldn’t decipher between the tremor of your body and the actual earthquake. You were certain that it was still raging on until you heard muffled voices.

“She…under…bookshelf!” was all you could hear someone scream out breathlessly.

Or perhaps, it was just your muffled hearing that distorted their voice to appear that way.

“Please help!” you croaked out, your fresh shed tears being joined with many more as you openly sobbed.

You couldn’t hear much more after that besides a bunch of rustling.

It was then that the light filtering in was no longer a single strand. More rays of light were penetrating your pupils while your breath slowly started to return to its lungs.

A pair of arms wrapped around your body and tugged you gently toward him. Through your blurry tear-filled eyes, you could discern a pair of warm, but concerned brown ones boring into you.

Jungkook wiped the tears from your cheeks and placed kisses where his fingers grazed across. “Are you okay?” he whispered, his voice broken and wavered.

You could only nod as you buried your face in his chest. “Thank you.”

After a while, you managed to collect yourself and turn your head to the others, who looked equally as concerned and exhausted. With a small smile, you told them, “Thank you so much.”

“We’re just glad you’re safe,” Hoseok answered, walking up to you two and placing a hand on your shoulder to squeeze it.

“We have to make sure you’re extra safe though. Come with us.” Jimin was the one who had spoken up. He lifted one of his hands to swipe a piece of his hair away from his forehead. “We really, truly won’t mind.”

You looked up at Jungkook, who seemed to be more shaken than you. He was still clutching onto you as if you were perpetually trapped under that bookshelf.

“Is it…is it okay?” you asked quietly, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he looked down at you.

With a small smile, he said, “I would be crazy if I even thought about saying no.” He placed one more kiss on your forehead and helped you up.

~Admin Eggy

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years

Text

A Rose For Emily

William Faulkner (1930)

WHEN Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old man-servant--a combined gardener and cook--had seen in at least ten years.

It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of that neighborhood; only Miss Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps-an eyesore among eyesores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representatives of those august names where they lay in the cedar-bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jefferson.

Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town, dating from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor--he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appear on the streets without an apron-remitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from the death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emily would have accepted charity. Colonel Sartoris invented an involved tale to the effect that Miss Emily's father had loaned money to the town, which the town, as a matter of business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man of Colonel Sartoris' generation and thought could have invented it, and only a woman could have believed it.

When the next generation, with its more modern ideas, became mayors and aldermen, this arrangement created some little dissatisfaction. On the first of the year they mailed her a tax notice. February came, and there was no reply. They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff's office at her convenience. A week later the mayor wrote her himself, offering to call or to send his car for her, and received in reply a note on paper of an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink, to the effect that she no longer went out at all. The tax notice was also enclosed, without comment.

They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation waited upon her, knocked at the door through which no visitor had passed since she ceased giving china-painting lessons eight or ten years earlier. They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from which a stairway mounted into still more shadow. It smelled of dust and disuse--a close, dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor. It was furnished in heavy, leather-covered furniture. When the Negro opened the blinds of one window, they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs, spinning with slow motes in the single sun-ray. On a tarnished gilt easel before the fireplace stood a crayon portrait of Miss Emily's father.

They rose when she entered--a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they moved from one face to another while the visitors stated their errand.

She did not ask them to sit. She just stood in the door and listened quietly until the spokesman came to a stumbling halt. Then they could hear the invisible watch ticking at the end of the gold chain.

Her voice was dry and cold. "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Colonel Sartoris explained it to me. Perhaps one of you can gain access to the city records and satisfy yourselves."

"But we have. We are the city authorities, Miss Emily. Didn't you get a notice from the sheriff, signed by him?"

"I received a paper, yes," Miss Emily said. "Perhaps he considers himself the sheriff . . . I have no taxes in Jefferson."

"But there is nothing on the books to show that, you see We must go by the--"

"See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson."

"But, Miss Emily--"

"See Colonel Sartoris." (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost ten years.) "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Tobe!" The Negro appeared. "Show these gentlemen out."

So SHE vanquished them, horse and foot, just as she had vanquished their fathers thirty years before about the smell.

That was two years after her father's death and a short time after her sweetheart--the one we believed would marry her --had deserted her. After her father's death she went out very little; after her sweetheart went away, people hardly saw her at all. A few of the ladies had the temerity to call, but were not received, and the only sign of life about the place was the Negro man--a young man then--going in and out with a market basket.

"Just as if a man--any man--could keep a kitchen properly, "the ladies said; so they were not surprised when the smell developed. It was another link between the gross, teeming world and the high and mighty Griersons.

A neighbor, a woman, complained to the mayor, Judge Stevens, eighty years old.

"But what will you have me do about it, madam?" he said.

"Why, send her word to stop it," the woman said. "Isn't there a law? "

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Judge Stevens said. "It's probably just a snake or a rat that nigger of hers killed in the yard. I'll speak to him about it."

The next day he received two more complaints, one from a man who came in diffident deprecation. "We really must do something about it, Judge. I'd be the last one in the world to bother Miss Emily, but we've got to do something." That night the Board of Aldermen met--three graybeards and one younger man, a member of the rising generation.

"It's simple enough," he said. "Send her word to have her place cleaned up. Give her a certain time to do it in, and if she don't. .."

"Dammit, sir," Judge Stevens said, "will you accuse a lady to her face of smelling bad?"

So the next night, after midnight, four men crossed Miss Emily's lawn and slunk about the house like burglars, sniffing along the base of the brickwork and at the cellar openings while one of them performed a regular sowing motion with his hand out of a sack slung from his shoulder. They broke open the cellar door and sprinkled lime there, and in all the outbuildings. As they recrossed the lawn, a window that had been dark was lighted and Miss Emily sat in it, the light behind her, and her upright torso motionless as that of an idol. They crept quietly across the lawn and into the shadow of the locusts that lined the street. After a week or two the smell went away.

That was when people had begun to feel really sorry for her. People in our town, remembering how old lady Wyatt, her great-aunt, had gone completely crazy at last, believed that the Griersons held themselves a little too high for what they really were. None of the young men were quite good enough for Miss Emily and such. We had long thought of them as a tableau, Miss Emily a slender figure in white in the background, her father a spraddled silhouette in the foreground, his back to her and clutching a horsewhip, the two of them framed by the back-flung front door. So when she got to be thirty and was still single, we were not pleased exactly, but vindicated; even with insanity in the family she wouldn't have turned down all of her chances if they had really materialized.

When her father died, it got about that the house was all that was left to her; and in a way, people were glad. At last they could pity Miss Emily. Being left alone, and a pauper, she had become humanized. Now she too would know the old thrill and the old despair of a penny more or less.

The day after his death all the ladies prepared to call at the house and offer condolence and aid, as is our custom Miss Emily met them at the door, dressed as usual and with no trace of grief on her face. She told them that her father was not dead. She did that for three days, with the ministers calling on her, and the doctors, trying to persuade her to let them dispose of the body. Just as they were about to resort to law and force, she broke down, and they buried her father quickly.

We did not say she was crazy then. We believed she had to do that. We remembered all the young men her father had driven away, and we knew that with nothing left, she would have to cling to that which had robbed her, as people will.

III

SHE WAS SICK for a long time. When we saw her again, her hair was cut short, making her look like a girl, with a vague resemblance to those angels in colored church windows--sort of tragic and serene.

The town had just let the contracts for paving the sidewalks, and in the summer after her father's death they began the work. The construction company came with niggers and mules and machinery, and a foreman named Homer Barron, a Yankee--a big, dark, ready man, with a big voice and eyes lighter than his face. The little boys would follow in groups to hear him cuss the niggers, and the niggers singing in time to the rise and fall of picks. Pretty soon he knew everybody in town. Whenever you heard a lot of laughing anywhere about the square, Homer Barron would be in the center of the group. Presently we began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday afternoons driving in the yellow-wheeled buggy and the matched team of bays from the livery stable.

without calling it

noblesse oblige

. They just said, "Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk should come to her." She had some kin in Alabama; but years ago her father had fallen out with them over the estate of old lady Wyatt, the crazy woman, and there was no communication between the two families. They had not even been represented at the funeral.

And as soon as the old people said, "Poor Emily," the whispering began. "Do you suppose it's really so?" they said to one another. "Of course it is. What else could . . ." This behind their hands; rustling of craned silk and satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clop-clop-clop of the matched team passed: "Poor Emily."

She carried her head high enough--even when we believed that she was fallen. It was as if she demanded more than ever the recognition of her dignity as the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that touch of earthiness to reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic. That was over a year after they had begun to say "Poor Emily," and while the two female cousins were visiting her.

"I want some poison," she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner than usual, with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about the eyesockets as you imagine a lighthouse-keeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison," she said.

"Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recom--"

"I want the best you have. I don't care what kind."

The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is--"

"Arsenic," Miss Emily said. "Is that a good one?"

"Is . . . arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want--"

"I want arsenic."

The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her face like a strained flag. "Why, of course," the druggist said. "If that's what you want. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for."

Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn't come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under the skull and bones: "For rats."

So THE NEXT day we all said, "She will kill herself"; and we said it would be the best thing. When she had first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, we had said, "She will marry him." Then we said, "She will persuade him yet," because Homer himself had remarked--he liked men, and it was known that he drank with the younger men in the Elks' Club--that he was not a marrying man. Later we said, "Poor Emily" behind the jalousies as they passed on Sunday afternoon in the glittering buggy, Miss Emily with her head high and Homer Barron with his hat cocked and a cigar in his teeth, reins and whip in a yellow glove.

Then some of the ladies began to say that it was a disgrace to the town and a bad example to the young people. The men did not want to interfere, but at last the ladies forced the Baptist minister--Miss Emily's people were Episcopal-- to call upon her. He would never divulge what happened during that interview, but he refused to go back again. The next Sunday they again drove about the streets, and the following day the minister's wife wrote to Miss Emily's relations in Alabama.

So she had blood-kin under her roof again and we sat back to watch developments. At first nothing happened. Then we were sure that they were to be married. We learned that Miss Emily had been to the jeweler's and ordered a man's toilet set in silver, with the letters H. B. on each piece. Two days later we learned that she had bought a complete outfit of men's clothing, including a nightshirt, and we said, "They are married." We were really glad. We were glad because the two female cousins were even more Grierson than Miss Emily had ever been.

So we were not surprised when Homer Barron--the streets had been finished some time since--was gone. We were a little disappointed that there was not a public blowing-off, but we believed that he had gone on to prepare for Miss Emily's coming, or to give her a chance to get rid of the cousins. (By that time it was a cabal, and we were all Miss Emily's allies to help circumvent the cousins.) Sure enough, after another week they departed. And, as we had expected all along, within three days Homer Barron was back in town. A neighbor saw the Negro man admit him at the kitchen door at dusk one evening.

And that was the last we saw of Homer Barron. And of Miss Emily for some time. The Negro man went in and out with the market basket, but the front door remained closed. Now and then we would see her at a window for a moment, as the men did that night when they sprinkled the lime, but for almost six months she did not appear on the streets. Then we knew that this was to be expected too; as if that quality of her father which had thwarted her woman's life so many times had been too virulent and too furious to die.

When we next saw Miss Emily, she had grown fat and her hair was turning gray. During the next few years it grew grayer and grayer until it attained an even pepper-and-salt iron-gray, when it ceased turning. Up to the day of her death at seventy-four it was still that vigorous iron-gray, like the hair of an active man.

From that time on her front door remained closed, save for a period of six or seven years, when she was about forty, during which she gave lessons in china-painting. She fitted up a studio in one of the downstairs rooms, where the daughters and granddaughters of Colonel Sartoris' contemporaries were sent to her with the same regularity and in the same spirit that they were sent to church on Sundays with a twenty-five-cent piece for the collection plate. Meanwhile her taxes had been remitted.

Then the newer generation became the backbone and the spirit of the town, and the painting pupils grew up and fell away and did not send their children to her with boxes of color and tedious brushes and pictures cut from the ladies' magazines. The front door closed upon the last one and remained closed for good. When the town got free postal delivery, Miss Emily alone refused to let them fasten the metal numbers above her door and attach a mailbox to it. She would not listen to them.

Daily, monthly, yearly we watched the Negro grow grayer and more stooped, going in and out with the market basket. Each December we sent her a tax notice, which would be returned by the post office a week later, unclaimed. Now and then we would see her in one of the downstairs windows--she had evidently shut up the top floor of the house--like the carven torso of an idol in a niche, looking or not looking at us, we could never tell which. Thus she passed from generation to generation--dear, inescapable, impervious, tranquil, and perverse.

He talked to no one, probably not even to her, for his voice had grown harsh and rusty, as if from disuse.

She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head propped on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight.

THE NEGRO met the first of the ladies at the front door and let them in, with their hushed, sibilant voices and their quick, curious glances, and then he disappeared. He walked right through the house and out the back and was not seen again.

The two female cousins came at once. They held the funeral on the second day, with the town coming to look at Miss Emily beneath a mass of bought flowers, with the crayon face of her father musing profoundly above the bier and the ladies sibilant and macabre; and the very old men --some in their brushed Confederate uniforms--on the porch and the lawn, talking of Miss Emily as if she had been a contemporary of theirs, believing that they had danced with her and courted her perhaps, confusing time with its mathematical progression, as the old do, to whom all the past is not a diminishing road but, instead, a huge meadow which no winter ever quite touches, divided from them now by the narrow bottle-neck of the most recent decade of years.

Already we knew that there was one room in that region above stairs which no one had seen in forty years, and which would have to be forced. They waited until Miss Emily was decently in the ground before they opened it.

The violence of breaking down the door seemed to fill this room with pervading dust. A thin, acrid pall as of the tomb seemed to lie everywhere upon this room decked and furnished as for a bridal: upon the valance curtains of faded rose color, upon the rose-shaded lights, upon the dressing table, upon the delicate array of crystal and the man's toilet things backed with tarnished silver, silver so tarnished that the monogram was obscured. Among them lay a collar and tie, as if they had just been removed, which, lifted, left upon the surface a pale crescent in the dust. Upon a chair hung the suit, carefully folded; beneath it the two mute shoes and the discarded socks.

The man himself lay in the bed.

For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him. What was left of him, rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt, had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust.

Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head. One of us lifted something from it, and leaning forward, that faint and invisible dust dry and acrid in the nostrils, we saw a long strand of iron-gray hair.

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charlxttehunt-blog · 6 years

Text

the perfect sky is torn.

So I guess the fortune teller's right I should have seen just what was there And not some holy light But you crawled beneath my veins and now I don't care, I have no luck.

when: it’s a timeline here fam probably goes from the christmas eve ten months ago - charlotte’s stay in the hospital. mentions: pls, like all of mollys characters by accident , owen, probably like a MILLION OTHER RANDOM ASSHOLES LIKE THE GRANDMAS, jace ( the ex bf. ) . triggers: physical abuse, emotional abuse, MENTIONS OF SEX BUT LIKE I DIDN’T WRITE THAT CHARLOTTE IS UNDERAGE THAT’S GROSS. notes: henlo the song is torn ok. also this is kind of sad. i’m sorry. WOW A NOVEL ARE WE SHOCKED.

The first time was nothing terrible, if you could use anything else to describe incidents like such. It’d only occurred that once ten months ago, the date was hard to forget. Christmas Eve, all her aunts were in town and Grandma Carolyn, Charlotte remembered because Amelia was hiding out in the kitchen for most of the night even when she couldn’t cook. She’d begged to invite Jace to the family Christmas party, and it wasn’t hard after she told her parents Cam wouldn’t want to hang out with just her all night, they weren’t six anymore. He’d been upset because she’d been leaning too close to the boy she’d known all her life, and then she’d laughed at something he’d said --- probably a joke about standing under the cheesy mistletoe that Amelia had somehow agreed to let Owen hang all over the fucking house. If her parents just sucked face like regular married freaks whenever the hell they wanted, maybe she wouldn’t have had an issue. But of course he’d grabbed her arm a little too tightly to drag her away, breath smelling of whiskey that her parents had warned her not to touch if she was going to have people over. The corner of the island was where her back hit when he shoved her only a few moments later, whispering something about her being a slut as he stepped closer. His hand was raised, and she could only stand in surprise, heart beating hard against her chest just before Amelia hurried into the kitchen muttering something about how much Evelyn was pissing her off, and then looking up with a smirk, telling them to get a room. If only the older brunette knew that she’d saved her daughter from covering up her first bruise for at least a month.

“Do you trust me?” His whisper had been soft against her ear, in his parents car none the less. February 14th, every girls dream and she’d agreed. Really classy, Charlotte, at least that’s what Sofia would tell her the next day when Arizona was over, and had left her phone on the coffee table after going upstairs with Amelia. What kind of idiot stole their moms friends phone to talk about sex to her daughter? Apparently Charlotte, and Arizona never found out so maybe she was an idiot too. Unlike Jace who she let it slip to the next day in class. The etiquette was that boys could totally tell their friends when they did the deed but girls couldn’t. At least to Jace because he acted like a complete asshole all day. She hadn’t even realized she’d done anything seemingly wrong until he started yelling her as soon as they got in the car. His temper hadn’t even worn off when they got to his house, slap landing across her face and that was the first time she realized that Jace Andrews wasn’t the good kind of bad boy.

Of course he’d apologized, but it kept happening, and happening and happening until she was black and blue, mostly in places she could hide. The apologies came few and far between and Charlottes fear of what he’d do if someone found out grew to be a heavier burden than she thought it would. Snapping came easily, shutting herself off, becoming everything she didn’t want to be, and pushing everyone away? All things she did, but it seemed everyone didn’t realize a difference, all in their own things and if they did they just didn’t comment. A part of her knew she was lucky that she could be free of it, the questions, the making sure she was okay, but the worse it got, the more she wished she could tell.

It was one night after taking a kick in the ribs for probably something ridiculous did she finally crack, metaphorically of course. Somehow he’d never left her with any real injuries maybe a popped out shoulder but she’d blamed that on goofing off and got in set back in place pretty easily. But again, she’d cracked. Something leaving her lips about how if he’d kept this up she’d tell. She’d yell it from the fucking rooftops if she had to. But of course he shut her down; “who would believe you, you kind of come off as an idiot. Your brain surgeon mom would probably just think you’re making shit up from a concussion or something.” A part of her wanted to tell him that, that wasn’t even a thing but she didn’t, couldn’t.

So she’d stayed quiet yet again. Summer came and went, mostly uneventful. The only break she seemed to catch being when her family had gone somewhere and her phone had accidentally been left at home. It’d been for a week and sure Jace was pissed, automatically assuming that she ghosted on him. Demanding she call him, and of course, her ever non-present mom had finally made herself known only when Mr Perfect was deeming himself an asshole. Phone had hung up and she’d spilled the entire story, not sans tears. Then she’d made that leap, somehow feeling brave enough to leave him. Breaking up with him in the courtyard in front of everyone. It was easy, simple, and Charlotte took it in stride. It was good to have a break. She’d stepped away from her friend group, becoming better friends with Claudia than the preppy ass girls who didn’t seem to care about her. Even moving away from Cam who was somehow still hanging out with Jace.

It was like her ex boyfriend in question had gotten the hint, he’d even stopped texting her, only trying to steal glances in the hallways, ones she didn’t let him steal. Frankly she’d figured he’d stolen enough.

It wasn’t until she got hurt did he appear again. The hospital room was getting cramped, stuffed animals and balloons filling the tables from the girls from cheer she’d quit months ago though her favourite was from Claudia, and she was clutching the monster in a sleepy ass state, finally resting without meds. Sure, she’d complained about the hospital the entire time but now with only a few days left, she felt some kind of peace. Until she heard his voice just as she was dozing off; “Things ugly, kinda looks like that Jimmy kid from homeroom last semester,” and her eyes popped open, body instantly sliding up. Sleep be damned, what the fuck was he doing here? She’d told him to leave her alone, and since everything had been good. A word not spoken, she blinked at him, fingertips clutching the monster tighter as if he, whatever his name was could protect her.

“That tree hit your vocal cords too, brown eyes? Who gave you that ugly thing?” There was a smirk on his face as he sauntered across the room, lazily dropping in the chair next to her bed. Was her chest getting tight? She wanted to call for Alex, or Arizona or -- god, she wanted her parents to come in at any point. Any four of those adults could head in, even if only Amelia knew why they’d broken up. “Charlotte --- I’m over here,” the impatience in his voice caused her to swallow, glancing into his hues for a second.

“U-uh, Claudia gave him to me,” Fuck, of course her voice would crack the second that she spoke, and she glanced away, a nervous swallow making its way down her throat. God please, I want to go home, I don’t even believe in you but make him disappear, please. Eyes slammed shut as she refused to say another word. Hoping he’d think she just passed out or something, but that wasn’t the case, far from it. Instead his voice caught her ears again; Claudia gave him to me. He was mocking her, what a stupid little fuck. A tree had punctured her chest and he still had the nerve to fuck with her. Finally did she sit up fully, eyes instantly falling open, a glare on her features.

“Get the fuck out, Jason,” though it was quiet her voice was a little harder than before and for a second even though she was definitely panicking she was proud of herself. Just for a second though because soon the boy leaned forward, gripping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, smirk back on his lips and the look of anger she was so used to seeing in his eyes.

“Okay, sweet thing,” gag her. “I’ll go but I was thinking we could hang out, maybe talk sometime. I know you miss me.. Think about it, make sure to feel better..” and with an almost mocking kiss to her forehead did he sweep out of the room like he wasn’t even there in the first place. Heavy breathing she reached for her phone, a lie falling through in texts to Amelia; yo, Emilio. Get me out of hereeeeee, I’m fearing for my safety I’m so fucking bored. I’ll buy dinner if you do. Sunday funday means pizza, right? Please, Alex keeps looking at me like he’s a giant hero, and I’m done. I’m taking up a bed. Lets do this thing!!

Simple enough, and after pressing send she wiped the kiss off her forehead, only settling back against the bed when an intern came in and she could see her mom leaning against the nurses station, which clearly meant her least favourite boytoy wasn’t around anymore. A bit more complaining and she was home free. Home was nice, great even for a change. Until it came time to sleep, and all that played backwards and forwards in her brain was;

Think about it. Think about it. Think about it.

Would he ever go away? The chance was slim and she didn’t know if she could handle if he didn’t. All she wanted was peace, but when would it come?

#para 001 #emotional abuse tw #physical abuse tw #[ this probably bad. ]

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adrianramirosalgado · 7 years

Text

A Rose for Emily by William Faulkner

When Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old manservant--a combined gardener and cook--had seen in at least ten years.

It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightstone style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of that neighborhood; only Miss Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps--an eyesore among eyesores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representatives of those august names where they lay in the cedar-bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jefferson.

Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town, dating from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor--he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appear on the streets without an apron--remitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from the death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emily would have accepted charity. Colonel Sartoris invented an involved tale to the effect that Miss Emily's father had loaned money to the town, which the town, as a matter of business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man of Colonel Sartoris' generation and thought could have invented it, and only a woman could have believed it.

When the next generation, with its more modern ideas, became mayors and aldermen, this arrangement created some little dissatisfaction. On the first day of the year they mailed her a tax notice. February came, and there was no reply. They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff's office at her convenience. A week later the mayor wrote her himself, offering to call or to send his car for her, and received in reply a note on paper of an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink, to the effect that she no longer went out at all. The tax notice was also enclosed, without comment.

They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation waited upon her, knocked at her door through which no visitor had passed since she ceased giving china-painting lessons eight or ten years earlier. They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from which a stairway mounted into still more shadow. It smelled of dust and disuse--a close, dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor. It was furnished in heavy, leather-covered furniture. When the Negro opened the blinds of one window, they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs, spinning with slow motes in the single sun-ray. One a tarnished gilt easel before the fireplace stood a crayon portrait of Miss Emily's father.

Her voice was dry and cold. "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Colonel Sartoris explained it to me. Perhaps one of you can gain access to the city records and satisfy yourselves."

"But we have. We are the city authorities, Miss Emily. Didn't you get a notice from the sheriff, signed by him?"

"I received a paper, yes," Miss Emily said. "Perhaps he considers himself the sheriff...I have no taxes in Jefferson."

"But there's nothing on the books to show that, you see. We must go by the--"

"See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson."

"But, Miss Emily--"

"See Colonel Sartoris." (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost ten years.) "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Tobe!" The Negro appeared. "Show these gentlemen out."

So she vanquished them, horse and foot, just as she had vanquished their fathers thirty years before about the smell. That was two years after her father's death and a short time after her sweetheart--the one we believed would marry her--had deserted her. After he father's death she went out very little; after her sweetheart went away, people hardly saw her at all. A few of the ladies had the temerity to call, but were not received, and the only sign of life about the place was the Negro man--a young man then--going in and out with a market basket.

"Just as if a man--any man--could keep a kitchen properly," the ladies said; so they were not surprised when the smell developed. It was another link between the gross, teeming world and the high and mighty Griersons.

A neighbor, a woman, complained to the mayor, Judge Stevens, eighty years old.

"But what will you have men do about it, madam?" he said.

"Why, send her word to stop it," the woman said. "Isn't there a law?"

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Judge Stevens said. "It's probably just a snake or a rate that nigger of hers killed in the yard. I'll speak to him about it."

"It's simple enough," he said. "Send her word to have her place cleaned up. Giver her a certain time to do it in, and if she don't..."

"Dammit, sir," Judge Stevens said, "will you accuse a lady to her face of smelling bad?"

That was when people had begun to feel really sorry for her. People in our town, remembering how old lady Wyatt, her great-aunt, had gone completely crazy at last, believed that the Griersons held themselves a little too high for what they really were. None of the young men were quite good enough for Miss Emily and such. We had long though of them as a tableau, Miss Emily a slender figure in white in the background, her father a spraddled silhouette in the foreground, his back to her and clutching a horsewhip, the two of them framed by the backflung front door. So when she got to be thirty and was still single, we were not pleased exactly, but vindicated; even with insanity in the family she wouldn't have turned down all of her chances if they had really materialized.

The day after his death all the ladies prepared to call at the house and offer condolences and aid, as is our custom. Miss Emily met them at the door, dressed as usually and with no trace of grief on her face. She told them that her father was not dead. She did that for three days, with the minsters calling on her, and the doctors, trying to persuade her to let them dispose of the body. Just as they were about to resort to law and force, she broke down, and they buried her father quickly.

III

She was sick for a long time. When we saw her again, her hair was cut short, making her look like a girl, with a vague resemblance to those angles in colored church windows--sort of tragic and serene.

The town had just let the contracts for paving the sidewalks, and in the summer after her father's death they began the work. The construction company came with niggers and mules and machinery, and a foreman named Homer Barron, a Yankee--a big, dark, ready man, with a big voice and eyes lighter than his face. The little boys would follow in groups to hear him cuss the niggers, and the niggers singing in time to the rise and fall of picks. Pretty soon her knew everybody in town. Whenever you heard a lot of laughing anywhere about the square, Homer Barron would be in the center of the group. Presently we began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday afternoons driving in the yellow-wheeled buggy and the matched team of bays from the livery stable.

At first we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest, because the ladies all said, "Of course a Grierson would not think seriously of a Northerner, a day laborer." But there were still others, older people, who said that even grief could not cause a real lady to forget noblesse oblige--without calling it noblesse oblige. They just said, "Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk should come to her." She had some kin in Alabama; but years ago her father had fallen out with them over the estate of old lady Wyatt, the crazy woman, and there was no communication between the two families. They had not even been represented at the funeral.

And as soon as the old people said, "Poor Emily," the whispering began. "Do you suppose it's really so?" they said to one another. "Of course it is. What else could..." This behind their hands; rustling of craned silk and satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clop-clop-clop of the matched team passed: "Poor Emily."

"I want some poison," she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner than usual, with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about the eye-sockets as you imagine a lighthouse-keeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison," she said.

"Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recom--"

"I want the best you have. I don't care what kind."

The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is--"

"Arsenic," Miss Emily said. "Is that a good one?"

"Is...arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want--"

"I want arsenic."

Miss Emily just stared at him, her head titled back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro deliver boy brought her the package; the druggist didn't come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under the skull and bones: "For rats."

So the next day we all said, "She will kill herself"; and we said it would be the best thing. When she had first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, we had said, "She will marry him." Then we said, "She'll will persuade him yet," because Homer himself had remarked--he liked men, and it was known that he drank with the younger men in the Elk's Club--that he was not a marrying man. Later we said, "Poor Emily" behind the jalousies as they passed on Sunday afternoon in the glittering buggy, Miss Emily with her head high and Homer Barron with his hat cocked and a cigar in his teeth, reins and whip in a yellow glove.

Then some of the ladies began to say that it was a disgrace to the town and a bad example to the young people. The men did not want to interfere, but at last the ladies forced the Baptist minister--Miss Emily's people were Episcopal--to call upon her. He would never divulge what happened during that interview, but he refused to go back again. The next Sunday they again drove about the streets, and the following day the minister's wife wrote to Miss Emily's relations in Alabama.

So she had blood-kin under her roof again and we sat back to watch developments. We learned that Miss Emily had been to the jeweler's and ordered a man's toilet set in silver, with the letters H. B. on each piece. Two days later we learned that she had bought a complete outfit of men's clothing, including a nightshirt, and we said, "They are married." We were really glad. We were glad because the two female cousins were even more Grierson than Miss Emily had ever been.

So we were not surprised when Homer Barron--the streets had been finished some time since--was gone. We were a little disappointed that there was not a public blowing-off, but we believed that he had gone on the prepare for Miss Emily's coming, or to giver her a change to get rid of the cousins. (By that time it was cabal, and we were all Miss Emily's allies to help circumvent the cousins.) Sure enough, after another week they departed. And, as we had expected all along, within three days Homer Barron was back in town. A neighbor saw the Negro man admit him at the kitchen door at dusk one evening.

From that time on her front door remained closed, save for a period of six or seven years, when she was about forty, during which she gave lessons in chinapainting. She fitted up a studio in one of the downstairs rooms, where the daughters and granddaughters of Colonel Sartoris' contemporaries were sent to her with the same regularity and in the same spirit that they were sent to church on Sundays with a twenty-five-cent piece for the collection plate. Meanwhile her taxes had been remitted.

Then the newer generation became the backbone and the spirit of the town, and the painting pupils grew up and fell away and did not send their children to her with boxes of color and tedious brushes and pictures cut from the ladies'' magazines. The front door closed upon the last one and remained closed for good. When the town got free postal delivery, Miss Emily alone refused to let them fasten the metal numbers above her door and attach a mailbox to it. She would not listen to them.

And so she died. Fell ill in the house filled with dust and shadows, with only a doddering Negro man to wait on her. We did not even know she was sick; we had long since given up trying to get any information from the Negro. He talked to no one, probably not even to her, for his voice had grown harsh and rusty, as if from disuse.

She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head popped on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight.

The Negro met the first of the ladies at the front door and let them in, with their hushed, sibilant voices and their quick, curious glances, and then he disappeared. He walked right through the house and out the back and was not seen again.

The two female cousins came at once. They held the funeral on the second day, with the town coming to look at Miss Emily beneath a mass of bought flowers, with the crayon face of her father musing profoundly above the bier and the ladies sibilant and macabre; and the very old men--some in their brushed Confederate uniforms--on the porch and the law, talking of Miss Emily as if she had been a contemporary of theirs, believing that they had danced with her and courted her perhaps, confusing time with its mathematical progression, as the old do, to whom all the past is not a diminishing road but, instead, a huge meadow which no winter ever quite touches, divided from them now by the narrow bottle-neck of the most recent decade of years.

Already we knew that there was one room in that region above stairs which no one had seen in forty years, and which would have to forced. They waited until Miss Emily was decently in the ground before they opened it.

The man himself lay in the bed.

For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain the attitude of an embrace, but not the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him. What was left of him, rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt, had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust.

#William Faulkner

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nichtaufgewacht · 7 years

Text

In a burning room, 5.

18 years earlier, somewhere near Göthenburg.

The weather outside was raging. A furious thunderstorm beat against the windows, with big and thick drops of water hitting the glass. The main door to the house opened, and the woman got in. She had a raincoat on, and she was holding a boy’s hand. He was silent, and slightly wet. Short brown hair, a pair of piercing brown eyes. Behind her, a man carried a girl. She must have been about nine years old, and she was peacefully asleep on his shoulders.

“You can leave her on the couch.” the woman said to the man in Swedish, speaking very softly. The boy left the woman’s hand, and slowly went to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, and grabbed the bottle of orange and carrot juice that was in it. He tiptoed to get a glass from the counter above the sink, and poured himself a glass. The woman sighed as she glanced at him. Then she looked after the man, who carefully put down the young girl on the couch. The woman grabbed the blanket that was resting on its edge, and laid on the girl’s body so she would not feel cold.

“Anything else we can do for you, Thorild?” the man asked. She shook her head, and sent him a tired smile. She accompanied him to the door.

“You already have done a lot. Say a huge thank you to everyone at the hospital.” she replied. The man then left the three people alone, going back out in the bad weather.

The boy was sitting at the table in the kitchen. One of his small fingers gently pushed on the bruises that he had right above his right eyebrow. The little girl was still slumbering, and seemed to have not noticed anything.

“Chris.” the woman went to the boy. She gently caressed his short hair, and leant down to leave a kiss on it. He took another sip of juice.

“Yes, g-g-grand-m-ma?” he replied. As he babbled, the woman felt something clutch her heart. It was very painful.

“Hawaii toast and baked beans for dinner.” she said, after a few seconds of silence. The boy smiled back at her, and nodded.

“I w-w-want t-t-o hel-p-p.” Chris said.

“If it makes you happy, of course.” the grandmother replied. Chris stood up, and went looking for the ingredients he needed in the various parts of the kitchen.

Thorild was fifty years old. She had this long braid of ice blonde hair, and she never went a day without it. Her nose was sharp and small, and her frame was thin but strong. She left the kitchen, and went to take a look at her niece, Claire. She was nuzzled under the blanket, her mouth slightly open. These days had been so exhausting for all of them, and seeing Claire finally asleep was a success. Thorild had had to hop on the first flight to Gothenburg, once that horrifying phone call had reached her, in England. From that point on, everything had gone by incredibly slowly: the moment in which she had entered the hospital, the moment in which she had seen her niece and nephew finally sleeping in the same bed, as a worried nurse watched over them, the moment in which she had learned that her son and her daughter-in-law had perished in a car crash. A hit and run driver, the police had said. A hit and run driver that had already been caught by the Swedish police.

Since the moment she had returned to Sweden to legally take custody of Chris and Claire, Thorild hadn’t stopped thinking about the pictures of her son’s car crushed on the front. Not even when she was signing the legal documents and when she was preparing everything form them to leave Sweden.

“Farmor.” In Swedish, she called her ‘grandma’. Claire opened her eyes, very slowly. Thorild sat on one edge of the sofa, and caressed her head.

“What is it, dear?”

“Brides.” her soft, sleepy voice said. Thorild felt something clutch to her heart. She knew what she was referring to, so she stood up from the sofa, and went looking in the drawers under the television. She took a specific cassette, and put it in the recorder. She turned on the television, and heard Chris’ steps behind her. He watched, curiously. As the overture from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers echoed in the room, Chris sat down next to Claire. Thorild looked at her niece and her nephew, feeling her heart getting warmer as she saw the small smile that climbed onto their lips as Adam, the main character, started singing in his powerful deep voice. It was their go-to movie for relaxing and taking thoughts out of their minds. She had shown it to them the first time. She left a kiss on their heads, and went back to the kitchen, finishing to prepare dinner for them.

Soon, the moment to talk to them about the huge change that there would have come in their lives would have come. To talk to them about their parents, to realize how they were going through it. The doctors had recommended a psychologist of course, but she would have thought about it once they would have been in England.

Syria, present day.

Joakim’s steps were slow and exhausted. He hadn’t managed to take a look at himself yet, but he knew he could feel dirt and probably blood on his face as well. The day had been painfully long, spent in the most ruined parts of the city of Damascus. The experience he had been waiting for since he had stepped onto Syrian soil. It was the day before their departure.

He was silent, as he took the helmet and the tactical gear off. He took off the upper part of his uniform, and noticed how there were small bits of concrete and bricks still stuck in the fabric. His skin, under them, was scratched and slightly bruised. He went to the bathrooms, and opened the water. He saw his still bloody hands, and rushed to wash them. Then he looked at himself in the small mirror, and noticed how his expression had somehow changed. The beard on his cheeks had started growing again, and it wasn’t pleasant to touch. There were dark circles under his eyes, and even his eyes seemed different. His mind brought the events of the day back to him. And he felt sorrow build up in his heart again.

“Jocke.”

Pär was behind him, bringing him to the present again. His usual, peaceful expression was slightly worried now. Yet, he was trying to smile at him. His face was dirty, too. He placed a hand on his shoulder, and sighed.

“I’m alright.” Joakim replied.

“Are you sure?” Pär said.

“Yes.” He continued, grabbing a nearby towel and drying his face.

“Take a shower, it’ll do you good.” Pär said, untying his long hair. “You should call Claire.”

“I don’t feel like it.” Joakim said, taking off the white shirt he had on. Pär rolled his eyes.

“You should, instead.” The blonde man said. “Even just to say hi. It’ll help.” Pär momentarily stopped Joakim from undressing, and looked at him with his baby blue eyes. “If you want to talk about today, or-“

“I’ll talk about it if I want to, Pär.” Joakim interrupted him, feeling his jaw clench. “I guess I just need to rest, and go to sleep to make tomorrow arrive earlier. But I’ll recover from this, trust me.” The two men looked at each other in the eyes for a very long instant.

“Don’t play the tough guy with me.” Pär said, serious. “Don’t be afraid of talking. I just want you to remember that.” Joakim held his breath for a moment, before letting out a deep sigh.

“I understand your concern, as my sergeant and mostly as a friend.” Joakim replied. “I’ll come to you if there’s any problem, but I promise that I’ll be fine. Or else I’ll come ask for help.” He lifted the corner of his mouth in a peace settling smile. Pär patted his friend on the back, and sighed as well.

“I have your word then.” Pär said, before leaving Joakim in the bathroom. “I’ll leave you to your shower.” Joakim nodded, and directed himself towards the showers.

He let the rusty water tap open, and waited for the temperature to become warm enough. He finished to undress himself, and got under the stream. For a moment he withstood the water struggling to take off every trace of the day that had just passed. His hand helped to scratch off the dirt, the dust and the blood. He tilted his head back and let the warmth get to his senses, as he closed his eyes. Then, Joakim let himself slide down the walls of the shower, and sat down. His arms circled his legs, and he rested his head on the knees. That was it: the moment in which everything was finally over. He thanked God and every other deity of every pantheon that had ever existed, and sat there, thoughtless.

Claire looked up at the ceiling in her bedroom. Her hand reached for the smartphone, and saw the time. It was about one o’clock in the morning. Irritated, she uncovered herself and got up from the bed. Her soft steps momentarily filled the air as she crossed the narrow hallway and overlooked Chris’ room. The door was open, as usual. She saw the dimmed light, and hoped for him to be awake. Yet, he had fallen asleep with the light still on, and a book in his hands. His mouth was slightly open, and he looked incredibly peaceful. Claire had always envied him for being able to fall asleep that quickly. She bit her lip for a moment, and then decided to have a try.

“Chris.” she called, in a whisper. Then, she got closer to him and sat on the edge of the bed. She gently pushed him on the shoulder, and then caressed a lock of his long brown hair. He let out a grumble, still keeping his eyes closed.

“What is it?” he said. His voice was low, and he slowly opened one of his eyes, glancing at her.

“Sorry.” she apologised, scratching the back of her neck - like she did every time she was nervous. Chris closed the book in front of himself, and placed it on the night table. Claire adjusted herself on the bed, sitting cross-legged next to him; then, she took a lock of his hair between her fingers, and started braiding it. “But tomorrow is Sunday, so you can sleep in.” Chris shrugged his shoulders in agreement, and let out a yawn.

“Joakim is coming back tomorrow.” Chris stated. “That’s why you can’t sleep. And also because you drink too much caffeine lately.” Claire’s small fingers worked his hair from the top of his head. She stopped for a moment, almost as if she wanted to think about what to say next.

“I’m not...nervous.” she replied. “I’m curious, and...scared.” Chris listened. He finally opened both of his eyes, and looked at her.

“Scared of what?” Chris said, with a chuckle. Claire sighed, letting go of his hair.

“Scared that things are becoming...you know, real.” she explained. “I won’t be able to hide myself behind a screen anymore, because he’s a real person, in flesh and bones. And I don’t know how I’m going to deal with that.” the older brother thought about it for a moment. After all, she wasn’t completely wrong. The only thing he knew was that she wasn’t as tough as she wanted to show. She was definitely more insecure that she demonstrated, especially when it came to relationship.

“The fact that you have been alone for a while, and the fact that you’re still hurt from what happened with Thobbe is surely playing a part on this.” Claire glared at Chris. She hated when she mentioned Thobbe. Actually, she didn’t want him to be mentioned ever again. “By the way, have you told Joakim about him?”

“Of course not.” Claire hurried to say. “I don’t think it’s time for him to know that I was about to...well he doesn’t need to know, not yet.” Chris rolled his eyes, and uncovered himself, sitting cross-legged in front of her.

“Okay.” he replied. “Anyway, just see how it goes when you actually start seeing him in person. Simple as that.”

“What if I don’t like the way he eats? Or if he picks his nose? Or if he has bad music taste.” Claire almost gasped. “I wouldn’t stand that. I think he had a Judas Priest on the night I met him so maybe-” Chris placed a hand on her mouth, preventing her from going on talking.

“Enough.” he said. “Listen to me for once in your life, and just wait to see what happens.” Claire sighed.

“Should I go pick him up at the airport tomorrow?” she asked, shyly. Chris reflected upon it for a moment.

“I love when you come pick me up at the airport. I think he will like it.” he said.

“You love it because I’m your sister.” Claire said. He chuckled and ruffled up her hair.

“I promise he will like it.” Chris replied. “If he won’t, he’s not human.” Claire smiled at her brother, and leant in to leave a kiss on his cheek.

“Good talk.” she said, as she got down from his bed. “I’ll make myself a chamomile and then try to sleep. Again.” Chris smiled back at her, and got under the covers again.

“Anytime.” he yawned. “If I’m going to fall asleep while teaching tomorrow it’s going to be your fault.” Already in the corridor, his sister let out a soft laugh. He turned off the light, and heard Claire putting the kettle on to make herself the hot beverage she was mentioning before.

Claire, in the kitchen, looked at the kettle on the fire. She thought about the next day, she thought about all the calls that had occurred in the past month with Joakim. His face appeared in front of her eyes, his green and smiling eyes making her smile to herself. She was really fighting against herself, so that she would not have too much of something that could be very dangerous. Hope. Tomorrow.

“Tomorrow never knows what it doesn’t know too soon…” she sang to herself as she poured the hot water in the mug.

#in a burning room #sabaton #joakim brodén #chris rörland #pär sundström #oc #syria #sweden #story #fanfic #fanfiction #au

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