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whumpzone · 4 years

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Tomas and Rowe - Part 1

this is the first part of a story I’m working on; it will be full of my fav whump trope, which is the whumpee being safe but not realising and doing their best to serve their new Master. There will also be some no-nonsense whump in later chapters for good measure!!

CW: pet whumpee, dehumanisation, references to past abuse, vomiting from fear, swearing

Tomas’s phone rang and he jumped. He’d been waiting for the call all week. "Hello?" he answered, trying to sound calm.

"Hey, man." The deep voice was unmistakably his friend, Kasia. "You still up for rehoming a pet? We just got one in this morning."

Tomas squeezed his free hand in excitement. Ever since he’d started working from home, he’d been wishing he had something to keep him company. This was perfect. "Yes, absolutely. How did you get it?"

"Well, we buy them from their owners, y’know. So it’s all legal. And you won’t have any angry owner coming after you wondering why you stole their pet," Kasia laughed, and Tomas guessed that’s exactly what used to happen. "This one looks rough, though. I’m glad we got ‘em before they just got dumped in the street. I’ll text you the payment details now. Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but we’re mad busy today. Big pet auction on. Is it okay if I just drop it outside your house? I can’t stop for chat."

"No, no, that’s fine. I’ve got everything ready," said Tomas, glancing at the cage, collar and lead he’d bought.

"Okay, see you soon!" Kasia hung up just as Tomas realised he didn’t even know what kind of animal he was getting. He knew Kasia’s group would just give him what they had, so he’d bought a fairly large cage just to be sure. In a way, not knowing made him even more excited. And his heart warmed at the idea of giving a pet that would otherwise be chucked out a good home. He sent Kasia the money and twiddled his thumbs.

A car horn beeping outside his house, swiftly followed by wheels speeding away told him that Kasia had been and gone, and his new pet was outside. He hurried down, opened the door and stopped dead in his tracks.

On his doorstep was a cage, and inside that cage there was… a human being. He was kneeling, his hands tied to his ankles behind his back, and his face almost entirely hidden by a blindfold and gag. The cage was so tiny that the man’s back was flat against its roof, his whole body pressed down, with his forehead against the floor. Just looking at him made Tomas feel claustrophobic, not to mention sick to the core.

"What the fuck?" he swore without thinking, and the man in the cage cringed. He could definitely hear, then. "Uh, oh god, I’m sorry, I- oh god what am I doing? It’s freezing out here. Let’s just-"

He prepared himself to struggle getting the cage inside, but it was worryingly light. He held it to his chest with both hands, kicking his door shut with far more force than he intended, causing the man to flinch as it slammed. Oh god. He had to call Kasia and find out what the hell he was playing at-

Oh. Oh. Tomas stood still as the penny dropped. Kasia rehomed Pets with a capital P. Oh. Tomas took a few deep breaths. There was a man in a cage in his arms. Let’s focus on that, he thought.

He set the cage down and gingerly unlatched the top of it. Great. He’d have to lift him out.

"Right,’’ Tomas started. The man froze, and Tomas noticed he was holding his breath. "I’m just going to lift you out and get these restraints off you. Okay?"

No response. Obviously. "Okay," said Tomas, mostly to himself. He didn’t want to have to do this, but…

Placing one hand under the Pet’s neck, and the other around his bound wrists, Tomas lifted him out as quickly as he could and set him down on the rug nearby. He weighed so little, and he hadn’t struggled, even a little bit. Tomas was almost glad when he heard his breathing hitch, and saw his hands start to tremble. At least there was… someone in there. Whatever had happened to him hadn’t turned him into a husk, although it seemed like they had gotten close.

. . .

Pet listened closely as he heard his new Master walk away, and rummage for something. So soon, he thought, his heart sinking. What would it be? A knife, a whip, a torch? He wished he could move, show his Master that he was capable of being good, that he didn’t need punishing. The hand around his neck as he was being moved had already reminded him of his place.

Stupid pet! He had been thrown out. His old master had gotten tired of him. And what was he doing, thinking he knew better than his Master? Of course he needed punishing, and if it helped him learn to be good for his Master, then he wanted it. He would take anything if it meant he could be a good Pet.

"Let’s get you out of those," his Master said, his voice travelling downwards as he sat to reach Pet’s restraints. Suddenly something cold, and metallic, and sharp, pressed into his cheek, and he whimpered loudly before he could stop himself. It wasn’t cutting into him yet, just running over his skin as a warning of what Master could do if he wanted. At the sound of his crying Master stopped, but the tool stayed tight against his face, wedged under the blindfold. Not one minute since Master had got him and he was already being disrespectful. His hands shook harder, bracing himself to be hit. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-

"No, no, they’re just scissors," Master said. He felt his stomach turn over. Just scissors. There must be so much worse awaiting him. Master resumed and Pet felt the fabric rip until it came away completely, and he was allowed to see. Pets weren’t to look directly at their Master, he knew this. He could follow this rule. He hadn’t been hit yet, and he dared to hope that his Master was in a forgiving mood.

Soon, Master had cut away all of his restraints. "Sit up, please. That looks uncomfortable. And I want to see your face."

Pet lifted his chest up immediately, ignoring the way his muscles screamed at the sudden movement. Still kneeling, he obediently faced the floor as his Master inspected his new property.

"Hey." An open hand appeared in his line of sight, and Pet screwed his eyes shut to avoid the worst of the slap. Instead, however, fingers gently landed on his cheek, turning his head upwards. Pet’s eyes opened to find Master staring straight at him. "It’s okay, I just- you were zoning out." Pet cringed- he was so nervous his behaviour was slipping. No slap, it seemed. It had been another warning. Or maybe Master just liked seeing him flinch. At least with his old master, Pet could often predict his moods and how Pet would be punished. He felt so vulnerable, with this new Master whose wants and rules he didn’t know yet.

He knew he couldn’t have wants, but he wished he was allowed to speak, to apologise and beg Master to punish him, to get it over with. All he could do was keep his eyes on the ground and try to stop himself from shaking quite so badly. He was on a rug; behind Master he had seen an open kitchen that lead on to a living area. It was spacious and warm. Master was tall and elegant, with wavy blonde hair, and well-built. He had already proven that Pet was nothing for him to lift up. The more he thought about it, the more he realised how easily his Master could hurt him, the more he felt he might faint. The slightest movement hurt, his whole body ached from being in the cage, he couldn’t even curl in on himself if Master decided to punish him. He felt weak with fear.

"Can you speak?" Master asked him. Did he mean physically? Or was he testing how well trained he was? It had to be the second one. He hoped. Either way he knew not to keep his Master waiting. Pet shook his head nervously- no, I am not allowed to speak.

Risking a glance at his Master’s face, he saw he was frowning. He had given the wrong answer. His legs were in agony- he hadn’t stopped kneeling since he’d been tied up and caged, and his mind was whirling, and- "Are you physically able to speak?"

At this, Pet was sure he was going to throw up. When he spoke around his old master, when he cried out in pain or broke down and begged, he was always beaten soundly for it, but that’s where it ended. Here, Pet realised with a sickening jolt, his new Master wasn’t going to leave any room for mistakes. It wasn’t good enough that he didn’t speak- Master wanted to make sure he couldn’t. Maybe he’d take the scissors to Pet’s tongue, or crush his voice box, or sew his mouth shut-

His stomach heaving brought him back to reality and he pitched forward, grabbing a hand to his mouth and almost smacking into Master’s chest. Oh god, now he’d really done it. Pet tried to force himself back up but every movement pushed him closer to vomiting. He was aware that Master had gone and grabbed something from a cupboard, and was now holding it under his face.

"-in there, okay? Be sick in there, if you need to," Master was telling him. Pet obeyed and soon his throat was red-raw and his stomach felt emptier than ever. "There, get it out, that’s it."

Master pushed the bucket to one side, and Pet had never felt so miserable in his life. He had just thrown up in front of his new Master, he could feel tears welling up, and he still hadn’t answered Master’s question! He opened his mouth to beg, but caught himself and clamped his lips shut.

"You want to say something? Go on," Master said. Pet took a shallow breath.

"I-I can speak, Master. B-but, I," he felt the floodgates open as fear took hold of his better judgement, "-but please, please Master, I swear, I can keep quiet, I’ll be good I promise, pl-please don’t, please, I’ll be good for you, I won’t speak, I-" he cut off, sobbing too hard to get another word out. His face burned with shame as he wept; he was so stupid, babbling like an idiot to convince Master that he wouldn’t speak. He pressed his forehead to the floor as his Master decided what to do with him.

. . .

Tomas stared down at the Pet in horror. He had no idea they could be so badly broken. His back was criss-crossed with scars that could only have come from a whip, and slicing through them were long, deliberate cuts. Some were healed, some were still new, covered in dried blood. His arms and legs were splattered with bruises.

It had been even worse when he’d asked the Pet to sit up to get a good look at him. He hadn’t realised when he was pulling him out, but his neck was covered in purple handprints. And he had gone and put his hand right over them like an idiot. Another handprint spread across his cheek, although fainter. Down his chest were all manner of injuries: scars, cuts, bruises, even a few hideous burns. The cuts were the worst. They were so- so perfect. He had taken them all without resistance.

Forcing himself back to the present, Tomas gingerly reached a hand to the Pet’s shoulder. God, he hadn’t even asked if he had a name. Did Pets have names? He faintly remembered that they started off with numbers- should he give him a name?

The Pet didn’t move as Tomas touched him, but he did whimper softly. "Hey, sit back up for me," he coaxed, keeping his voice gentle. He did as he was told, but kept his eyes on the ground. "You can look at me, it’s okay. You’re allowed."

Tomas found a bottle of water and titled it into his Pet’s mouth to wash the bile from his throat, afraid that the man might drop it the way his hands were shaking. He was smaller than Tomas, and far skinnier. He looked so vulnerable, with his chest exposed and his injuries on display like that. Who the fuck would buy a human being and torture them this bad?

"I’m sorry for scaring you. You can speak to me. It’s good that you can speak."

Relief flushed his Pet’s face. "Thank you Master, thank you. I am so grateful."

"I’m Tomas. You may use my name, if you prefer."

"Yes, Master Tomas."

Ah. That would have to do for now, he decided. "Do you have a name?"

Tomas watched him think about this. "N-no, Master. If you wish, I would be honoured to be given one."

"Yes, yes of course. Let me… I mean, do you… have any preference?"

He knew what the answer to that would be before he even asked it. "No Master. Whatever pleases you best."

Tomas looked at his dark hair, and brown twitchy eyes. "You would suit… Rowe, I think."

"Thank you, Master."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes, Master. Thank you. I am so grateful for this kindness."

"It’s hardly a kindness…"

Rowe deflated. "No, Master. I’m sorry- I was presumptuous."

Tomas paused, deciding his next move. He had never come into close contact with a Pet before; they were favoured by the elite, and so damn expensive that no one else could have one even if they wanted. He must have done something pretty serious for his owner to sell him on cheap enough for Kasia’s lot to snap him up. He shoved that thought to the back of his head- it was only scare the poor thing if he asked. Tomas realised that the longer he went without speaking, the more scared Rowe looked.

"Let’s eat."

Tomas found some leftover soup and, after a lot of coaxing, convinced Rowe to sit at the table with him to eat. He had pleaded to eat on the floor, and when that hadn’t worked he had wanted to wait until Tomas had finished. Tomas was too tired to wait that long, and told him so. Framing it as a way to keep his Master happy worked well, and the two ate in silence. When they had both finished, it was nearing midnight.

"I don’t know about you, Rowe," Tomas said, trying to make his tone more friendly. "But I’m exhausted. I think it’s time we both went to sleep."

"Yes, Master," Rowe said, looking past Tomas at something in the kitchen. Turning around, Tomas’s heart sank. The god damn cage he’d bought for the animal he’d been expecting was in plain view on the floor, and had been the entire time. The collar and lead were placed menacingly on top. Oh fucking hell. Rowe had started walking towards it, and in a panic Tomas grabbed his wrist, all efforts to be calm and collected immediately dissolving.

"No, no, no, no. Not for you. Don’t- ugh-" he sighed heavily. Rowe had gone deathly still and was searching Tomas’s face desperately, trying to understand what he’d done wrong. "Don’t go in the cage. No."

"I’m sorry Master," Rowe said under his breath. "Of course I am grateful to sleep on the floor."

"You’re not- I have a spare room. You’ll sleep in there. On the bed."

Rowe looked like he was going to cry at this. "I do not deserve such kindness, Master, please."

"I’m the judge of that. And I want you to have a room to sleep in."

"Y-yes, Master, I’m sorry, I didn’t m- I didn’t mean to question your judgement." Rowe stammered out. Tomas noticed he was still holding his wrist firmly and released it. He was so tired; all he wanted to do was put Rowe in a room and let him sleep, for both their sakes.

"It’s okay, Rowe. I forgive you," Tomas said, and Rowe seemed to calm down slightly. "Follow me, please, and I’ll show you to your room."

#please let me know if anything else needs tagging!#or if you want to go on the taglist :')#whump #pet whumpee #aftermath of torture #whump fic #pet whump #tomas and rowe #fear #mine #master/pet #slavery whump

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prose-for-hire · 4 years

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I [still] know what you did last Halloween...

Part one // Part Three // Part Four

Pairing: Scooby gang x reader (platonic)

This is the second part to a platonic story with the reader as part of the Scooby gang. Set season 3. This is a multi-parted serial killer/slasher fic for Halloween. Yes, I had to include Spike. Yes, I am sorry. Reader lived with Giles, but is not related.

Warning: It is a serial killer fic, main characters are going to die (I’m sorry, it’s Halloween). Violence. Blood mention. Alcohol consumption. Swearing.

Sunnydale students: SOS

Sunnydale Express, October 1999.

The Sunnydale slasher strikes again, leaving one teen dead and two injured. There was a house party last night [12/10/1999] which left the student body with one less. The identity of the teen, who is yet to be identified based on extensive injuries should be announced to the public after the family is informed.

However, it makes us at the Sunnydale Express question: was it the teens fault for breaking curfew?

It was the day of the funerals. There was to be two back-to-back.

The first funeral was Giles’. It was an intimate ceremony, the core group and a Watcher who had never met Giles alive. He was there to ‘oversee’ matters but Wesley told him where to go. This had surprised you, the man wasn’t usually so forthright but he had appeared to be fond of Giles in some way.

Your group stood, staring into the open grave. You were now minus two members. There had been some crying earlier, but everyone’s faces were stony now. As if they were set in place. Exhausted from crying, not sure if you would die from dehydration if you wept another drop.

All of the colour had been sucked out of the world and you were all now aware that you were only briefly passing through this life. You weren’t aware everyone else was sharing your cynical thought, but they were.

You felt the most immeasurable guilt. You felt guilty for Giles’ death. For being the reason he was gutted so brutally. Used to write a crude message on the wall. His life had come down to being the ink in someone’s pen and it angered you that this was what his life had been reduced to. But mostly, it sickened you.

And, as Willow tapped you on the shoulder and gestured that it was time. Your mind still trying to wrap your head around the imagines you had seen in the past week. It was never going to get easier.

It was all a blur. It was screaming and rushing of bodies all around you.

The room had started to thin. Only the injured and your friends remained. Willow had started to mutter something, a kind of protective spell - she grabbed your hand needing your strength.

The slayers danced around each other, their fight mean and brutal. he appeared human, but his reflexes were good. Almost, too good.

He was blocking them at every turn. He appeared to be enjoying it. He was studying them. Learning their movement. Anticipating what would come next. They fought hard. Buffy hissing as the tip of the scythe cut into the flesh on her upper arm.

Then it happened. You could barely stomach thinking about it. Xander had walked into the room-

Xander had been a good friend to you. He was never perfect and you liked that about him, he never pretended to be someone he wasn’t. He looked out for you and he had been there for you when you had almost broken down and run to the police months ago. He had been firm that it had to be kept secret what you had done, but never refused you a shoulder to cry on.

His funeral was a lavish affair, his parents turning on the waterworks despite everyone knowing how they would treat him at times. They had paid for only the best, with a large number of people attending. The church was packed out. It made you wander that if any of them knew what he had been involved in with the rest of you, would they be so quick to say they had always liked him? Always seen him as brave and strong?

Any time the family saw any of the people that were there that night they scowled. They glared. And they burst into more tears. Why were you spared, when he wasn’t?

The six of you huddled together. Oz was more distant than usual, his hand on Willow’s shoulder as she couldn’t control her sobbing now. Buffy was sat with you, trying to hold it together as you wrapped an arm around her - willing yourself not to fall apart either. Cordelia and Faith had started bickering. It was getting progressively louder and your group was getting funny looks. They eventually stopped but only when the priest shushed them and started to say the final words before Xander was cremated.

Bravery. It was a word that had been said a lot that day, in that stuffy church hall. But it rang true, clearer than the tolling bell.

He had been brave.

Everything stilled when he entered the room, as if time had been slowed for that one moment. And who knows, maybe it had. It was Sunnydale. The masked figure stopped fighting Buffy and stepped over an injured party-goer. He had been waiting for this. the guest of honour.

The masked figure had just been killing time fighting the slayers. Xander’s fate was decided before he had got to the party that night.

Xander’s face had twisted in horror, his eyes met yours and you started to scream. He nodded, resigning himself to what was coming. The figure swung his scythe back, shrugging Faith off him who had tried to tackle him and swung at Xander.

A sickening noise. A splatter of blood sprayed the entire room. Willow dropped your hand in horror, stunned into silence as Xander’s head rolled to Buffy’s feet, the same look in his eye.

There were media crews set up everywhere outside the church. They were using Xander to tell their stories. It would anger you, but you felt too washed out to say anything. You didn’t even comment when you overheard Harmony on her fifth interview, now talking to the local news outlet.

“Did you know the victim well?”

“Well, yeah. He was a total dork- which was so cute we all loved him” She smiled saccharine sweet making sure nobody had noticed her initial look, “Like, everyone wanted to date him he was a total stud-bucket”

“Were you there that night?”

“Yeah – everyone was, duh! But Carrie totally crashed and I don’t hang around with losers. Even being seen with her is like social suicide!” Harmony maintained firmly, as if that was the most important thing she had been interviewed on, “So I left early”

“Okay- that’s great Harmony. One last question: how are you and the rest of your high school class going to cope after this devastating loss?”

“Well, we’re all gonna graduate as long as we’re not all dead first. I am going to be a counsellor at Camp Crystal Lake in the summer. I’m just pleased to have a break from Sunnydale – senior year has been kind of a bummer so far what with the killings” Harmony shrugged and turned away, swishing her long blonde hair as she walked and her clique followed her. Even Cordelia rolled her eyes as Harmony walked past your group.

You stood motionless for a moment, it felt like a second to all of you but to onlookers there had been enough time to paint a detailed impressionist painting. The only title fitting was: loss.

“Where do we go from here?” someone finally spoke up.

“To the function”

“I-I don’t think I can” Willow sobbed into Oz’s shoulder.

“It’s worse if we don’t show our faces. Even if it’s just for a minute…” You suggest, really wishing the words hadn’t come out of your mouth. You didn’t want to have to face Xander’s family again, “Angel said he might come, what with the sun going down soon”

“Free alcohol. Score” Faith smiled.

“You’re right” Buffy said, still staring into the distance.

“You wanna get drunk?” Faith raised an eyebrow that lowered when Buffy shook her head.

“No. Y/n’s right. We should go. But we all need to talk – in private, when our heads are clearer. Need to figure out what’s going on” Buffy spoke, her usual self-assured tone was weakened slightly. Her voice hoarse from all of the crying.

You all nodded distantly, walking into the function room together, but feeling miles apart.

Death! Destruction! Mayhem!

Sunnydale Express, October 1999.

Rioting of many stores in the centre of town has been widely reported by those on the ground. Many young people, have taken to the streets to ‘protest’ the curfew. These troubled teens do not understand the importance of hard work and have instead taken to looting and picking up where the killer left off: damning our town.

They have old friends to meet; Disco music to dance to and big ticket items to steal from struggling small businesses.

Meanwhile, the death toll of the cases related to the ‘Sunnydale Slasher’ is now 5, and we ask the residents of Sunnydale: when will they learn?

You walked into the magic shop, one of the only shops on the row that appeared to be untouched. Maybe people knew better than to loot a magic shop. The rest were fair game. You had been hoping to find some kind of ingredients that would help you sleep. Or at least, allow you to relax for even a minute. You felt responsible. For everything and you weren’t sure how to deal with it anymore.

But apparently, this store hadn’t been untouched by those taking what they wanted. You stumbled in on a vampire having a midday snack. Spike. Shit.

You started to back out slowly, but he had seen you. He dropped the corpse of the shop-owner and stepped over her, walking slowly towards you. You sighed, you really weren’t in the mood for this. Everyone around you was dying and now you had to talk to one of the undead.

“Don’t move” He warned, pointing at you as he licked the side of his mouth to catch the blood that had been dripping there. When he noticed that you weren’t even scared, almost a little bored – waiting for him to finish he got annoyed, “You know what I could do? I could snap your neck and-”

“I already have one killer after me, what’s one more?” You sighed again. He raised an eyebrow and you just shrugged, not willing to get into it. Not until he said something.

You had sat, sliding down the wall and he had for some unknown reason (to either of you) decided to join you. He was sobering up and needed some kind of distraction at any rate. He had been staring, sitting beside you and scanning your features in a way that would make you feel uncomfortable if you had cared what he was deciding on.

“You seem different, y/n. From last time, I mean. Not sad, but damned near it - you’re almost making me feel better about my Dru”

“I killed someone. Well, not me, but I helped cover it up…” You admit, after a huge sigh. Spike barely even blinked, this kind of confession didn’t phase him in the slightest.

“Who did?”

“Slayers”

“I think they have a licence to kill, love. Don’t make it right but there it is” he shrugged, ready to get back to his feet and look for some liquor. Until you spoke again.

“He was human” You say softly, “Mr Bates. He had a name and a-a family-”

“I’ve killed hundreds of humans, so what?” He spoke over your turmoil. He didn’t feel guilt in that way, so he couldn’t really relate to your low mood.

“It hurts. It aches… but worst of all it makes every experience I’ve ever had… tainted. Wrong in ways I can never describe. It’s like I’m walking through a nightmare, and everyone else is right there with me. It’s not as if I can go to the police. Or talk to anyone else about it… not properly”

“Thanks, that’s sure to make a fella feel special” implying he wasn’t counted in anyone. But he wasn’t very hurt by the statement. This was the first full conversation you had together, he wasn’t that invested in your relationship.

“You know what I mean” You shrugged. And he did. He started to explain to you why he was back. About Dru and everything that had happened since you last saw him. You tried your best to wade through your own thoughts and chip in here and there. He clearly needed to vent too.

You and Spike eventually left together. You had convinced him, after hearing of his predicament, he needed to convince Dru to take him back and he agreed. You walked part of the way before he was going to go and get into his car and you were going to head home.

Night had fallen and you were about to part ways when he came for you. Spike heard him before you saw him. But the figure still made the both of you flinch slightly, before Spike rolled his shoulders and decided he would have to fight doubly hard for showing that weakness.

The hood was down and you could see the mask properly. It was a black material, with a chiselled grey skull etched so forcefully it was as if it was his actual face. The bones were harsh and looked as if it could cut despite it being a plastic mask.

Spike ran straight for him and started to match his offensive blows with his own. Spike appeared to have the upper hand as you just stood and watched. You knew if it came down to it, you could be collateral damage and neither of them would be too bothered.

Somehow, Spike had been knocked to the floor and before he could get up, a scythe had been lodged deep into his torso, hitting the ground beneath him with a horrible metallic sound. The reaper hacked at Spike, who hissed and cursed at him, but didn’t die as the killer had suspected. The reaper stepped back a few paces. It allowed Spike to get to his feet. There was a lot of blood running down Spike’s torso. His shirt was in tatters.

“I bloody liked that shirt!” He snarled, looking down. Trying not to choke on the blood that was moving up his trachea. If he had been mortal, he would have died ten minutes ago.

The masked figure cocked his head, figuring something out. Not working. Not human.

Spike charged at him, throwing punches and blocking the scythe easily. He was stronger. Spike had bit into him and knocked him to the floor. He started to stamp on him repeatedly until a gargled choking sound was heard from behind the mask. He landed on more swift kick for good measure before deciding he was as good as dead.

Spike turned back to you, for some unknown reason, and for probably the first time in his un-life he went to check on you. A human. He felt that you had some kind of bond after you both shared your woes. He was about to ask if you needed any help before he drained the killer and left to find Dru, but the words never left his lips.

“Spike!” You screamed as you saw the killer rise to his feet and remove a stake from his pocket. It all happened in slow motion. Spike wasn’t able to turn quick enough, he had been caught off-guard. Bollocks. The killer plunged the wooden object directly into his heart and the bleach-blonde vampire exploded into a pile of dust.

“You did this” He spoke for the first time. His voice like gravel. He knelt and took a handful of dust and walked towards you. You stumbled back, hitting a brick wall. You had nowhere to run. You were backed into a corner. He threw the dust over you, leaving you spluttering and rubbing your eyes. You were expecting death any moment, but it never came.

When you opened your eyes again, there was nobody except you in the street.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Sunnydale Express, October 1999.

Many have petitioned the Mayors office due to the large volume of litter and dust that has appeared, often overnight, leaving citizens having to take matters into their own hands. The large number of ash filling our streets tells us that unauthorised fires and barbecues have been set up through town with little being done by authorities to subdue this illegal activity – especially after our newly enforced curfew.

We implore the mayor’s office to make an immediate press release and ensure there is enough man-power to make sure our humble town is cleared during the night.

You were in Giles’ house. It had been left to you. You were touched, but every footstep you made in that house filled your body with guilt.

You were hosting a scooby meeting. You didn’t have any food in, everyone had started to pass around Giles’ single malt, drinking it straight from the glass. Even Buffy took a sip every now and again. You all needed it. Life was starting to become unbearable. Cordelia had joined late, rushing straight from cheer practice.

“What do we know?” She asked as she set her bag down and looked around as if you had the killer tied up in the bathroom, waiting for her to come so you could unmask him.

“Zip. Nothing”

“The killer is targetting us, that’s all we know. Some kind of twisted revenge. We just need to find out how he knows and why he’s so strong”

“Simple then” Faith shook her head.

“Oh and he takes out anyone in his way, so it’s not just us”

“What did the swim team ever do to him?” You wondered out loud

“It’s the tight pants, he likes a little modesty” Faith snickered and you scowled. How could she be so okay with this? She was the one that had stuck the stake in his hear, finished him off. You were feeling all this guilt and she just didn’t seem to even care.

“But does he even have any proof? Let’s just go to the police and say we’re being targeted”

“Yeah there’s witness protection! We could get new names!” Willow backed Buffy up quickly.

“That won’t change anything. We’re still killers” You mutter and everyone stopped. You had never said anything like that out loud before. You were usually the one that kept everyone optimistic. But it was too hard at the moment.

“Shut up! We’re not! It was an accident. Just an accident”

“How do you explain Giles?” you said glumly, glancing sideways to where his body had been.

“What is up your ass today? God, people are dead. We all feel it. But you’re just giving up! It’s not right!” Cordelia shouted.

“I’m living in our dead librarians house. Rent free” You sighed, “The house we cleaned and made look like an accident”

“Can it, y/n. None of this is our fault. We gotta do this or we’d be in jail”

“But if we keep doing this, we’re going to die” You replied, “Like Spike… he was gone. Just… dust”

“Well, I can’t say I’m gonna shed many tears” Buffy muttered.

“He was… nice. The last thing he did before he died was come over to check on me”

“Oh come on, y/n! He was probably gonna eat you”

“Whatever. I know what I saw and I can’t help feeling that you’re suddenly on team psycho” you muttered. Faith was watching in interest, but didn’t speak up again. She took another swig of alcohol and shrugged. You couldn’t help think you saw a satisfied smirk on her face, but it may have been a trick of the light. Or the whiskey. You set the glass down and went to see what Willow was looking at some research.

Giles had left some books open on his desk. He had been looking into the Sunnydale slasher, it seemed. When the books gave you nothing, you turned to the internet. You all started looking for some magical solution. There had to be something.

As the night wore on and the words got blurrier, it was getting harder to concentrate. And harder to get along.

“There’s no- no trace!” Willow said, getting more frustrated, “I can’t find anything”

“Maybe if someone did less cheating on her boyfriend and more reading” Cordelia snapped.

“That’s so not fair! I’m doing more than you!”

“Will, you’re doing the same amount as her” You offered. Cordelia had been researching too.

“Why are you always on her side – you’re supposed to be my best friend”

“I’m just being fair”

“You think this doesn’t involve you, huh?” Faith suddenly stood up and stared you down. You had been the first to admit you were at the centre of it all, but the way she phrased the comment, just made you snap.

“Well, you were the bitch that killed the poor man and managed to be surprisingly cool about it. Maybe you’ve done this before. Maybe, you did it on purpose!” You shouted and Faith pushed you hard. You landed on your ass.

“Fuck you!” She screamed. Not as cool or collected as you thought. The flash in her eyes spelled danger. It concealed guilt and deceit. It told you everything you needed to know. You got to your feet, walked straight out of the room and slammed your bedroom door. Allowing them to let themselves out.

Cordelia had gotten worked up as you stormed out, standing up to Buffy and shouting, “Sunnydale would have been better without you in it! All you do is attract stuff like this. You know who I blame, Buffy? You. You’re a Slayer all wow and look at me but what have you done? What have you done to protect any of us?!” Cordelia flung her arms out in annoyance, the glass that had been holding the whiskey flying out of her hand and crashing to the floor.

“Cordelia-” Buffy started.

“No, let her speak” Faith said nodding along.

“They’re picking us off one by one and of you – either of you – have done anything except hide bodies and celebrate that you’re slayers so you’re not gonna die! What about us!? What about people that are meant to be your friends?” Cordelia shouted. She was scared. She was angry. She couldn’t trust any of them anymore. You had given in. Willow just agreed with Buffy and she had a history with her. Buffy and Faith didn’t seem to be anything and she just wanted to escape. Hopefully with her life intact.

“Cor, we’re doing everything-”

“You’re not! You’re so not!”

“So what’s your plan then, huh? Lay down and wait for the killer to come get you? ‘Cause I haven’t heard anythin’ helpful come out of your mouth” Faith

“Shut up anyway, you just got here and you expect us to care? I hope you go next!” Cordelia screamed in Faith’s face. Faith just shrugged, but the whole room could tell that had stung her. She then turned back to Buffy, “This is your fault, Buffy. This, everything that has happened since last Halloween is your fault”

“Get out” Buffy said firmly, “Go!” she raised her voice as a tear slid down her cheek and Willow quickly went to comfort her.

“Fine. I’ve had enough! I’m leaving – I’m moving! I don’t wanna see any of you ever again!” Cordelia shouted, slamming the front door behind her and cursing every single one of you as she huffed and stalked away into the night.

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blankdblank · 4 years

Text

Broken Bridges

@sdavid09

Wk 23 Prompt

... Mention of broken bones and injuries ...

“Miss Pear, I have come to ask you about the quote for the timber haul we were to aim for from the northern woods.”

Ignoring the gushing internal wounds of your public humiliation from over the past six months you simply stated. “Ask Lord Drarnn. He is the head of the Timber intake now.”

“Oh,” for a moment a hint of panic flooded the Dwarf’s eyes realizing that the very public yet silent battle between the two of you was now at its head and you were calling the Dwarf on his challenge of superiority for the King’s full trust. “My apologies, though only yesterday you were the head.”

With a nod you replied, “Yes well, Lord Drarnn would be arriving while I made my rounds and pull rank on me anyways demanding the men followed his orders anyways to draw in inferior timber to reach the quote faster. If that is what he wants to fill the mountain with then he can do it without hiding behind my name. Have a good night, Master Tupo.”

His head nodded in response to yours and on his way to the Royal Wing from your rooms nearer to the front gate he made certain every Dwarf awake at this unrelenting hour knew just what you had accused the Dwarf of. Though they knew it already you had publicly claimed it and now it would surely reach the ears of the King.

The petite half Noldor half Vanyar Elf wanderer since before the sun rose from a long since demolished land across the once beautiful shores of Numenor sent from Gondolin you were an unlikely addition to the Journey home but with a month of sharing a path and shared warning of orcs an alliance was formed. It was timid and you were certainly paid your fill for killing Smaug though not a fifteenth of the vast hoard. A place on the council was gifted as well and the much ignored and often thought useless topic of timber assigned to you left you silent in the daily meetings since Lord Drarnn had first arrived. Honestly he couldn’t tell a tree from a turnip but each time your lips parted he had something to say and rank soon led to sway the Dwarves his way making you useless in all you aimed to do.

It was exhausting and you hated to think of returning to the life of a ranger so you tried to stay and mend fences the stubborn bastard kept chopping back down to bits. So yesterday was your last meeting and silently you left and returned to the lowest levels in the farming peak where you consulted the Head of the Messengers.

The mountain goats hated you for some reason, though you still had to do something new. You could tolerate their hatred until you wore them down and take up the deliveries between Erebor and the Elven forest where no Dwarf wished to cross after hearing of your escape even after the truce called between Kings. You missed the sky and the earth so this would be a calm in between and your words sealed the deal. “I would rather trek half of Middle Earth and back on deliveries over the constant humiliation of enduring that Dwarf’s opinions forced on my name.”

Humiliated, that was the damming word for the Lord when the Dwarf King heard why you had forfeit your post for something so low, but you were already on your first delivery and far from his ability to chase after you so he would merely have to wait to discuss this with you upon your return in a weeks time.

Joyful melody, that was the name your father had given you, these lands he had entrusted you to had changed greatly and for as long as you could remember those few years in Gondolin now long since gone truly left these pastures a dim comparison to those you once raced through. It was meant to be a short trip, a chance meeting between the Elf you were betrothed to. A bonding of the great houses of Findrod, Ingwe and Ecthellion, one never to happen.

A sudden sight of the massive figure of Sauron wreathed in metal and flames soon staggered and fell with the King who had severed his powerful ring. The Prince was left though none found the source of the arrow in his arm causing him to send the ring flying. But a young Noldor Lord did notice a telling flash of silvery curled hair in a long braid tucked under mightily armor, an Elleth supposedly led far from the battle on a caravan of other Ladies nowhere in sight. Sprinting after her, to join in a week’s travel for a hidden pass atop an endless bout of stairs, it was him alone who knew who had destroyed the ring, silence was bought and in the fall of Numenor and Gondolin the rumored ‘Prince Slayer’ was naught to be seen in the lands surrounding Gondor again. But Mordor was won and changed to a land all the brighter as it once was with a masked statue to remember the unknown figure Lord Elrond had sworn to have never known.

Lost to the Wilds a freedom was given to the young war hero who claimed the woman he loved as his bride while your grief and loneliness had granted you a freedom of your own. No home to return to and no family to bond you to another Elf or place allowed you great searches of all there was to see in these new growing lands.

Those days haunted you far less than how you assumed your father to have taken your loss. True he had fallen long before knowing of the severing of Aman and flooding of once great High Kingdoms still you couldn’t help but imagine him watching the lands binding the two collapse and crumble. When the dust settled and all sound was gone, he wept. Knowing you were lost forever more.

Though absurd a thought it did comfort you little pretending that the pain and knowledge was shared, if only for moments. That someone you once loved knew what had happened and why you were trapped here.

All the same those who did recognize your star like freckled features and telling silver flecked purple eyes remained silent allowing you your secrecy. The name was familiar to the Dwarf Lords though with your accent, use of an imagined surname and their disinterest in searching to discover the line of your father to know your true rank a secret it remained. However you had to admit treasuring their acceptance of you even if you were assumed nameless.

Another huff and jerk of the goat pulling the wagon nearly tore the reigns from your grip and in a huff of your own you were glad to have secured them on the railing on the wagon in front of your sunken seat leaving your legs to dangle against the front wall of it. “Tug all you like you’ll only tire yourself out faster.” You muttered in Khuzdul making you tuck your legs up to avoid its back hooves from crashing into your shins. Rolling your eyes at its cocky chortle you looked forward watching the path ahead still an hours ride from the forest.

“I understand you are bonded to a Dwarf as a kid, I am not taking you from Rundo, as soon as the trip is over you will be back with him.”

Again he grumbled between bites on his feed sack you drained a bit into for him to eat as you had dinner. He would be cut loose from the wagon but still tethered to keep from wandering away due to the mists while you slept under the wagon ensuring he couldn’t crush you overnight. Breakfast was no less amusing in his constant silence between bouts of arguments on his being saddled with the ‘Glittering Elf’ as all their kin had dubbed you upon first sight.

Remaining silent you relented seeing how the timid and gentle holding up and unhooking each night off and on the wagon harness between filling the bucket with as much feed as possible without draining supplies for the trip back had started to lessen his anger. Steadily you were gaining his trust at least that you could work well together, even to the point of walking in front of him when the path grew far from discernible from atop the wagon.

Two days and two patrol points later, just two hours from the front gates a wooden bridge over a wide enchanted river sat between you and your goal. The eerie silence of the forest led you to clutching your bow and drawing out your quiver you strapped to your side assuming spiders were nearby.

The explosion triggered by the weight on the wagon was far from what you had expected and a shriek from you died in the floundering of the tethered bellowing goat thrashing as he sank. Tugging a dagger from your boot you leapt into the water behind him sinking low enough to slice the straps and grip his hind legs to boost him up to clamber out.

Something was wrong, pulses of blinding pain coursed from your left side and in raising your arms out of the water to grip the rocks you saw why. Right out of your arm the same fracture from the power pulse following the destruction of the ring now had your bone sticking out of your arm. Clenching your eyes through the sound of racing steps of Men you pulled yourself out of the river into the sights of the wide eyed panting goat staring at you as your legs gave out in a cry of pain. Heavily you fell to your belly unable to catch yourself in time.

Panting yourself a second try to get up ended the same luring tears to your eyes. Slowly the wagon sank as you tugged your bow and arrows closer. “Run.” Catching the goat’s stunned gaze in your Khuzdul order it looked you over then darted off down the path at your shout, “RUN!!” Through the sound of nearing danger.

Whimpering is pain you tore the end of your shirt and bit one of your arrows pinning another to the side of your arm you used your good foot to pin down to the ground. Around the arrow a halting heart clenching scream in your moment of blinding and deafening pain alerted all three patrols of Elves to race towards you while your momentarily frozen goat turned to continue racing onwards to find help. With trembling hands you bound your arm to the arrow and shook your head unable to tell what was wrong with your crooked left leg still bound tightly in your talk splinter filled boot.

Inhaling sharply you raised another arrow and shifted yourself to face the oncoming strangers. An easing of the grip of your bow under the toes on your right foot you used the rock under your foot to help you prop it up and fire off an arrow into the chest of the first ax wielding Man. One handed you took out two more with shoddy daggers, clearly bandits hoping to snag a good score from the traveling merchant from Erebor hoping for a great haul.

Left and right Elves came into view circling you to ensure your safety only to have their Captain see you notch another arrow and lift your leg firing an arrow at the blonde haired Prince. A groan in pain at the slice across his bicep from your arrow had the Prince flinching away in time to avoid a sword falling to where his head Just was in the crashing of your arrow into the chest of the Man brandishing it and the following one hitting him square in the neck under the end of he face shield on his helmet.

Panting softly you eyed the bleeding Prince who came closer to you only to flinch at your cry out in pain at a brunette guard’s try to tap your injured leg. An apology was followed by a hushed conference on how best to carry you without injuring you further. Turning your head you glanced at the wagon a quartet of guards had begun to inspect for a safe way to bring it out of the rubble.

In the arms of the Prince you were suddenly cradled and was in the middle of the sprinting Elves mentally calling out for their Healers to ready for you. Wide the gates were thrown open by the guards and through the halls until you were settled onto a cot and were surrounded by Elves. Biting your lip in covering your eyes, the Elleths at your feet cautiously unlaced your boot off your left foot as the King strode wide eyed into the hall. Right to his son in the middle of removing his bloody armored shirt the King’s hands rose to the tear on his sleeve to see the clean cut stirring his hushed question, “Only an Elven arrow could pierce this armor. Which-?”

Your pained whimpering sounds turned his head and parted his lips recognizing you at once making him wonder why you were chosen to deliver their goods. Legolas used his silence to explain, “Ada, the Lady noticed a Man behind me. Her arrow lodged in the chest of the attacked behind me. Her second arrow ensured he fell.” Thranduil looked from you back to him and his lips parted heading him say, “The bridge collapsed from under her wagon, clearly a trap by those thieves.”

Across the room in your passing out from the pain at your revealed dislocated foot and hip the Head Healer asked the Prince, “My Prince, were you the one to reset her arm?”

Legolas, “Reset? No, her arm was braced when we found her.”

Making the Healers look at you in shock luring the King closer asking, “Why do you ask?”

The Healer answered, “The arm is clearly broken, to have had to reset it herself. It is incredible she was conscious enough or able to keep steady to fire arrows at all afterwards.”

Thranduil, “It was set cleanly?”

The Healer nodded, “Yes, perhaps the Lady had no clue as to how long she would be out there. Infection would be the main concern with a break through the skin. It should take a few hours to repair it though a proper brace will need to be made.”

Thranduil, “And for her leg?”

Another Healer answered, “Merely dislocated. Ankle and hip. Bed rest for two weeks should do wonders.”

Thranduil nodded then stated in a clearly concerned tone, “Do all you require to mend her fully,” the concern for your safety was quickly explained as he named you, “Lady Pear is the only child of Lord Ecthellion, and grandchild of High King Ingwe, spare nothing for her well being and comfort.”

Turning again he forced himself from the Elleths now fervently measuring your arm and leg for braces to be forged by the best smiths while others began to ready supplies to clean and mend your wounds in the flight of a servant to fetch clothes for you to be changed into. Back to Legolas’ side the King’s head tilted slightly eyeing the slice on his injured bicep sealing shut in a streak of healing cream after a press of a wet herb soaked cloth and relaxed at the lack of a scar the wound would leave.

Leaving the room together to guide him back to his rooms to change into a fresh shirt the Prince filled him in to all with news of the panicked goat and now dripping wagon now led by a trio of horses brought for the task was being led to the gates after dragging it from the river. Inside his apartment Legolas asked, “Ada, why did Lady Pear not announce herself, truly, upon her first arrival here with King Thorin?”

Thranduil, “I am not certain Thorin is aware who she hails from, he named her so casually as if he did not recognize the name. Though I knew her, distantly, when we were children. Merely in passing. I would know her anywhere.” His eyes sank to his son’s arm and he asked in a glance up again, “Do you hold any ill will-,”

Legolas shook his head, “Not in the least. I was frozen inspecting her leg and had no clue I was in danger at all. I wish to thank her properly when she is fully rested again.”

Thranduil nodded in relief then turned stating, “I will see to the choosing and freshening of her apartment myself. Wished secrecy or not the Lady will be held to the comfort of her birth rank while in our borders.” In a turn he was gone after a gentle pat of his hand on his son’s shoulder “Eat and retire for your wound,” with a ghost of a grin and a nod the Prince accepted as an order to keep him off returning to patrols. All of which were returning to their posts after more guards had raced out to sweep the area around your attack for any others responsible.

It was no secret that this would go badly. The Dwarf and Elf King. Talks of lost thrones, of fabled returns to reclaim a lost home. Fears and fire led to shouts and a Khuzdul curse narrowing the Elf King’s eyes. Retracting a step his gaze rose and inhaling sharply in a beam of light from the lamps above he caught sight of you. Around the Dwarf King he strode straight to you making Thorin snarl and shout out, “Your qualms are with me! Do not trouble the Lass! She has done nothing and has nothing to barter.”

Flatly in his trot down the stairs as you stepped forward in Tauriel’s step behind you to usher you closer onto the lower platform, “Oh, I highly doubt that.”

Thorin, “It is my bloodline! Our battle! Our home! An Elleth of little standing is not deserving of withholding your fury for me!” In a faltering step at his claim that you were of little standing his hand rose to his middle in his shift to glance back at Thorin again, “Lady Pear has done nothing.” Inhaling again Thranduil turned to you hearing Tauriel’s dagger easing out of its sheath in the rise of your hand only to sheath it again in seeing the shimmering chain you eased into his palm.

Lowering his gaze in a tilt of his hand his eyes scanned over the simple necklace of a moonstone surrounded by shimmering antlers resembling the head of an elk alongside a thick banded ring coated in diamonds with the design of a swan. The former only worth much from the materials rare from Valinor from your first project forging, the latter was sent with you as a gift blessing your intended union to Gil-Galad. Softly in Doriathian you whispered, “Please, give me a chance.”

Shifting on his feet he looked to Tauriel stating, “Take Lady Pear to bathe before supper.” Turning around he folded the jewels in his hand that slid under his wrap ascending the stairs keeping his gaze locked on Thorin, “King Thorin, you are correct. Lady Pear has done nothing. However, neither will you.” Straight to the dungeons Thorin was drug with the others shouting for as long as he felt the fire to before slumping to the ground. Their only glimmer of hope was that you were not trapped with them. You were not being punished. But nothing readied them for the echoing death roar of Smaug and the tremors in the earth to follow.

Outside the cells Thranduil came into view locking his eyes on Thorin and stated, “My guards will take you to bathe, change and eat. If you imagine so little of me to believe that I would dare harm an innocent out of rage for another, know this, my patience outlives my fury every time. I have seen the wrath of my kin unleashed upon innocents, no mater what you may find in your rage, I am not cruel. I bear no malice for you. I wish you well in your endeavors as King. My only request was a sign of good faith.” An easy shift of his fingers around the bars and the door eased open in his step out of sight stirring Thorin to stand and hurry to the doorway.

“Lady Pear, is being released as well?”

Turning on his heel still keeping hold in his hidden hand on your chain you had left with him Thranduil stated, “Lady Pear is in Erebor guarding your throne.” Thorin’s lips parted along with those of the Dwarves watching them both, “The bloodline of that supposed nameless Elleth has brought down greater beasts than that of Smaug, and should you doubt her worth, one drop of her blood is worth more than every scrap of gold in that mountain and mine combined. A name weightier than that of Durin the Deathless. It is old, and foreign to you, for those however who hail from those lost lands, never doubt her again or she will be lost to you.”

Fed and pampered up onto spare ponies the Elves escorted the Dwarves home to find their friend inside the gates they embraced fully, grateful for all you had sacrificed and were eager to hear the tale. Invited in the Elf King left supplies and to his surprise was kept apart from you restraining him from being able to return your tokens of trust. So he would wait, until you were able to have a moment alone. And home he went by noon with the chest of gems in hand where he would bide his time and have more time to admire your jewels.

Sharply your chest rose and an overpowering numbness on your left side had your eyes snapping open and your right leg easing up in a bend to ensure you were still bale to move. The covers on top of you, both silk and plushy in mint green, slid down a few inches and your hand rose to pat on your shoulder feeling the loose shirt shifting under your fingers while the leg on your sleeping pants raised a few inches in the slump of your leg again. Timidly your fingers eased down your injured arm only to flinch back at the metal woven brace starting at your elbow. Breathing shallowly you fought to keep your eyes from tearing up only to hear the door of the apparent lavish apartment open with a cart rolling in and steps of another from the room on your right revealed to be the King.

In his same velvety tone as always he stated in his inspection of the cart, “Perfect. I do believe our patient is awake.” Up to the foot of the bed the cart was rolled and into your view the King and trio of Healers came up to your side.

Forcing a grin the closest to you said, “My Lady, we are going to check your injuries.” You nodded and in their gentle easing back of the covers your gaze turned to the King, who shifted the slit in his robe and raised his knee to plant it on the bed to sit beside you.

“Are you in any pain, Lady Pear?”

In a shake of your head his lips parted at the tears filling your eyes, “I could never apologize-,”

Instantly he chose to break conduct of a King to offer you comfort and fold his hand around yours, “There is no apology I would ever accept for saving the life of my son and guards. You owe me nothing,”

In the quiver of your lip you inhaled then said as a tear streamed out the corner of your eye to your ear, “I couldn’t protect your delivery. Which is no doubt ruined.”

“Doorknobs. The shipment was not ruined, and with the amount of dust in the crate it was due for a washing.”

In shock you asked weakly, “Doorknobs?”

With a nod and a hint of a grin he stated, “True, unusual delivery though nearly a century past they were sent for repairs, now they are finally being returned to us.”

“You expect me to believe you have waited a century for doorknobs? What have been used in the interim, rope?”

Openly with a grin he looked your face over after releasing your hand freeing you to wipe your cheek, “We merely removed the doors,” making you chuckle to yourself.

Looking down at the Healer inspecting your arm you asked, “How terrible is it?”

Looking up at you she gave you a soft grin, “Bed rest for two weeks to rest your dislocated hip and ankle, the break in your arm was set clean, have you done that before?”

“For others, first time for myself.”

She replied, “Three weeks with the brace should aid in your healing greatly. A sling as well might be incredibly useful.”

Thranduil again spoke saying, “Take as long as you need. The rainy season is beginning soon and it will take some time to reconstruct the bridge to repair the path to Erebor.”

“What do you mean?”

“That river circles the peak our kingdom is housed in, that is the only bridge within a reasonable distance of Erebor and all the others are to be inspected thoroughly before any trade or visitors are granted permission to cross them.”

“I-,”

“I assure you, as soon as it is assured we can transport you safely I will personally see you are returned, if you should wish it.” In a reach into his pocket he drew out a velvet lined box from his pocket he offered you, “I wished to have returned these to you in your first night in Erebor.”

“It was-,”

“A trade?” You nodded sheepishly and he watched as the Elleths helped to sit you up against more pillows in the arrival of a bowl of stew for you. “There is no possible portion of that hoard I would ever risk taking these from you. It was an act of trust. One well deserved.”

“How was it so easy to let me go face Smaug when you were so terrified to let the Dwarves go?”

In the path of the Healers out of the room his eyes trailed their movements until the door closed ensuring you were alone, back to you his gaze shifted and he answered, “How could I possibly doubt the woman behind the destruction of the one ring.” Just barely your lips parted and he stated, “Lord Elrond never was required to share who he followed to me, I recall the sight of a telling bow coated in swans and feathers, not to mention the twin of orcrist strapped to your back. Your Ada faced the impossible, it was no stretch to know greatness would circle you.”

“You’ve known?”

“I hoped I might find you again one day. Though to find you as a messenger after a council member, I am curious why you were chosen for this task. I understand Thorin’s kin have little interest in entering my territory again, why?”

After a sigh you answered, “There was a Dwarf Lord eager to humiliate and belittle my place on the council. I forfeit my position and wished to take the air. It certainly did not hurt that I was an Elf and not afraid to travel here alone. No doubt Thorin will be furious when he hears of all this.”

“Rightly so.”

While you ate he sat keeping you company hushing any worries on repayment then took the cart himself to be passed off to the returning Elleths outside in the hall. On his way to copy then send off the final copy of his drafted mental letters to Thorin informing him of the incident he paused giving his son a soft grin. “Patrol go smoothly?”

“Yes. Is Lady Pear resting?”

“Yes, a chair is being fashioned so we might wheel her into the dining hall for meals. With luck it might be completed by supper.”

“You seem pleased her stay has been extended. Lady Pear is quite beautiful.”

With a ghost of a grin the King replied, “You have yet to see her smile. When Vanyar are content they glow like starlight.”

“We shall have to see to her every comfort then.” The Prince said in a slink away with a plot of his own to make you smile again.

#Tale Teller’s 52 Week Writing Challenge #Thranduil x OC #Hobbit #lotr

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winterwhumper · 5 years

Text

Whumptober Day 23: Bleeding out

This prompt is sort of a continuation of another fill which I will link here if anyone is interested but it can be read as a stand alone.

This fill comes with warnings for graphic gore, Suicidal thoughts and behaviour and is overall pretty dark and intense. Please consider these things before reading.

***

They leave him in the isolation room for some time after giving him the newspaper headlining Steve’s crash. A pile of untouched food trays build up each day, leaving a ripe, dank scent that Bucky stops being able to register. The mess that is the stump of his missing arm wept through the musty bandages days ago but he can’t feel the pain of it anymore. He stops counting how many times the light turns to dark in the small square window of his cell, stops walking around to keep himself occupied. He barely thinks anymore. They’re leaving him in here to rot and for Bucky, it couldn’t happen soon enough any more. Without Steve he has no hope or reason to keep going. He’s done with pain and sorrow, he’s done with this place, he’s done with life. He’s done.

He doesn’t move at all when the door to his cell is unlocked and pushed open, not just the food slot, actually opened.

“I don’t get why they’re making so much effort with this guy. He’s finished,” a voice cuts through the long silence of the cell. “They really wanna give him to Kazimir?”

“That’s what Zola ordered so let’s get to it,” another voice responds. “The less time I have to spend in Kaz’s ‘play room’ the better.”

Bucky feels hands on him. He doesn’t move or flinch away, just lets them hoist his naked body up and drag him off out of the cell and down the corridor, zoning out until he finds himself being pushed back against some kind of caging, straps being secured around his one arm, neck, upper chest and ankles. There’s sheets of plastic under his feet and he doesn’t even care what it’s there for.

“You’re really gonna wish you’d broken sooner,” the first agent mutters to him, something in his eye that tells Bucky he isn’t just taunting and it’s enough to finally get him to frown, try to look around himself a bit, growing more present by the second. The agents finish securing him and they don’t hang around, they leave without another word.

His body wants to fall slack in the restraints. It does in a way but he’s limited by the one around his throat. His weakened, starved body has no choice but to work to hold him up. His neck sits awkwardly, the grip of the clasp not giving him much room to work with. He can turn it enough to glance around him a little bit but not much more.

He doesn’t recognise this room, nothing like the rooms he’s been in during all of Zola’s experimenting and the torture from various agents but it has its own similarity. This room is less surgical, less mechanical but still filled with vices and tables, chains and cuffs, equipment that Bucky doesn’t dare to imagine the uses for. He’s not sure how exactly but this room has a kind of personal touch, not laid out for practicality but for convenience, preference. It’s brightly lit in a way that doesn’t leave light glaring down on him and he’s not sure how that’s possible. The room seems somehow warmer even in its eerie darkness. Bucky instantly knows that nothing good will come of this place, not a single thing.

Are they really going to go back to torturing him? They can make him scream until his throat tears itself apart, he has nothing to give them. Is Zola coming back? No, the agents said a name that wasn’t Zola but he can’t bring it back to his hazy mind. He does recall that even the agents seemed somehow uneasy just by mentioning him.

Footsteps have Bucky trying to turn his head more than he can, the metal biting into his skin in response.

“Sargent James Buchanan Barnes,” a softly spoken, still somehow cool voice comes from behind him, somewhere to his right. A man comes around into his line of sight. A slight man, fair hair and pale eyes, long nose and a sharp, narrow jaw. He’s slim and angular but not weak or frail, a little taller than Bucky. “May I call you James?”

Bucky doesn’t answer him. His body is already betraying him, a slight tremble working its way into his thighs, perhaps that’s just the fatigue at this point because truthfully, he doesn’t really care any more. He’s faced everything these people have to throw at him. Anything this guy does will only weaken him further and bring him closer to his end. The sooner the better. It doesn’t matter if his death is a painful one, if he dies screaming or writhing, just so long as his time comes soon.

“Well, James, we haven’t met before. My name is Kazimir,” the man says lightly. “But friends call me Kaz.” He steps closer, enough that Bucky can smell each of the next words as they drift past his toothy grin. “And you and I are going to be such good friends, hmm?”

Bucky turns his head in a desire to put some kind of distance between them. He thinks that maybe Kaz notices and he’s surprised when he actually moves back rather than staying close to mess with him. Other agents would have, they’d have probably even touched him just to watch him squirm. This guy makes him do so just by speaking.

“I’ve been reading over your files, James.” Kaz holds up small wads of paper with slender, skeletal fingers, variously clipped together into multiple reports. “These one’s say you’ve been refusing food for some time, now.”

So that’s what this is, Bucky thinks. He’s here to force feed him. He had wondered for a little while before why they hadn’t done that yet and if they would if he refused for long enough and now here he is.

“Starvation is a slow death for the average human. Painful,” Kaz says at length. He’s talking to him like a doctor, glancing over his notes instead of at him. “But for you.” He shakes his head.

Bucky eyes him warily. This guy has got to be cracked. Bucky is human, just as human as the rest. Kaz gives him a small smile.

“Come now, don’t tell me you haven’t once wondered how you survived that fall, hmm?” Kaz walks off to the side past where Bucky can crane his neck to see and then he can hear metal and he finds himself trying to test the restraints around his body and limbs. He’s not sure what it is exactly but he needs to get as far away from this guy as he can and soon. He finds no give in any strap. “You are no longer an easy man to kill, even by yourself.”

In truth, he had wondered how he’d managed to survive that drop but flukes happen, he used to read about things in newspapers sometimes, people walking away from great feats that should have ended them, never mind leaving intact and functional. A small tiny part of him had started to fear that everything Zola had done to him before, something might have made some changes. He felt so weird after Steve rescued him, even the other Howlie’s noticed, not that they ever said anything but he could see it in their eyes they knew something was different, too. He just couldn’t let himself dwell on any of it then.

Kaz reappears in his line of sight but it’s the knife in his hand that really steals Bucky’s attention. This isn’t how force feeding usually happens, he’s pretty sure.

“You don’t believe me, hmm? You have a lot to learn about yourself, James,” Kaz breathes, stepping close and tracing the knife down the side of Bucky’s face. Bucky goes rigid, breathes shakily out his nose, not daring to move. “And that’s why I’m here.”

Kaz holds his gaze for just an extra moment before his eyes drop and then he’s plunging the knife deep into Bucky’s gut, something coming alive in those pale eyes. His eyes bulge and he throws his head forward until the metal restraint is almost choking him. He doesn’t scream though it feels like he should but he’s in too much shock. He splutters and heaves and despite every corner of his mind telling him not to, he looks down just in time to see Kaz’s hand drag the knife straight across his lower abdomen, slicing through into his gut. Kaz looks up at him for a moment, something gleeful and hungry across his face that would fuck with Bucky if he wasn’t too busy staring down at his own body. Because right in that moment, he watches the gash bulge outwards for a split second that feels like slow motion and then he can only stare in dazed shock as snakes of intestines and organs he doesn’t even recognise slither from the wound and down towards the plastic below his feet with the most sickening wet noise, jerking and bouncing and dangling from him. Blood pours along with it, striking down his legs, pooling around his feet and spreading out along the plastic, climbing around his fallen organs.

His unseeing eyes move to Kaz lifting an empty bucket to somewhere around his chest. Bucky doesn’t understand why until he feels a part of the dangling intestine rest against his thigh and he’s spewing into the bucket, nothing but bile and saliva but his stomach lurches anyway.

“The average human body cannot survive blood loss over around two thousand millilitres,” Kaz tells him as if he could even take that in. Bucky splutters and gawks. He’s aware that his entire body is shivering, completely out of his control. Nothing is in his control now. His limbs want to flail, his hand gripping and releasing nothing, his blood soaked toes curling. “Which based on this here, we are fast approaching.”

Kaz steps closer to him and holds up a hand.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” His soft voice has gone, in a way he sounds pissed. Bucky just gapes at him. He’s dizzy as hell and his breathing is all short gasps. Kaz sighs and pushes his other hand into his gaping stomach and Bucky dry heaves. “How many?”

“F-f-f-free,” Bucky stutters and gurgles against the wrongest sensation. Kaz removes his hand and takes Bucky’s jaw to keep his head turned to him, his jerking, twitching body in complete revolt. Kaz speaks quickly now. It’s not anger, it’s excitement.

“The average human body can only exist for minutes without the abdominal cavity,” he says. “If the blood loss miraculously doesn’t kill them, the rapid death of the organs will have them failing before they can be returned to the body. What I’m saying, James, is that you should not still be alive, never mind talking and counting. You best start believing me when I tell you something, James because I don’t lie.”

Kaz gets closer, until their noses are close to touching. He strokes Bucky’s hair.

“Now let’s get this back inside so you can start to heal.” That soft voice returns and the way he pets Bucky’s hair is almost fond. “We have a long way to go from here.”

#bucky barnes #whumptober2019 #hydra trash party #Handler: Kaz #evisceration #gore #blood #whump

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seventeenmafiaau · 6 years

Text

By my side - Mingyu x reader

Warning: Sexual content, swearing(?)

Type: requested (I’m sorry, it was meant to be jealous but I went for fluffy jealous, it’s also only 2k words, I’m sorry!)

You were dozing off lightly, waiting for Mingyu to come home. He had been getting more missions lately and it scared you that one day, he just wouldn’t come home. You stay awake every night and wait, but tonight you were particularly tired from work and you fell into a light sleep. You awoke to foot steps in the house. Happily getting up to great Mingyu, you were left with a cloth over your mouth and a drowsy feeling until you could only see black.

When you woke, you were still drowsy, your mouth was dry and you were extremely disoriented.

As you slowly tried to get up, you felt something strong keeping you down. Dizzily looking down, you saw leather straps tied to your arms. Leaning further, you saw the same for your stomach and legs.

Hearing footsteps approach, you quickly pretended to go back to sleep.

“Hey, Johnny, why do you think Taeyong wanted her?”

“I heard something about seventeen messing with his girl that he had to break up with? Apparently this is revenge for taking his girl. Look, Mark, our job is to just do as he asks.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

The boys came in and kicked your shin, trying not to flinch and let them know you were awake, you knew it would bruise later.

“How much did Doyoung use on her? She’s still asleep. It’s been hours.”

“Should we try give her water so she doesn’t die?”

“What if we make her choke?”

“Taeyong will probably kill her anyway.”

“Fine, let’s go get water.”

Hearing the killing part shocked you. Seventeen was meant to have an alliance with NCT.

Still feeling dizzy, you dozed off to sleep again. When you awoke, you were feeling nauseous and disoriented yet again. As you corrected your posture as best you could, you could feel the bile rising. Looking around for anything to throw up in, a bucket was placed in front of you. You throw up bile and what seemed like water before looking to your left. You hadn’t seen the man there but you had seen him before. Mingyu had mentioned his name was Jaehyun when you went to NCT’s club. He was apparently second in charge and was the silent type. Before you could stare too long, you started throwing up again. There was no walls but you could only assume that you had been throwing up for five minutes before you stopped and the door opened. In the door way stood a tall, lanky man with obviously dyed red hair, dressed in nice clothes.

“Taeyong, the boys over did the dosage, she’s been sick for the past five to ten minutes.”

“Does it really matter, Jae?”

“Tae, do you wish to start a war? A war of which we can’t win? Not even with our new trainees.”

“Not a war, Jae, I just want to rough her up a little, teach them not to mess with my girl.”

“With all due respect Tae, you broke up with her and she seemed content with S.Coups.”

“I’d recommend you shut your mouth about things you don’t know. She may have seemed content but she wasn’t. The way she smiled at me, her careless touches, I know she still loves me.”

“Of course, I apologise for stepping out of line.”

“Now, what to do with her. She seems like Lucas’ type.”

“And just what are you planning?”

“I know Coups, I know him too well. I know the way he would have touched her after he took her back to their headquarters, the way he’d hold her of a night time. I’m just returning the favour. Lucas! Get in here.”

Behind Taeyong, an even taller boy stumbled in, his hair was brown at the roots but moved out into a blonde, his shoulders were boxy and if anything, he was handsome.

“Yes Taeyong?”

“This lovely kitten requires attention.”

“You don’t mean?”

The question hung in the air, not wanting to be finished before Taeyong gave a curt laugh and nodded.

“I don’t mean to speak against you, but this isn’t right. You’re just mad, you need to cool off.”

“I’ll let that one go because you’ve had a long week but if you don’t take her, I’ll throw her to the local thugs.”

Lucas seemed to think before nodding in understanding and walking over to you. He lent to your height as Jaehyun and Taeyong left the room. Lucas looked up to your eyes and you could tell he didn’t want this as much as you didn’t, his eyes spoke sorry in so many different volumes.

Mingyu’s P.O.V

It was 3 am and he was covered in blood and sweat. This was by far the worst week in the mafia by far but the thought of you sitting at home, in bed watching a movie or you cooking dinner and waiting for him to eat with you pulled him through and kept him strong.

He tumbled into headquaters to file a report to Seungcheol before heading home to have two whole days off with you, to just spend relaxing and enjoying your presence. As he walked to Seungcheol’s office, he noticed Minghao giving him a weird look that made him uneasy. He quickened his pace to Seungcheol’s office and pulled open the door. Cheol was surprised at first but quickly settled down when he realised who it was.

“I’m here to report.”

“Mingyu... before you report, we have more... how do I say this? More important things to discuss.”

“Look, I just want to go home to Y/N, can it wait until I get back?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Please stay calm, but Minghao saw a member of NCT break into your apartment and the house was surrounded by other members. Minghao thinks they might have taken Y/N, he wanted to help, but it was just him. We’re sorry Mingyu.”

Mingyu slammed his fists on the desk in front of him before rushing out of the room and to his apartment.

When he arrived, everything seemed in order, nothing seemed broken. When he entered, he could hear the television on. You never left the television on if you weren’t in the room, it gave him a small glimmer of hope. When he walked into the room, the bed was a mess, the television was on and your slippers were gone. He’d seen your car was in the drive way and the keys were still there, he knew there was only one possible explanation. He marched out of the apartment and back to headquaters. His first stop was Boo, he got all the weapons he needed to kill every single asshole that was in that mafia gang. His next stop was Jihoon to find out where they had taken you. Apparently they were stupid enough to take you to their headquaters. When he left Jihoon’s office, Soonyoung, Minghao, Vernon and Jeonghan all stood waiting with guns. Seungcheol stood unarmed next to the group.

“I don’t condone killing NCT but wounding them will prove as a warning, all of the boys said that Y/N was their friend too, so they’re going. Stay safe, all of you.”

Seungcheol then left to go back to his office as Mingyu and all the boys loaded into the car.

They arrived at NCT’s headquaters and there was standard guards there. Mark and Johnny stood watch. Walking up to them, the boys knew immediately why they were there, not even bothering to fight the Seventeen boys, they instead lead them through. Walking down a hallway, Mingyu saw Taeyong leave a room. Mingyu quickly pulled his gun and shot him in the knee before anyone could stop him.

Vernon and Minghao seemed shocked at how quick he was, Jeonghan snickered at Mingyu and Mark and Johnny pretended not to notice, walking back towards the door, knowing they would die if they fought, they’d be killing their friends if they won and that their boss was being an asshole.

Taeyong seemed to growl a little and turn to Mingyu. He was about to pull a gun on Mingyu when Jaehyun stopped him, gesturing to the other members. Taeyong gave up easily, placing his gun back and taking Jaehyun’s hand as he escorted him back to what Mingyu could only assume was his office to remove the bullet.

Mingyu quickly scrambled into the room. When he slammed open the door, he saw you strapped to a chair, looking hurt and uncomfortable. He saw Lucas unbuttoning your shirt, just reaching to where your bra started to show.

Mingyu saw red, he charged at Lucas, constantly pounding into him, his knuckles turning red with the beating. He only stopped when he heard your sob and a weak ‘stop’. He looked towards you and saw tears streaming down your face.

“Mingyu, please. Please stop. He was just doing what he was told, he didn’t want this.”

Mingyu stopped and went to immediately cradle you in his arms. He unstrapped you first before pulling you into his lap. He held you close as you snaked your arms around his shoulders. Mingyu wept on your shoulder, glad to finally have you back in his arms.

Mingyu carries you out to the car and held you the whole way home. When you stepped out of the car in front of your apartment, the sun had just started to break into the sky. Walking with Mingyu into the house, you knew that this was perfection, that he really would give anything for you.

When Mingyu got out of the shower, he looked fresher, brighter without the blood fainting him and his handsome features. He was still just wearing his towel and even though you had seen it many times, it still made you rub your legs together. Mingyu seemed to notice the action from you though. He gently crawled on top of you and started kissing you, And unbuttoning your shirt, followed by your bra before he started making his way from your mouth, past your neck to your collarbones and breast. You could tell that Mingyu was jealous of Lucas, deciding to tease him a little, you brought it up.

“Mingyu, you wouldn’t happen to be jealous, now would you?”

“He saw you. He saw your perfect boobs, even if they were in a bra. Even just him touching you, you’re mine, no man is allowed to touch you.”

Mingyu’s voice was a whine as he moved to swirl his tongue around your left bud. He nibbles a little, letting you know you were in for a rough night. Mingyu had a dominance problem over you but you found it hot how much he cared. He roughly pushed past your waist bands and inserted two fingers into you as he pumped roughly. His other hand started pulling off your pants and panties as he moved his lips to your right bud. Once your clothes were off, he released the towel, his erection standing tall. He was impatient with wanting to show you that he was better than Lucas, so he quickly lined himself up and pushing himself in. You groaned in pain at the size but Mingyu started moving and you soon adjusted. Mingyu’s thumbs left an imprint in your hips as he kept pushing into you. He’d take his cock all the way out before slamming back in, hitting all the right places. He was watching you, observing your reaction to him. Knowing his praisal kink, you let compliments like ‘yes, there, no one does me like you’ and ‘no one will ever fill me up like you.’ And Mingyu would respond with his own compliment, ‘no one can take me like you’ and ‘I fit perfectly inside you, take me well baby.’ The night was filled with compliments and moans as Mingyu thrusted into you harder each time. Mingyu reaches his high before you, but he continued going at the same pace, pounding into you until you reached your high, only seeing him covered in soft morning light in your vision as you reached your high, looking like an angel. Mingyu cleaned you up after, making sure you had gone to the toilet and had a shower before going to sleep with him.

When you woke again, Mingyu sat beside you, tv on with your favourite movie. Smelling food, you turned to your side, you see your favourite dinner food beside you. Quickly getting up to pee before you ate, you put one leg out and then the next, but as you meant to stand on them, you felt unsteady before falling back onto the bed. Mingyu chuckled a little before getting up to help you. What a keeper.

#seventeen #seventeen mafia au #seventeen imagine #seventeen mafia imagine #seventeen scenario #seventeen mafia scenario #mingyu #mafia mingyu #boyfriend mingyu #seventeen smut #seventeen fluff #seventeen mafia smut #seventeen mafia fluff #mingyu fluff #mingyu angst #mingyu smut #mingyu imagine

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caddy-whump-us · 5 years

Text

Part 2 of 3, taking place immediately after Etienne has been brought back up into the house.

Cold marble shocked Etienne’s feet, though the air in the room was warm and full of steam. The copper bath, with its immense boiler, commanded the far wall. Wooden cabinets and cupboards stood around the walls, bearing up towels, soaps, small niceties on their shelves behind their glass fronts (steaming over now). A stool, bucket filled with water covered with a cloth stood near the drain set into the floor.

“Wash yourself,” Viktor said.

Etienne stripped out of what remained of his clothes (filthy, torn, perhaps chewed on by rats) and crouched on the low stool. He scrubbed himself as best he could with the cloth and the water in the bucket (as the postulates did most times), all the while watching Viktor warily.

The mud and the blood came off him in streams, streaking towards the drain set in the floor. How long ago had he made his escape attempt? A week, at least, perhaps a fortnight? Or perhaps not that long. And here was the last sign of that attempt, flowing down the drain. In the lamplight of the room he could better see the wounds on his feet--they were healing well, fortunately. He washed his face; the cloth was filthy and the water left in the bucket was muddy.

Viktor, meanwhile, had his sleeves rolled up and was drawing a bath in the copper tub on the other side of the room. The tank of hot water emptied, it was Viktor himself who pumped it full and fed the brazier to heat the water again.

“Come,” Viktor said.

Etienne stared for a moment. He’d not expected to be allowed the luxury of the bath again. But perhaps it was not a luxury but an obligation, an expectation that he be clean before being put to his proper use. Still, he hesitated, crouched on the stool, watching his master like a timid animal.

“Come,” Viktor said again, an order. And this time Etienne obeyed.

The water in the tub was searingly, almost scaldingly, hot. And yet that was some of why it felt so delicious, melting out the last of the cold in Etienne’s fingertips. He sank into the water; even the steam was delicious. And sitting there, with the hot water nearly burning his chilled skin, he could not hold back a small sound between pleasure and pain. Viktor smiled.

“Let me see your back,” Viktor said and Etienne turned to show him.

Long fingers traced across the healing welts on his back, touching each, following the track of each. They no longer burned and stung as they did when they were fresh, but they were not quite yet healed and the bruises below them lingered. And Viktor said, “I will always discipline you as the situation demands.”

Etienne knew his part: “And I thank you, Master.”

Viktor chuckled. “You say so. But I wonder if you do, in your heart, thank me.”

Etienne turned to look over his shoulder, but Viktor gave no reply and was only rubbing a cake of soap into a foam on a clean cloth.

“I think you were cleaner when I first brought you upstairs,” he said, beginning to wash Etienne’s shoulders and back. The scent of the soap--lemon and lavender--bloomed to fill the room.

“I’d not gone running through the fields then,” Etienne answered. Viktor gave him a cold look and Etienne ducked his head and added, “Master.”

Viktor went on, washing him almost as a nursemaid would, scrubbing behind his ears and across his knees (still bruised), both elbows, around the back of his neck (raw from the coarse leather of the collar). Perhaps it should have been humiliating, being washed like a child or an invalid, but it seemed to give Viktor pleasure, and for that Etienne was grateful. If the master was happy, the household was happy.

And there lay the divide: that what he suffered in the cellar was so much worse than what he endured upstairs. So would it not be easier to accept his life, his role here upstairs rather than continually being sent down to the cellars to freeze and ache and be whipped for his disobedience? But that meant there was no third choice: freedom.

Viktor was washing the last of the mud and blood from Etienne’s face, gently, holding his face in his hands. And, for a moment, Etienne met his eyes.

Would it not be better? He dropped his gaze to the tiled floor.

Viktor set the cake of soap in Etienne’s hand. “Clean your hair.”

And Etienne ducked under the water to scrub out the sweat and dirt from his hair. Viktor was gathering small things from the cabinets around the bath, most of which Etienne couldn’t entirely see with his head half under the water. He looked down around his legs: even as much water as the bath held, it was still growing muddy.

“Come. Get out of that,” Viktor said, dropping a towel over Etienne’s back.

Etienne perched on the edge of the tub, wrapped in the towel, while Viktor drained it, rinsed it with cold water to chase out the last of the mud, and filled it fresh with hot water. He dried his hands and pointed. Etienne abandoned his towel and climbed back into the hot water. No mud, no blood, no dirt drifted from him this time.

“Give me your hands.”

And Etienne held out his hands to his master, who patiently scrubbed out the dirt from under his nails and across his knuckles, bringing out small silver tools to scrape away the last flecks of dirt and to pare his nails.

He keeps me like a pet.

Viktor seemed content enough with his work. While Etienne washed his hands one final time with the sweet-smelling soap, his master was searching through the cabinets again and finally drew out a silver comb.

“Clean, at least,” he said, crouching beside the bath again, “But still untidy. Come here.”

Etienne turned to him again and bowed his head so his master could comb out the tangles and knots in his hair. And, in some strange way, it was pleasant to be so attended--more than that, it was pleasant to feel the teeth of the comb against his scalp and his master’s finger’s smoothing out every errant strand. He grew very still under his master’s hands and the room itself was quiet, save for the dripping of water. Slowly, slowly, he laid his head against his arms on the side of the bath and closed his eyes

Satisfied at last, Viktor stood up and rolled down his sleeves again. “Warm yourself a while,” he said, fastening his cuffs, “Then clean your teeth and wrap yourself.” He unfolded a dressing gown from one of the cabinets and hung it on a hook behind the door and left the room, locking the door behind him.

Etienne sank back down into the hot water again, his knees rising up like twin islands. How easy it was to fall into his master’s hands. If the choice was between pain and submission, why not submit? But that was a false choice. The choice ought to be between freedom and captivity and freedom was by far the better option. He was, after all, a prisoner first and foremost. The rest was only how well he was treated in his captivity.

But the sting of thirst was still a near memory--as were the darkness and the chains and the sounds of creatures crawling in the dark around him in the cellar. Can there be gratitude without acceptance? Can there be obedience without submission? He turned these things over in his mind.

By and by, the water began to cool, which was all that drove him out of the bath at last. He dried himself, cleaned his teeth (as ordered), and wrapped up in the dressing gown. His hair was still wet and he scruffed it dry as he could with the damp towel.

The door was still locked; he knocked and Viktor opened it.

“You look more as I recall now,” he said, looking Etienne over, and Etienne cast his gaze aside again and said nothing.

“Come here.” Viktor held open his arms.

And Etienne stepped into his embrace, resting his head against his chest. After days of cold and darkness, of only punishment (sometimes even the presence of his master to punish him was the one small pleasure of his day: he has not forgotten me), he went to his arms almost gladly. And he was glad that even his master seemed pleased and kind.

And as desperate as he was for any kind of touch, even the cold hands of his master were enough to make him shake. Could there be gratitude without submission?

“Oh, sweet boy,” Viktor whispered into Etienne’s damp hair, “I’ve missed you.”

Etienne had not wept often in the last days he had been in the cellar. He had been cold, in and out, unfeeling and empty, only waiting--for his master, for death. But now, this unexpected gentleness broke whatever had been frozen in him and he began to cry--quietly, turning his face into Viktor’s shirtfront.

“And I think you missed me too.” He tipped up Etienne’s face with one finger to look him in the eyes. “Did you?”

This time Etienne did not look aside or down--he met his master’s look, but his mouth trembled and the tears still welled up in his eyes.

“Did you?” Viktor asked again.

And Etienne answered, “Yes.”

Viktor bent close, then, to lap up the tears on Etienne’s face and in his eyes. “Then obey me, submit yourself to me, and we need not be separated again.”

But Etienne turned his face away and leaned against Viktor’s chest again. Viktor set his hand at the back of Etienne’s head, holding him there.

“I am tired of the taste of the postulates,” Viktor said against Etienne’s head, “Your blood calls out of me. Give of it to me.”

He’s being so kind now, so gentle, Etienne thought, staring out across his master’s shoulder but seeing nothing. Perhaps even this will be gentle too, this time.

His master turned and Etienne let himself be led from the steam of the bath out along through the halls and corridors of the house as though dancing, with his master’s hand at the small of his back. He saw himself in a mirror as they passed: thinner and paler than he’d ever been, with haunted eyes and unruly hair and he turned his eyes away again.

They climbed the great stairs at the center of the house, but slowly, Etienne still weak from his time in the cellar (but this seemed to please Viktor too, as his grip tightened and his eyes glittered), until they came to the wing that was Viktor’s and Viktor’s alone. Even the library was not so carefully guarded as these dark rooms. To pass this threshold without the master’s permission was no less than death.

#whump #aftermath #comfort #bath #ocs #viktor #etienne #vampires

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fairytalewlw · 6 years

Text

Prunella

Once upon a time, there lived a woman who had a young daughter as her only family. When her daughter began to go to school, she had just turned seven. Each day on her walk to school, she would pass an orchard. Within this orchard stood a wild plum tree. Upon the tree grew the sweetest plums in the land. For this reason, the woman’s daughter picked one every time she walked past, putting it in her pocket to eat at school. This is what earned her the name Prunella.

The orchard which held the wild plum tree was owned by a witch. This witch was hated by the nation, and not just for her awful personality. Everyone had ignored her sole existence ever since she had disowned her daughter for coming out as trans. She had had no interest in raising a daughter, so abandoned her as soon as she came out.

One fateful morning, the Witch spied Prunella picking one of her plums. Though Prunella believed herself to be innocent in her actions, the Witch was furious and hit behind a bush ready to ambush her. When Prunella walked past, the Witch seized her by the arm. “You thief!” The Witch spat. “At last I have caught you. It is time for you to pay for your actions.”

Prunella, more scared than she had ever been, begged for forgiveness from the Witch for she had not realised she was in the wrong. “I promise I will never steal again.” Prunella pleaded.

Alas, Prunella’s pleas were dismissed by a wave of the Witch’s hand. “You’re coming with me.” Said the Witch as she dragged the girl into her cottage. Here, Prunella would stay until the Witch could exact the revenge she deemed necessary.

Years passed and Prunella remained in the Witch’s home. As each day bled into the next, Prunella grew kinder and prettier. This, instead of softening the Witch’s heart, made it harder through jealousy and hatred.

One brisk spring day, the Witch called for Prunella. “Take this basket.” She told her. “Go to the well and return with it filled with water. If it is not full to the brim, I will kill you.”

In desperate despair, Prunella tried to follow the Witch’s words, but each attempt was futile. Whenever she brought the basket up, the water would leak out of the holes, completely emptying before it had even reached the top. After many a try, Prunella gave up, tears spilling over her cheeks. She put her head in her hands and began to sob.

“Prunella,” said a voice beside her. “Why are you crying?”

Prunella took a step away from the stranger. When she looked up, she saw the most beautiful girl standing before her. She looked at Prunella with kindness and an air of understanding.

“Who are you?” Asked Prunella. “And how do you know my name?”

“I am the daughter of the Witch.” The stranger replied, her voice like honey. “My name is Isabella. The Witch is desperate for you to die at her hands, but I promise she will not carry out her wicked plan.” Isabella’s lips curled into a smirk. “Will you give me a kiss if I fill your basket?”

Prunella shook her head, trying to ignore how soft Isabella’s lips looked. “No, I shall not.” She said. “For you are the daughter of the very Witch keeping me captive.”

“Very well.” Replied Isabella, not hiding the disappointment in her voice. “Give me your basket anyway. I shall fill it for you.”

And so Isabella dipped the basket into the well, just as Prunella had. Though this time, the water remained in it. Prunella thanked her over and over again before returning home, full basket in hand.

The Witch gasped in horror. “Isabella must have helped you.”

Prunella said nothing and just stared at the ground.

“We shall see who will win in the end.” Said the Witch, leaving her cottage in a rage.

That night, Prunella lay restless in bed. To her surprise, her sleeplessness could not be blamed on the Witch’s threat. Instead, her mind was occupied with her interaction with Isabella. Granted, she had not seen anyone other than the Witch for over a decade, but something special about Isabella remained. A part of Prunella regretted not accepting her offer of a kiss, but the rational part of her knew she had made the right decision. For if she had kissed Isabella, Prunella knew she would only miss what she could never have even more. The ghost of Isabella’s lips would be worse than never knowing what they felt like against her own.

The next morning, Prunella rose with the sun, only to be given another impossible task by the Witch.

“Take this sack of wheat.” Said the Witch, thrusting it upon Prunella. “I am going out for a few hours. By the time I return, I expect it to have been made into bread. If you have not done this, I will kill you.”

Poor Prunella wept on her bed as soon as the slamming door signalled the Witch’s exit. Once again she had been given a task she could not complete. There was no way she could grind the wheat, prepare the dough, and bake the bread before the Witch returned.

Prunella began the task anyway. If she was to die, she was to die trying. Even if her tears did not stop falling. To her pleasant surprise, Isabella returned.

“There is no need to cry,” Isabella said, cautiously rubbing comforting circles on Prunella’s back. She changed her tone to joking. “It might make you feel better if you kissed me.”

Prunella felt her cheeks burn and prayed Isabella would not notice. Even if Isabella was just teasing her, she really did want to kiss her but knew it would be a mistake. “I will not kiss the daughter of the Witch.” Said Prunella. But oh how she wished she could.

Isabella took the wheat from Prunella despite her answer. In a flourish, she had ground it, made the dough, and produced a fully baked loaf of bread. She disappeared as quickly as she had appeared. Just in time before the Witch returned to her home.

Once again, the Witch was filled with fury. “Isabella must have been here again to help you.”

Just like the day before, Prunella did not reply and just stared at the floor.

“We shall see who will win in the end.” Snarled the Witch. She stormed out of Prunella’s room, leaving the girl to sleep. But just like the night before, Prunella could not sleep. For her mind was distracted by thoughts of Isabella. Each time she asked for a kiss, Prunella found it harder to say no.

The next day, the Witch called upon Prunella again. “You must visit my sister. She lives the other side of the mountains. When you arrive, she will give you a casket and this you must bring to me.” The Witch’s lip curled cruelly for she knew her sister well. Prunella would not have believed her if the Witch had told her, but her sister was a more wicked witch than herself, and Prunella was unlikely to return.

And so, Prunella left, oblivious to what lay ahead.

Once more, Isabella crossed her path. “Where are you going, Prunella?” She asked.

“Your mother has requested I retrieve a casket from her sister.” Said Prunella, carrying on her journey, trying to ignore her racing heart.

Isabella stopped in her tracks.

Prunella mirrored her actions.

“Oh, honey, you poor girl.” Said Isabella. “You’re being sent to your death! I will save you… for a kiss.” Isabella winked in jest.

Just as she did on the previous days, Prunella resisted the urge to accept the kiss. “I will not kiss the daughter of a Witch.” She said, hoping that Isabella could see that she really did want to accept her offer but just could not.

“As I suspected.” Isabella smiled sadly. “Alas, I shall still save you. There is something special about you, Prunella. We are destined for something. But what that thing is I do not know.” She paused for a second before continuing. “Take this flask of oil, loaf of bread, piece of rope, and broom.” Isabella produced them from beneath her cloak. “At her cottage, oil the hinges of the wooden door with the contents of the flask. A beast of a dog will greet you. To them, you must give the loaf of bread. When they are sufficiently distracted you can pass them. Ahead of you will sit a miserable woman crying in agony as she lowers a bucket into a well with her plaited hair. To her, you must give the rope. In the kitchen will stand an even more miserable woman whining and groaning as she tries to clean the hearth with her tongue. To her, you must give the broom. Upon a cupboard in the same room will lay a casket. This is the casket you must take. Leave as quickly as you can. If you follow my instructions, without a moment’s hesitation, you will not be killed.”

Prunella breathed deeply as she ingested Isabella’s words. The two of them walked the rest of the journey together hand in hand, recapping the steps Prunella needed to take. It wasn’t much, but the feeling of Isabella’s hand in her own made Prunella feel like she wasn’t alone for the first time in a long time.

By the time the pair arrived at the cottage, Prunella knew exactly what she had to do. Isabella squeezed her hand in support before letting Prunella complete her task. She stepped through the door, oiling its hinges on her way. She threw the bread to the dog, gave the woman at the well the rope, and the woman at the hearth the broom. Prunella reached for the casket atop the cupboard and fled for the door, the casket held tightly in her arms.

“Catch the thief! Kill them!” The Witch screeched to the woman in the kitchen.

“No.” Said the woman in the kitchen. “I will not kill the thief for she gave me a broom to save me from your relentless work.”

“Kill the thief!” The Witch called, this time to the woman at the well.

“No.” Said the woman at the well. “I will not kill her for she gave me a rope to let down the bucket.”

Getting more angered, the Witch turned on the dog. “Kill the thief! Maul her!”

“No.” Said the dog. “I will not for she gave me a loaf of bread when you left me to starve.”

Now at her wit's end, the Witch shouted at her door. “Kill the thief! Lock her in!”

“No.” Said the dog. “For she oiled my hinges when you left them to rust.”

And so, Prunella managed to escape, the casket in her possession. Much to her dismay, Isabella was not waiting for her outside the cottage. Prunella returned to her captor empty hearted but not empty-handed.

The Witch, more furious than ever, was incredulous when she saw Prunella holding the casket. “Did you meet Isabella?”

As before, Prunella looked at the floor without talking. It was better to not talk at all than to lie.

“We shall see,” seethed the Witch. “Who will win in the end. Now, you must go to your bed. Overnight, one of the cockerels will crow. You must tell me if it was the yellow, black or white one. Make no mistakes, mind. For if you do, I will eat you in one bite.”

Prunella returned to her room unable to sleep. This time, however, it was not the thought of Isabella that kept her awake. Instead, it was worry for listening out for the cockerel.

Unbeknownst to Prunella, Isabella lay in the room next door. She knocked gently on the wall between them. “Prunella?”

Prunella sat upright at the sound of her name. “Isabella?” She answered tentatively.

“It is I.” Said Isabella, as close to the wall as she could get. “I will listen for the cockerels too.”

“Thank you.” Said Prunella, sighing in relief.

“It is no problem.” Said Isabella. “As I said, destiny will bring us together.”

At midnight a cockerel crowed.

“Which one was that?” Shouted the Witch, not giving Prunella a moment to think.

Trembling, Prunella knocked on the wall. “Isabella, please tell me which cockerel crowed.”

“Will you give me a kiss if I tell you?”

“Please.” Said Prunella, her voice shaking.

“It was the yellow cockerel.” Said Isabella.

Prunella was just thanking Isabella when the Witch repeated the question impatiently. “Answer at once or I will kill you.”

“Yellow.” Shouted Prunella. “It was the yellow cockerel.” She said quietly.

Angered at the correct answer, the Witch stamped her foot and clenched her jaw.

Another cockerel crowed.

“Tell me now,” said the Witch. “Which crow was that?

Prompted by Isabella, Prunella answered. “It was the black cockerel.”

The Witch stomped harder and this time began gnashing her teeth.

Another cockerel crowed.

“Which one?” Barked the Witch.

Again, Prunella asked for Isabella’s help.

Isabella hesitated, lost in the hope that Prunella would forget that she was the Witch’s daughter. A bloodline connection did not mean they were connected in any other way. Isabella wished that Prunella would finally promise her a kiss. After all, she did not decline her last offer.

“Isabella!”

Prunella snapped Isabella out of her thoughts.

“Save me, Isabella!” Prunella called out again. “The Witch is coming! I can hear her gnashing her teeth!”

Isabella snapped into action, throwing herself out of the door and at the Witch. She pushed her with such force that the Witch stumbled, tumbling down the stairs until she lay motionless at the bottom, lifeless.

At last freed from the Witch’s captivity, Prunella was free to do as she wished. “Isabella?” She called hesitantly. “Do you still want that kiss?”

Isabella turned, a smile stretched from ear to ear. “Are you sure?”

Prunella nodded.

“I would be honoured.” Isabella stepped towards Prunella, and Prunella did the same. Slowly, Isabella closed the gap between them, gently pressing her lips to Prunella’s. Prunella lifted her hand to cup Isabella’s cheek, deepening the kiss as Isabella rested her hands on Prunella’s hips.

After a moment, Prunella stepped back, her lips and hips cold with Isabella’s absence. “Wow.” She said breathlessly.

“Wow, indeed.” Isabella echoed.

Time passed and slowly Prunella and Isabella fell in love with one another. Prunella became Isabella’s wife, and the two of them lived happily ever after.

#wlw stories #wlw #wlw positivity #wlw fairytale #writing #short story #prunella #trans #trans wlw stories #trans wlw fairytale #trans wlw positivity

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hayffiebird · 6 years

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Taste of Strawberries, chap. 10

Hayffie Post-Mockingjay Multi-chapter, Rated M And we’re back to Effie and the present timeline! Chapter 10 When it feels like the end All the warmth of the afternoon had gone. Now the moon hid behind stormy clouds while the wind howled and wailed, drowning out all other sounds. Effie heard it where she lay in Katniss’s and Peeta’s guestroom. Yes, she was still here. Despite what Johanna had said, despite her own better judgment. She’d come as far as the train station but when it was her turn to board after Annie, Finn and Johanna, she just couldn’t. That hour she’d spent packing she half-hoped Haymitch would come out of his room and make peace. They always made peace eventually. But he never showed. And when she returned he’d locked the door. Haymitch who never locked his door. Over the years they’d had worse fights than this. They’d screamed vicious things at each other, cruel things. She’d thrown objects his way, though it shamed her to admit it. More than once they’d parted after a Games so bitter at each other they didn’t even say goodbye before Haymitch left for District 12. But one way or the other, easily or not so easily, they always got over it, seeing it for what it was. Because at the end of the day they knew where they had each other.

So why then couldn’t she leave now? Or even sleep. Not because they had sex, she told herself. It didn’t even bother her too much that he regretted it so. They should never have scratched that itch in the first place. But she worried for him, like she always worried for Haymitch.

And there was something else too. Something that tugged at her mind, leaving her no rest. Like a half-forgotten memory she had to remember.

When the clock turned 2AM she couldn’t take it any longer. She pulled on her morning gown and went straight out into the storm.

”Haymitch!” She had to shout to be heard over the wind that did its very best to blow her over. The door was as locked as ever but Effie pounded on it, worse than Katniss. “Haymitch, please let me in!” Would she have to smash open a window? She went to the back garden, shivering with goose bumps all over her bare arms and legs. But she found the old ladder there in the grass and managed to lean it against the short end of the house and the window on the second floor. It was the one that wouldn’t shut properly. She’d been at him several times about getting it fixed. Now it became her way in. Effie Trinket wasn’t afraid of heights but when the ladder swayed under her feet and the wind tugged and tore at her morning gown she wondered if the children would just find her with a broken neck tomorrow. But all the way up she got and with good aid of her long nails she managed to force open the window and crawl inside. It was so dark. Not even a moon to light her way. It was long since the power had gone out and she kept her hands outstretched as she walked the corridor and to his bedroom, carefully so she wouldn’t end up stepping on him. “Haymitch?” Her hands brushed over the cold tangled sheets of his bed. She got out a candle from the nightstand and the light illuminated her pale face. Shadows flickered off the walls but Haymitch was nowhere to be found. There were more candles in a kitchen drawer. She’d stashed them there herself and with an old candlestick in hand she walked from room to room, searching for him. The door to the study was ajar. She couldn’t remember the last time Haymitch had found a reason to go in there. But she pushed inside and the hinges creaked from disuse. The room was a mess. The large desk of polished wood, the carved straight-backed chairs, the mahogany grand piano, they were all in the wrong place or knocked over, the carpets tangled together. Like someone had barged in here in anger or fear. She found him in the corner. Back up against the wall, arms and legs sprawled out before him. His eyes were open, the lashes shadowed his cheeks when he blinked but he didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at anything. Effie set the candlestick aside and crouched before him, her face close to his and her chest tightened when she saw the claw marks. “Haymitch,” she said softly. She took one of his large hands. The nails were caked with blood from when he’d dug them in to his face, against something terrible only he could see. “Haymitch, it’s me. It’s Effie.” He didn’t respond. Didn’t acknowledge her in any way. The only real sign of life in him was the slow rise and fall of his chest. The old Effie, the clueless, young escort of so many years ago, might have passed it off as just too much booze or if not tried to shake him, calling his name each time more and more panicky. Now she knew better. Knew it all too well. She went and lit more candles. Walked from the kitchen to the living room and bathroom getting out soft, clean towels and other things she needed. Filled a bowl of lukewarm water and brought it all back with her into the study.

She placed a cushion behind Haymitch’s back, the blanket over his lap and so it covered his naked feet. All the while she spoke to him, telling him what she was doing. And then Effie sat down cross-legged by his side, the bowl of water on her lap. She wet one of the towels and began to gently wash the cuts on his face. Outside the storm raged on. The house creaked and groaned as if the wind tried to blow it all to pieces. Water ran between Effie’s fingers and into the bowl as she wrung the towel out and she began to wash the blood from his nails. There was still no reaction from Haymitch but Effie’s voice was calm and soft as a caress, trying to coax him back to her. He’d never been like this before, not for her to see. But after the war there’d been periods of time when she lay numb and motionless just like this, staring at nothing. Like she’d shatter into a million pieces if she moved or couldn’t hold everything together. She was done with one hand now and began on the other with the same soft and gentle strokes. The water in the bowl had gone pink but Haymitch’s hands were soon clean. She patted them dry. The cuts on his face weren’t too deep. They’d heal in time. She made an attempt to pull away though and go have a look in the first aid kit – when she felt the lightest of pressures of his hand around hers. “Eff.” His voice was raspy, barely audible but his gray eyes focused on her for the first time all night. “Eff?” “Yes,” she said and squeezed his hand with both of hers. “You’re here?” “I’m here,” she said. “Of course I am.” In the flickering candle light his features seemed so childlike, like he was that young boy again. “My fault,” he said and his voice broke. “No, Haymitch.” “My fault. I sent ‘em away, Effie. I shouldn’t have. We should've known. I should've known they weren’t gonna let us be. And I sent them away to die. I watched them burn.” “It wasn’t your fault, Haymitch.” His hands clutched on to hers to the point of pain and his gray eyes shone with tears. “It should’ve been me.” She stayed with him for the rest of the night. It took hours before she could even get him to stand. He leaned heavily against her on their way up the stairs but she managed to help him into bed. And while the storm kept trying to tear the world apart outside, Haymitch eventually fell asleep, completely exhausted. But Effie lay awake. And with Haymitch’s hand still in hers she wept. Silently, because she didn’t want to wake him, the tears kept rolling down her face and into the pillow until it was all soaked. She wept for this man next to her that she cared so much about and the young boy he’d once been. For his mother and brother and girl all lost to him. For all the pain he’d suffered and the open wound inside him that would never truly heal. And for leaving him all alone in it. None of you know what’s going on inside a victor’s head. Johanna couldn’t have been more right. Because of what happened in the woods Effie had jumped straight to the conclusion that it was about her. His behavior these past few days. But it never was. At least not primarily. Haymitch did come back like he said he would. He’d been right outside with the apple basket when he must have heard Annie play the piano while Finn sang. Had it triggered some kind of flashback? A painful memory associated with the old song? Whatever it was he just dropped everything and fled. Who wouldn’t? And then everything just deteriorated from there. All the clues had been there right in front of her and she’d misunderstood every single one of them. He didn’t make it easy not to. But how many times, how many countless times hadn’t he been there for her, picking up the pieces? And when he was the one in need she wasn’t able to recognize it. She just left him here to suffer. For that Effie sobbed and would so for the rest of the night. But Haymitch slept, unaware that there was someone who cried for his sake. And when he woke the next morning, alone in bed and with a throbbing headache, he was positive all that with Effie the other night was just another cruel trick of his mind. Until he walked downstairs and happened to look out the window and there she was. With a bucket in hand, shakily feeding the geese.

#hayffie #haymitch x effie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #taste of strawberries fanfic #chapter 10 #the hunger games #multi-chapter #fanfiction #the victor's village #district 12 #myfanfiction

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videogamefanfic · 6 years

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A Pirates Life for Me (BluBlu x Sanzu) PT. 2

BluBlu POV There I was. On the shore, being shoved onto one of the small boats as they got ready to row me to their massive ship. I sat there trying to be as calm as possible and not let them see any of my fear. According to the rules of PARLEY, you are to bring the one who commands it to the captain, with no harm what so ever. Once arriving to the captain, the two will make a deal. Once the deal is done, the PARLEY with that person end. They can do what ever they want as long as it doesn’t intervene with the deal. So far, they have followed the rules of parley…… So far.

My mind started to drift as the the great ship grew near. I’ve heard of this ship before, the one with great black sails. the captain of it was a great man! he was known to be kind and humorous; and even showed mercy to anyone no matter the person. His name was Quang Nguyen (PT from @cursetale).He passed in a horrible battle with the most genicidle pirates out there who now owns his ship.

I’ve meet him once before though, when I was quite young. He came over to my country to get some more things for his voyage; it was rumored over the whole town. I searched all over the place just to get the chance to meet him. I never got to see him until he was almost done loading his ship when I finally found him. He looked at me and stood there for a second before waving and giving me a wide smile. The only odd thing is he suddenly looked scared and went back to work. I had no clue what he saw but I was so happy to be able to meet him. That was back when I was with Sanzu......... Sanzu....

The small boat ran into something harsh suddenly, almost throwing me out of it. I glared at the two disgusting looking pirates before noticing that we were already there. They dragged me up to the dock where there was dozens of horrible looking pirates that terrified me. I would have cried if I wasn’t trying so hard to look brave. They dragged me over to the back of the ship where the captain’s room laid. “We have a young skeleton here who has called PARLEY for the captain!! So lets bring him his parley boys! And see what good it brings him!!!” One of them shouted. The others cheered and I was starting to regret what I did. They soon started to quiet down until they were quieter than the dead its self.

They started to sing very slowly at barely a whisper an old pirate song. “Yo ho, yo ho...” my entire body was shaking as I stared at the door “A pirates life...” I felt tears roll down my cheeks “... for me~” about five seconds after, I heard large foot steps from inside the room. It felt as if the whole world slowed and it was pure torture for me. The foot steps stopped and the door creaked loud and slow; the room was pitch black. Soon, the ships captain camooping i didnt actue out of the darkness and he looked like a nightmare come to life.

“Hello sweet cheeks~” He wore old ragged pants with large heavy boots that dragged on the ground. He wore a long back leather jacket and a wide belt that hung on his waist. There was a large black captains hat that sat on his head and had gold linings. There was thin black and dark navy blue strips of fabric that hung from the edges of his hat that hid his whole head and hid his identity. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I could feel his smirk burn intro me. It was Captain Yūrei

He was waiting for a response but couldn’t speak. He started to walk toward me and that’s when I snapped out of it. “NO! DON’T TOUCH ME!!” I shrieked and tried to back away only to run into the other crew man. lost control of all of all my actions and i fell on the ground and wept while all the other pirates laughed at me.

i finally tried to pull myself together as much as I could and speak again. “Parlay; we still have our parlay” I said as calm as possible. he just leaned down and stared at me for a few seconds “Alright sweets, Whats our deal?” “I....I want you to leave my town alone and never come back! Ever again!!” Yūrei just continued to stare and hover over me. I could tell he was resisting the urge to tie me up and throw me off the boat right now. “And what do I get in return exactly?” he questioned. i sat there for a minute trying to think of what would be a fair deal with out making a huge mistake. It turned out the only thing I could give might have to turn out that way “I’ll-..... I’ll... let you take me... as your servant......forever....” I whisper the last part hoping I actually didn’t have to do it forever. i could tell he herd me though because i swear i could see a smirk through the fabric since he was so close.

“Lets say, hypothetically, I agree to this; as long as don’t attack your town ever again, i can do whatever I want with you. This is correct, is it not lad?” It sounded like a pretty stupid idea but if it was the only thing to keep this psychopath from murdering everyone i know, i’ll do it. “... y-yes..?” i heard a low, deep laugh come from him and it terrified me. Yūrei held his hand out for a shake; i knew the second I did it I was his forever. I hesitantly lifted my hand and he took it “It’s a deal then” He said. He shot up fast, which made me flinch, and shouted to the rest of his crew “i mean, its not like we can’t get to any other town, am i right lads!?” they all laugh there hearts out while i sat there wishing i would have said more that just my home town.

Suddenly, they grabbed my arm and yanked me up and I screamed. They shoved a bucket and a mop at me and pushed me onto the ground again. a sat there as the rest of the pirates doused the lights and started taking the ship out further into the darkness. i slowly started to get to work before Captain Yūrei snuck up behind me. “Say la--”

“SCREEEEECH!!!”

“JESUS CHRIST WHY DO YOU ALWAYS GOTTA SCREAM?!?!?!”

“I CANT HELP IT!!!”

We sat there in silence for a few seconds before he continued “ i was gonna ask your name...” “Surprised you even care” I snapped back. He seemed to look pissed which is exactly what I wanted. “Fine then!! i’ll just call you my peasant!!” he stomped of back to his room while i continued my job.

YAAASSSSS!!!!! Finally i finished!! it’s nice to finally have an update out! hope you guys enjoy this part; there should only be one more part left maybe. ill try to post my crossmare since that was a popular one. anyways, see yo later alligators!

#sanzu #blublu #bluzu #Blesstale #cursetale #pirates of the caribbean #pirates life for me #fanfic #undertale

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kristielynnhiggins · 5 years

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Looking for a book like the Dragonriders of Pern? Fly on wings of dragons.

"Read fantasy chapter sample below" - Download free dragon book dark fantasy fairy tale "AabiLynn's Dragon Rite #0 Dragon's Brood" http://www.kristielynnhiggins.com/DR0.html Chapter One: The sun peeked over a grass-covered hill and brought morning to Thatchman's farm. There was a bit of a chill in the air as spring forced winter out. Thatchman harnessed his horse and prepared to continue plowing his field to make it ready for seed. He still had two days of work before he could sow. Thatchman finished buckling the last strap on the harness when he noticed dust rising in the distance. A group of riders approached his land, and he had expected they would come. He went over to his hut that housed himself, his third wife, and his four children; three were by his first wife who suddenly disappeared and the other child was by his second wife who passed on about five years prior in childbirth. Thatchman grabbed his spear and returned to his horse.His third wife, Hellen-Mary, attended to the pigs along with his youngest and only daughter, Cara-AabiLynn. By tradition, women of the Northern Grass Plains Tribe carried their mother's name as their second name to honor the one who bore them, so Mary was the mother of Hellen and so on."Girl, bring the bucket of slop the rest of the way for me," Hellen ordered as she set the bucket down and leaned against the fence to rest her weary and very pregnant body.Cara hobbled her nearly five-year-old body toward the only mother she ever knew. Cara had been born early which caused her left arm and leg to be stunted. Her leg, inches shorter than her other, caused her to limp but since she was born this way, she knew no different. Her arm bore the brunt of the deformity. It was about half the size of the other and appeared to others to be of little use. Cara hurried over to Hellen, grabbed the bucket handle with her strong hand, and lifted it into her arms with the help of her other hand. For a child her size, the bucket of yesterday's unwanted food was huge. Its water slushed about the bucket as she walked the last ten feet to the gate. Part of the slop splashed her brown dress which was already stained by a week's wearing. Hellen waddled over, holding her back and opened the gate to the pigpen. Cara entered and walked across the cool muddy ground to the trough, and then she lifted the bucket as high as she could and poured most of the slop into the trough while some of it spilled onto her bare feet. She started back with the bucket and fell as her shorter leg sunk too far into the mud. Cara didn't cry, but she got back to her feet and made her way to Hellen. Dark mud covered her face and along with nearly every inch of her front. Cara thought it would be fun to play in the mud, but she knew Hellen would disapprove."Look at you!" Hellen complained as she took her apron and wiped her dirt-stained face. Hellen questioned once she finished, "What am I going to do with you? You are nearly as useless as the old sow in there."She motioned to the large female pig in the pen, and Cara turned and stared at the creature that was three times her size and what her father called infertile. She didn't understand why they considered the pig useless or what the word really meant."I am sorry, Hellen," Cara stated as she bowed her little head. "I am sorry I am useless."The riders neared the farm, and the horses' hooves thundered across the dirt road. Hellen noticed the riders and straightened her dress and hair somewhat as Cara hid behind her. The lead rider halted his horse, and the four others with him also did so in turn until they stopped behind their leader. The five men with swords approached Thatchman on foot. All the riders were clad in leather from the band around their head, to the vest that covered their bare chests, and to their pants and boots. Thatchman kept his spear at his side with the blunt end resting on the ground ready to use if the men decided to draw their swords."Bork," Thatchman cautiously spoke as if he greeted a wolf he'd surprised in the woods who may be hungry.Bork was the leader of the Northern Grass Plains Tribe which Thatchman and his family belonged to. Most of the tribesmen raised horses, yaks, and/or sheep. Thatchman was one of a few farmers who tilled the land."Thatchman, you know why I am here?" Bork questioned.He nodded, and then he replied, "You have come to collect."Bork looked at Hellen and noticed the small child hiding behind her, and then he turned back to Thatchman and asked him, "Do you have the silver?""I do not," he replied."That is a problem," Bork stated. "I cannot give you any more time." He scanned the area around the hut, pen, and field but saw no one else there. Bork said, "I shall have to take from you something of equal value." He looked at the distant hill and then to the roads winding behind the farm, and then he questioned, "What of your sons? Where are they? They usually work the farm with you," Bork spoke, and then he stated, "I could take one of them as a soldier for a year.""They are not here," Thatchman said, and then he added, "They are visiting my brother.""Convenient, I would say," Bork muttered, and then he stated, "Your crop is a season away." He looked at the pen, and then he questioned, "What of your pigs?"Thatchman replied, "I have four young ones and one large one."The day before, Thatchman sent the piglets' mother with his sons as they headed for his brother's farm a couple of valleys away. He wouldn't give up a fertile sow, not for a gambling debt.Bork walked over, looked over the feeding beasts, and then he said, thinking the sow was the piglets' mother, "I shall take the large one for payment.""One moment, my lord," Hellen spoke as she walked over to her husband and whispered into his ear.Thatchman's eyes lit up as if he had never even thought of such an ingenious idea, and then he said, "Bork, why not take my daughter, Cara.""Your daughter?" Bork uttered as he turned and looked at the young girl. "Would you not prefer to give me your pig?"Cara ran over to Hellen and hid behind her again.Bork looked her over a second time before she hid herself, and then he stated, "She is too young to give to one of my older sons or soldiers.""Take her as a slave," Thatchman said. "She is a hard worker.""And deformed," one of the other riders exclaimed."He is right," Bork stated. "She shall be limited to what she can do and unsightly to give as a wife even to one of my slaves.""You could always make her a breeder when she comes of age," Hellen spoke, then turned, and positioned herself so that Cara stood in front of her."Breeder?" Bork questioned, and then he asked, "She is the fair AabiLynn's daughter, is she not?""Yes," Thatchman replied. "She is my beloved's child."Hellen glared at her husband when he mentioned the wife before her, and then she squeezed Cara's shoulders, taking out her jealousy of a dead woman on the child.Bork peered at the girl, not as she was but as she would be. In the Northern Grass Plains Tribe's tradition, male owners slept with their breeders to create slaves with no inherent rights. Bork had wanted Thatchman's wife AabiLynn when she first appeared in their territory, but she married Thatchman instead. It created much strife between the two men until AabiLynn died."AabiLynn's child," Bork muttered to himself, and then he thought maybe Cara might turn out to be as beautiful as her mother. "Are you sure you want to give up AabiLynn's child? She is your daughter."Thatchman glanced at his wife, and then he answered, "I am sure."Bork turned to one of his riders and told him, "Grab the child, and let us take her back to the plains."The rider nodded, then he went over, and scooped up the child as she attempted to flee from him, limping as fast as her little legs would allow her. She kicked and beat at him with her arms and legs, and then she turned to her father and Hellen and screamed for them."Hellen! Hellen, help me!" Cara cried out. "Help me, Hellen! Hellen!" She managed to free herself of the rider, drop down to the ground, and ran to her shouting, "Hellen! Hellen!"Cara fell down as she overstepped her stride but quickly got back up and continued for the woman as she cried, "Hellen! Hellen!"The woman turned from her and headed for the hut, allowing the child's plead to fall on indifferent ears.Cara cried all the more, "Hellen! Don't go, Hellen!" She fell again and this time Cara didn't get up as she shrieked, "Mamma! Mamma!"Hellen paused in her tracks as the maternal words left the child's lips and rattled her very core. Never once had Cara called her mother. Hellen had never taught her that name but insisted that Cara call her Hellen. It allowed her to place some distance between herself and the other woman's child. Thatchman's sons were old enough that they easily called her Hellen. Cara must have picked up the word from the nearby farmer's children as she watched them play. Hellen started to turn toward the child, but then she realized Thatchman had already given her to Bork. Whatever feelings might have been sparked by the child's utterance was now too late. There was nothing she could do about the debt or the payment; it had been completed. She placed a hand on her belly. She might just be too emotional because of her own coming baby. Hellen continued walking to the hut as a tear streaked down her cheek. She wiped it away as she wiped the memory and the name of the child from her mind. Hellen placed a hand on her belly again. She would soon have a baby of her own to replace any emptiness caused by the forgotten one's departure.When Hellen ignored her pleads, Cara turned to Thatchman and called out to him, "Daddy! Daddy!""Quiet, child!" Thatchman scolded her. "You are no longer mine." He turned from her and walked away as he mumbled, "You were never mine."As both of her parents abandoned her to her fate, Cara lifted her tiny hands and wept into them. The rider easily picked up the child and carried her to his horse, and then he, Bork, and the other riders headed back toward the plains. Cara cried herself asleep and slept the whole way back to Bork's abode.Chapter TwoJourney To FiredrakeSeven years later...Darkness covered the land like a blanket of nighttime fancy, and the smell of horses and leather permeated the air as Cara held onto the back of her adopted father's waist. She leaned the side of her head against Bork's strong back as they rode on his horse. He was warm and comforting against the cool air. Cara was still sleepy as they had rose hours before she normally did so they could take this important trek. Sleep and dreams lingered with her as night and a young girl's fantasy remained a few moments more.They left the plains with three other riders, heading for a great destination. All was grand in Cara's world. She had people who cared for her and a special place she belonged. She couldn't ask for anything more.Bork steered his horse up a hill, and she held on tightly so not to fall off on the incline. The moon had long since gone, and the land waited for the sun to make its appearance. Cara glanced back at the three riders following them. One of the boys was Bork's son, Turk, the brother she never had. Thatchman's sons had mostly ignored her existence, but not Turk. He always noticed her, always knew where she was. Here with Bork and his family, she had found a place to belong, a place where she was needed and cared for.Twilight broke at their backs as a red-orange light burned across the grasslands. A horse neighed, and a few flying birds greeted the morning, and all was grand in Cara's world. She had people who cared for her and a special place she belonged.She squeezed Bork's waist as if giving him a hug and then turned her head so she could view the lands on their right side as they sped by. She overheard Bork speaking to the boys before they left his hut. He told them of the place they were going, that it was important, and they had to do well or was it, it was important that they do well at the place they were going?A golden wren flew overhead, and Cara turned her head to follow the beautiful bird in its flight as it sparkled in sunlight. She thought when it came time for her to select a totem animal, as those in Bork's family had, she might pick the golden wren. It was free to go where it willed, but the females still had a family they returned to and cared for. The time of naming a totem animal was also the time she was given new clothes like the leather the riders wore. She was ready to burn her dingy tunic in a fire. She had seen other children use the fire to burn their old clothes when they came of age. At that time, she could...Cara caught a glimpse of Turk eyeing her, and she sleepily and bashfully hid her face in Bork's back. She smiled, knowing Turk was with them too, and it warmed her heart to know Turk was thinking about her. Cara adored him as an older brother.She turned her head and looked again to the left side as they rode on. The plains were so different than the lands around the farm she once called home. An incidental tear trickled down her cheek as day started to break up the dreams night allowed, and she quickly wiped it away before anyone saw. She was to never speak unless spoken to, and she was never to cry. Those were the rules ingrained in her since arriving at Bork's hut, and Bork's wife was the one who fiercely taught her these simple rules. The rising sun finished burning the sky, and the blueness of the day appeared over them and with night gone, so were dreams and a young girl's fantasy. Cara would have to face reality until the sunset again and she was able to close her eyes.All was grand in Cara's world, but it all vanished back into her mind. She had people who cared for her and a special place she belonged, but those ideas and sentiments were only in her head. She, after all, was only a slave, someone they would sometimes refer to as a breeder. Cara was more alone with Bork and his son than she had ever been with her father, her brothers, and Hellen. She had no rights as a human, no one she could emotionally depend on and though she had a place she belonged, she wasn't loved.The riders moved on as did the morning, and the harsh reality of her existence smacked her again like one of the slaps Bork's wife would frequently give her. This was the world Cara lived in but not the one she wanted to linger in. The time she spent in her perfect world was far too short.She was barefoot and wore a sackcloth tunic, and no totem animal decorated any part of her clothing. Cara was an object to own and order about and nothing more. She thought of Bork as her adopted father, but the only thing he adopted was a harsh tone and leering eyes that seemed to want something from her. Turk was still the brother she never had for he was neither a brother to her nor a friend only her constant tormentor. This was the reality of Cara's life, a reality she wished was a nightmare and the imaginary world she envisioned was the real one. There had to be more in this world than pain and hardship. Those would be bearable if she had joy and love but without joy and love, pain and hardship were becoming more intolerable with each grim day. End sample

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missoneminute · 7 years

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peter+carl, favourite quotes

I could fill a book with these, but here’s a selection of favourite quotes after the cut, as requested by anon.

“It was Pigman who once said that the blood from broken hearts writes the words to every song. And that’s the trouble, innit?”

– Carl Barat, There Are No Innocent Bystanders, 2011

“But hey ho and never you mind the psychological burdens this most splendid and dark relationship heaps up on me.”

– Peter talking about Carl, 26th April 1999, Books of Albion

“Interviewer: In our last phone interview with Peter, he said that he was going to get married to you. Carl: Oh yeah, we are getting along. Peter: But we had a serious fight about three weeks ago. ‘Cause Carl … Carl: Stop it. You’re going to cry again. Peter: I cried during an interview yesterday. It was a bit embarrassing. Carl: It surprised me. Peter: It was because of Carl. He said he would go to Morocco with me but … Carl: I said stop. Peter: But it’s true! Carl: That doesn’t mean you have to tell them everything! So anyway, we just had a small misunderstanding. There were times we felt distant, but that wasn’t a big deal. Peter: (Glares) Carl: Why are you looking at me? Peter: LIAR.”

– Peter Doherty and Carl Barat, April 2003

“I don’t cry too easily, and hardly ever in public. But there were a lot of tears at that gig. Emotionally it was colossal. It was the first time I’d played with Pete for ages without Kate Moss and the whole entourage around. It reminded me how great we were together and how much unfinished business there is.”

– Carl Barat on his reunion with Peter at Hackney Empire, Mail on Sunday, 2008

“I sat on the edge of his bed and wept. There was a CD that his mum had made him, a bootleg CD with a picture of me and him on the front and it said ‘Well done’….”

– Peter Doherty on burgling Carl Barat’s flat, NME 2003

“I wanted so badly for it to be all or nothing. Wanting it to be me and him. But then I knew that could not be, and that was not what he wanted anyway. I fell back into being a little more emotionally dependant on Carl, but I realised I had to cut myself off from demanding him like that.”

– Peter Doherty on Carl Barat, Kids in the Riot 2005

“I live 2 minutes away, there’s no lock on the door. why am I here then? you know why. it’s close enough, I’m obsessed to the point of needing to know everything. all of you. I’ll pretend to be you because you won’t log on. you never even used the internet until you knew you could press a button and see a picture of yourself, and now you’re even afeared to read ANYTHING that might interfere with the ‘peace’ you crave. For a peaceful man you are extremely volatile. In fact, your peace comes only after conflict, til it fades and needs re-touching with further conflict. Is that what you do - what I saw in London? it’s amazing. but are you going to do when everything comes out? When the kids hear ‘bucket shop’ and ‘music when the lights go out’ are they considered Libertines songs or not? There’s further questions that I shall ask elsewhere but for now - you’re not a bad sort. I quite love you.”

- Peter Doherty, Network 54 forum, June 2002

“Biggles stirs in his sleep laughing.”

– Peter Doherty, The Books of Albion

“In the early days Carl came round once with this girl who had convinced him that I was just a weirdo and that we had an unhealthy relationship. He sat me down and said, “Maybe we shouldn’t see so much of each other? Maybe we should knock the band on the head? It’s not really going anywhere, is it?“ I was desperate for us to stick together and see it through because I never stopped believing.”

– Peter Doherty, Daily Mail, 2008

“It’s as deeply horrible and beatifically brilliant as the depths of any relationship can allow.”

– Carl Barat, when asked to sum up his relationship with Pete Doherty in one sentence, The Guardian, 2010

“Everything you do at a certain time in your life, no matter what the song’s about, all the energy is really directed towards that one person. Whether that was for Carl. Or for Kate. Or for someone else I fell in love with.”

– Peter Doherty, Q Magazine, 2007

“Peter surprised me at work at the Old Vic one night, when we were meant to be rehearsing but I’d taken the paying job instead. Separate worlds – music and theatre – colliding momentarily, almost causing one to spin helplessly out of orbit. I was in my trusty trousers, probably gleaming in the theatre lights, serving a platter of vol-au-vents as part of a reception for Marcel Marceau. It was an after-show as far as I can remember – as much as great mime artists have after-shows, anyway. Then Peter just appeared, lumbering into sight, red-faced with tears in his eyes. I can’t imagine what the guests must have thought as a stranger button-holed one of the waiters, and the quiet of the theatre bar is shattered as he screams: ‘What are you doing here? Can’t you see these people are cunts? We’re meant to be writing songs!’ The room screeched to a halt, a hundred heads turning towards us, now centre stage in the encroaching silence. I was livid. How I kept my job there is still a mystery.”

– Carl Barât on working at the Old Vic, Threepenny Memoir

“Two trod and one so pestering at the falter of older other in the old world. Giros and on the rob, stealing the light from the dawn and sweet lasting embraces besides the late night river Thames. Mountain ranges of paperback books, heart shaped renditions of ‘you’re my waterloo’ and ‘france’. First time I seen him cry: ‘tears and tears in his proud fathers coat’ ‘Death on the stairs’. Yes, I wrote ‘how can we..’ yes older sings it so magnificently. Now he’s stuck brogues nailed to conveyer belt and he’s screaming to come away: but the infastructure is there all behind and for him, appreciative, egging. Fat lines of coke courtesy of Rough Trade, or a Strokes guitarist, backstage passes and torments in the night. Bored, plain kids shyly approach us. wow oh scramble scramble. No, mum, I’m fine. Aaah. The nurse beckons me closer, she has watched me laughing crying, singing all day...sweet old Irish accent: ‘You’re no addict young man, they’ll mollycoddle you to death yet. Jesus you come away til I marry you. Be careful, look out now. There’s a hallful of bastards out there your friends. Just watch it now. Sing your little heart bare’. Carl. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, so truly, and I love you and I’m here.”

– Peter Doherty, forum post, 2003

“I know of people who’ll love me when I’m dead, they won’t call me those things then. It won’t matter, they’ll say ‘he was unhappy and he’s better off’. They’ll say ‘I knew him and I spent time with him’. They’re lying. There’s only one man who knows me, who spent time with me, and he doesn’t now. One man I love in this world. One man I respect. He cripples me now.”

- Peter speaking about Carl, Babyshambles.com, 2004

“Peter and my friendship has always been a very magical thing…with out meaning to sound a bit tossy….It was….Just the time we used to spend together and the things we used to do. We used to stand on Great Portland Street…there were these big floodlights, there were two… ‘What should we do today?’ ‘Let’s go to Great Portland Street and stand in the floodlights and pretend with our umbrellas and pretend to be statues and see if anyone notices’…and we used to literally go and do that. And like for the whole night we’d be like—*poses*. Fucking ridiculous! But yeah. And that’s nothing, we used to do a lot of pretending. It’s very liberating for the soul. I highly recommend it to anyone…I do love Peter so dearly. The thing about Peter, is that, ever since I first met him, he had this innate ability to just charm someone…Like to me he’d say: ‘I love you, you’re working class, but with a violent heart and a poetic temperament’. And I’d go, ‘wow, yeah, you really know me!’…But just that ability to sort of surmise people…and he’d do that…But um, where was I going with this? ….Just he’ll think of the tiny details that only a poet thinks of. He used to phone me up when he was miserable, when we were having one of our dramas. ‘Whatever. Ok, Pete, it’s fine. Where are you?’ And he’d go ‘In the rain!’ So endearing and so beautiful…The thing about Peter and I is that we’re both very old, very kindred souls. And for whatever we talk about, that’s kind of circumstantial. It’s like anything can happen. We could do anything. Individually, together, apart, to each other. But a conversation after six months, it’s the same thing. It’s euphoric…it’s…you know. I love Peter and …I think Peter loves me. A lot of times we don’t like each other, but the underlying thing is that love.”

– Carl Barat, There Are No Innocent Bystanders

“We’d spent years…writing little bits in songs to take a dig at each other, or say that we love each other. Just knowing each other would hear them and pick up on them.”

– Carl Barat, Distraction Pieces Podcast, 2016

“It’s a huge part of my life, all those years struggling with Carl. He was magic. He was a magical character for me. For a while, he was a bit of a myth. I idolized him, really. We had grand adventures…grand adventures.”

– Peter Doherty, Vogue Italia, 2010

“Boys like physical contact. If you enjoy physical companionship, romance, something tender, you just want it to be true. That’s Libertine-ism: no barriers, no borders, no fakers, no forgers. Pleasure is pleasure.”

– Peter Doherty, Attitude Magazine, 2002

“1997 I remember sitting on top of a tower block in bow and carl had that look in his eye he seized me screaming we should throw ourselves off together I had to knock him out and drag him down, `there`s nothing in this world for us` he`D say, `let`s shoot each other`.`lets shoot this shit up at the same time an drown in all eternity. no carl, it`ll be grand, lets keep going i love you I love you so much lets keep going `yeah lets keep going forever peter, til the very end` yeah til the end.”

– Peter Doherty, forum post, April 8th 2003.

“My heart melts that…[you] ask me about soulmates. Because you’re right, you know. It’s a beautiful thing that we should all believe in…Yeah, I missed my friend so much. I still don’t think we spend enough time together. And he’s my soulmate and I love him and that’s the truth…Something so pure and beautiful and true…They’re going to say a soulmate is a myth…[but] when they experience a soulmate then that’s what destroys the myth.”

– Peter Doherty on Carl Barat, Vice Magazine 2015

“There was someone who’d been so constant in my dreams and my thoughts and my memories and my hopes. Seeing that face … every time I thought about it I nearly passed out. I just wanted to hold my friend to make him feel better.”

– Carl Barat discussing meeting Peter upon his release from jail, NME 2003

“Carl: I actually used to sleep with a knife [in reference to the lyrics: “You’re the only lover I’ve had / Who slept with a knife”] Peter: Yeah, what’s strange is that he actually used to sleep with a knife.”

– Les In Rocks, September 2015

“His story with Carl was not finished of course. Pete: Ah, it is not…but it will never end. Everyone has someone in their life whom they love, but in some way or another, the relationship was abandoned by one of them, or by both of them. You become strangers and you realize that the person you love most in the world, you do not know them anymore.

Carl: We never separated…we separated, then we flirted a bit, and in 2010 we got back together, but we did not realize it. We were very uncertain about each other’s feelings. We only communicated through the press, granting interviews knowing that the other person would read them. I knew that I had to go see Peter, the friend that I love and that I missed, to know if this friend, and this friendship, still existed. It was terrifying, but I have been able to see things as they were, in all their beauty. My dear old friend, and my brother, with whom I grew up with in such an intense way.

Pete: I feel even closer to him than I did before…there is no one else who I connect with at this level. (With) Carl, I know that there are things that no one else can give. It’s strange, but he really knows me. I forgot that there was someone else on this planet who could understand me in this way, it is mysterious, but it is comforting and beautiful, and I’d never really realized it before.

Peter gives us a book to give Carl, writing a dedication on the page. It is “The Last Englishman”, the autobiography of AD Wintle.

Carl: On my part, there is nothing to forgive I think. I love him so much, he is like a brother, these are unconditional feelings.

Carl takes his mug into the adjacent album store, where with a stroke of luck, he immediately lands on an ideal gift to give back to Peter. It is the soundtrack to “Is Paris Burning?”, which Carl duly dedicates. “Perfect!” he says.”

– Peter and Carl’s separate interviews in Rock and Folk, October 2014.

“Do you want Peter to come back, to be honest? Carl: I do, of course I do (bursts into tears). Peter is the only person who I could trust for so long. I cannot express my feelings by words like ‘lonely’ or 'left behind’. It’s like something was suddenly scooped out from the inside of me….To tell you the truth, I have a twin brother who died when I was a child. And Peter would say to me, 'Even if no one stays with you in the future, I will never leave you, because I am the reincarnation of your lost twin brother.’ I still believe what he said then. And I believe that he will come back to me, no matter how long it will take.”

– Carl Barat, Rockin'on, September 2004

“I’m scared to share a microphone with him now because people say it’s a gimmick. Sometimes I do rush over [to the mic], but that’s only because after you have had a few drinks and smoked a certain amount you get that really nice smell on your breath. You know, like when your lover has got that winey, smoky taste. Not that Carl’s my lover…I'd rather toss off a frog.”

– Peter Doherty, Time Out Magazine, August 2015

#pete doherty #carl barat #pete and carl #the libertines #peter doherty

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welllpthisishappening · 7 years

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You Play Ball Like a Girl (42/?)

“Alright,” he said quietly, sitting up a bit straighter, like he was trying to muster some courage. “You want to do this now? We can do this now.” “Do what now?” Mary Margaret asked. “You’re not telling me what’s going on.”

David stood up quickly and raised his hand to someone on the other side of the restaurant. There was, suddenly, music in the background and Emma bit her lip tightly – mostly not to laugh, but also to stop herself from crying.

Also on Ao3 if that’s what you’re into and tag’ed up for your reading convenience on Tumblr.

The restaurant was absurdly fancy. Emma tried to turn her laugh into a cough as they walked in and Mary Margaret gasped quietly next to her.

“What is going on?” she asked, tugging on David’s shirt sleeve. “This isn’t supposed to be the fancy night.” Emma laughed out loud at that. “Oh my God, M’s, you did not just call your date the ‘fancy night’”

“What else am I supposed to call it?” “A date. Obviously.” “Guys,” David said quickly, pushing on both of their backs slightly. “You’ve got to actually walk into the restaurant. We’ve got a reservation.” Emma made a significant face at Mary Margaret and muttered fancy at her, earning a rather dramatic sigh. They walked in anyway and David moved towards the maitre de, talking about something that vaguely sounded like it included the words the plan .

“You know something,” Mary Margaret accused.

“I know absolutely nothing,” Emma objected. “Or mostly nothing.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” “It’s nothing, M’s.” “Mostly nothing.” “Come on,” David whined, glancing over his shoulder as they were led to their table. This was an absurdly fancy restaurant. Emma wondered quickly how David was actually planning on affording this – and, for one terrifying moment, thought she might actually have to pay for her part of this dinner – but he shot her a confident look, almost as if he was reading her mind.

She supposed it was easier to pay for the fancy dinner when you didn’t have to pay for the ring.

There was a bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket that Emma was certain was silver when they finally sat down at the table. Mary Margaret kept trying to catch her eye, but Emma kept her gaze trained firmly at her hands in her lap.

Mary Margaret would be able to read her and Emma was not about to mess this up.

David would kill her if she did.

Some member of the wait staff poured them champagne and Emma drank half her glass in one gulp. David coughed pointedly and she put the glass back on the table, making a face.

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” Mary Margaret said, voice matching the exasperated look on her face perfectly.

“Nothing,” Emma and David said in unison. That didn’t help their cause.

Mary Margaret raised her eyebrows and tilted her head in disbelief. “You’re both big, fat, liars. You know that right?” “I resent that implication, M’s,” Emma muttered, taking another drink of champagne.

“David,” she continued, staring at him.

“What?” “You going to continue to lie to me or you going to tell me what is going on?” He opened his mouth to answer her – likely to say nothing again – but Mary Margaret held up her hand. “If you say the word ‘nothing’ to me again David Michael Nolan, I will stab you in the arm with this very expensive salad fork.” Emma laughed – loudly and embarrassingly in this very expensive restaurant – and did her best to diffuse the situation. “No need to resort to violence, M’s,” she said quickly, glancing at David, who looked very nervous again. “How’s your dad doing? You haven’t said since the coup.” “It’s not a coup if it’s just another member of the same family taking over power,” Mary Margaret pointed out, eyes not leaving David’s face for a moment.

“That’s true. But, my question still stands, how’s your dad?” “Fine. He’s fine. You know who might not be fine though?”

Emma shrugged and bit her lip. This was not going according to plan. She wasn’t entirely certain what the plan was, but she was fairly positive this wasn’t it. “Who?” “You and David if you don’t tell me what’s going on.” No wonder Mary Margaret was such a good teacher – no one would ever dare break one of her rules. Emma looked at David again – now appearing almost in pain, slumping slightly in his very expensive restaurant chair – and he shook his head slowly.

Emma did her best to be encouraging.

It was cheesy and romantic and absurdly over-the-top. It was also so David and Mary Margaret, Emma could hardly believe this hadn’t happened before.

“What is happening?” Mary Margaret asked, slowly and softly. She knew. She just didn’t quite believe it yet.

David reached into his pocket and pulled out a box, gripping it tightly in his hand. He pushed the chair out of the way forcefully – Emma was nervous he was actually going to knock it over – and kneeled down in one quick motion, that always seemed much longer in movies.

Mary Margaret’s eyes widened – as big as saucers – and Emma totally wasn’t crying. Allergies. Or something. In this absurdly fancy restaurant.

“So, I kind of had a plan,” David said, looking up from his position on the floor. “But you’re also kind of impatient, so we’re deviating from the plan a little bit.” “I’m not impatient,” Mary Margaret objected. “I just wanted to know what was going on.” “Well, what is going on, if you haven’t figured out quite yet, is me asking you to marry me.” Mary Margaret sighed and Emma rubbed at her cheeks furiously, ignoring the mess of emotions she was practically drowning in. “Are you asking?” Mary Margaret said softly, tears falling down her cheeks as well.

“I figured the kneeling was a give away.” Mary Margaret tilted her head and David laughed softly, snapping open the ring box and earning another sigh as the light shone off the stone. “Is that…” Mary Margaret asked, slowly.

“My grandmother’s ring,” David answered, nodding. “Yeah. I, uh, I asked my mom for it when we were home for Christmas.”

“You’ve had that since Christmas?” “Yeah.” “And you’re only asking now?” David made some sort of noise that vaguely sounded like disbelief and Emma practically guffawed on the other side of the table. “M’s!” she hissed, nodding towards David who was still very much on the floor.

“Mary Margaret,” David said, seizing back control of the situation. “Can I ask now?” “Sure.” “I’ve wanted you to have this ring since I was 17 and I realized you were the most important person in the world. And the only person in the world who could probably deal with me for the rest of time. I’ve been carrying it around for weeks because I’ve been trying to work up the courage to actually do this. And also because I couldn’t get a reservation here until now.” “I didn’t need a reservation.” “You deserved one.” Mary Margaret’s shoulders drooped and she was bordering dangerously close to weeping now. Emma couldn’t really breathe.

“Mary Margaret,” David said, those earlier nerves all but gone in his voice. “Will you marry me?”

“What do you think?”

David opened his mouth – no doubt to request a slightly more concrete answer – but Mary Margaret didn’t give him the chance. She leaned forward and yanked on the front of his jacket, pulling him back up and standing to meet him.

And then she threw her arms around him and kissed him.

Emma absolutely did not cry.

She might have wept a bit.

But she didn’t cry.

The entire restaurant exploded into applause and Emma was certain neither one of her friends heard any of it, far too wrapped up in each other and their own happiness to care. And Emma was happy for them.

She absolutely was.

She was also something else – it wasn’t jealous, not really. It was more worried. Worried about what happened now. And where she would live once Mary Margaret and David got married. And what would happen to the three musketeers when two of them were legally tied to each other for the rest of their lives.

Emma made it through dinner with a – almost entirely genuine – smile on her face and she even posed for the photo of the three of them with Mary Margaret holding up the ring in the middle.

But then she got home.

And she walked into her room by herself and Emma was hit with such an incredible feeling of loneliness that she nearly buckled at the knees.

She was the worst friend in the world.

She couldn’t stay in that apartment, not that night, not when everything was going to change and she was terrified of being left on the outside looking in when it came to friends who loved each other and a boyfriend who didn’t live five blocks away anymore.

So, Emma did what she did best – she left a note on the counter and she ran, she was just a bit surprised by where she ended up.

It was nearly four in the morning by the time she stepped out of the cab and pressed the buzzer, belatedly hoping it was the right apartment.

No one answered at first and Emma pressed the button again, grimacing slightly at the noise in the background.

It was incredibly late. Or early.

There was silence for a few more moments before Emma heard a voice on the other end. “What?” he snapped through the intercom.

“Hey,” she said, too tired to come up with another word.

“Swan?”

Killian sounded much more awake now. Emma pulled her lips behind her teeth and nodded, knowing full-well he couldn’t see her. “Yeah,” she said. “Hey. Again.”

The buzzer sounded quickly and Emma yanked open the door, hitting the elevator button. He had told her what floor – God, what was the floor. Six. It was totally six. She hoped it was six.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open slowly and Emma looked up, coming face-to-face with a very shirtless, very pants-less, underwear-only Killian Jones.

“Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?” Emma asked, standing stock still in the elevator.

“Why are you here?” “Didn’t answer my question.” “Didn’t answer mine.” Emma sighed. “David and Mary Margaret got engaged. Like a couple of hours ago.” Killian blinked at her for three seconds before taking a step towards her, half in the elevator and half out, before he kissed her softly, letting the ends of her hair fall through his fingers before his hand landed on the ring underneath her shirt.

He pulled away and smiled at her – and it was so absurdly nice that Emma almost started to weep again. Killian reached his hand up and grabbed her bag off her shoulder, slinging it over his own and lacing Emma’s fingers with his.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly. “I missed you.” Emma closed her eyes softly, smiling and realizing she had run exactly where she belonged.

“You’re not a bad person, you know,” Killian said softly.

Emma jerked slightly, rolling onto her back and silently wondering how he had even realized she was awake. “You were breathing faster than normal,” he said, meeting her gaze easily. He still hadn’t put a shirt on. Or pants. “I was nervous you were going to start hyperventilating.” “That’s weird.” “Romantic.” “Tell yourself that.”

“I’m pretty certain I just told you that.”

Emma sighed and rolled her eyes, head flopping back on the pillow dramatically. Killian grinned at her. “You going to actually tell me why you showed up on my doorstep at four this morning? Or should I try and figure that out too?” “If you can figure out when I wake up and when I don’t, then I bet you can figure this one out too.” “I’d like to actually hear it from you.” “Not happy to see me?” Emma was – mostly – teasing, but she wasn’t sure Killian had picked up on the joke. He stared at her, eyes serious – and absurdly blue – and pushed his lips together tightly.

“That is not even close to what is happening,” he said slowly, hand trailing up her thigh and giving her goosebumps.

“What is happening?” “You’re not telling me why you’re here,” he muttered, lips ghosting over her jaw. Emma bit back a sigh. “Although I am very glad that you are here.” “Yeah?” she said breathlessly – embarrassingly breathless.

“I could prove it if you want.”

Emma felt like she had an electric current running through every single one of her veins – and maybe her arteries, she wasn’t very good at biology – and bit her lip tightly. “That does sound good,” she said softly.

He smirked at her and raised one eyebrow slowly. “Just good?” “You’re the one who wanted answers.” “So give ‘em.” “Right now?” Emma sighed. He moved his hand and pulled his face back, both eyebrows up now and that absolutely ridiculous smirk practically plastered on his face.

“If you want.” She rolled her eyes, but she gasped when h is fingers trailed back up her body and toyed with the chain around her neck, moving the ring up and down slowly as he lifted his eyes back up at her. “You’re a bit all over the place this morning, aren’t you love?” “I’m tired.” “You can go back to sleep you know,” he said. “You don’t have to be to the Garden until later, right?” “We should probably talk.” He made a face, twisting his mouth slightly in impressed surprise. “Emma Swan willing to talk? What’s the occasion?” “David and M’s got engaged.” “And you ended up here.”

“That ok?” Emma asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” Emma tried to shrug, something that proved rather difficult while still laying down – not to mention Killian’s hand firmly resting on her collarbone.

“I don’t know,” she said tensely. “Just making sure. It was early. Or late. You know, depending on your point of view.” “My point of view is that I wanted you here,” Killian answered, tugging lightly on the chain as if to prove his point. “No matter what time it is. I’m just worried about you.” “Why?” That eyebrow needed to stop. He needed to stop. “Swan,” he said strongly, tugging again. “Eventually you’re going to have to believe that I actually want you around, indefinitely. I don’t want you to run – from anything – but if you are, I’m pretty happy to have you running towards me.” Emma pushed her head farther into the pillow, trying not to swoon so early in the morning. Instead she pulled her body closer to Killian’s and wrapped her hand around his neck, resting her forehead on his.

“I just...wanted you.” His answering smile would have stopped traffic in the middle of Times Square. “You can’t just say things like that, Swan,” he muttered, repeating the words she had told him so many times.

“Why not?” “Because I’ll never let you out of bed.”

Emma’s stomach flipped and she tried to move her body farther into the mattress. She failed. Instead, she just pushed her legs up against Killian's, working a groan out of him that her considering staying in bed all day.

“Swan,” he said sharply, grabbing her thigh. “You’ve got to stop that if you actually want to talk.” “We could talk later.” He shook his head against the pillow. “Nuh huh. You offered to talk. I’m seizing this opportunity when I can.” “I told you, they got engaged.” “You know,” he said slowly. “I seem to remember having this conversation with you months ago, love. We talked about the ring and the engagement and that whole idea of some sort of future.” “And now it’s happening.” “The future’s not anything to be afraid of, Swan.” “I’m not a big fan of change.” “Nothing is changing.” “Everything is changing,” Emma cried, nearly yelling the words in his face. “And I am not coping very well. I was mad, Killian. I was actually mad about them getting engaged! My two best friends in the entire world, the people who have been with me through everything and I was mad about their happiness. They followed me to New York. They made sure I had friends in Storybrooke. M’s refuses to let me starve and I was mad that she was going to get married and leave me.” “Mary Margaret isn’t leaving you,” he objected. “David isn’t either.” “It feels like that.” “You’re allowed to be upset, Swan. It isn’t surprising that you are.” “I am a horrible person.”

“As previously mentioned, you are not a horrible person.”

“I really was mad.” “I know you were, love,” Killian said, toying with the ends of Emma’s hair again. “But it’s not going to all be bad just because it’s changing.” “I’ve yet to experience a change that isn’t bad.” Killian sighed and Emma knew he realized what she meant – she was dancing around him and them and other changes she wasn’t particularly coping with very well.

“Mary Margaret would understand,” he continued. “She’s probably texted you ten times already, wondering where you went and making sure you’re ok.” “I left a note.” “Ten text messages at least.” “Yeah probably,” Emma admitted.

“They’re not going to kick you out of their lives.” “But they’re going to have lives.” “I don’t follow.” Emma bit her tongue forcefully, hard enough to hurt – so she wouldn’t say something that she’d regret. Like divulge deep, personal information and childhood fears that had lingered for the last 28 years of her life.

It hurt.

Her tongue and the worries.

“I think we’ve moved well beyond the secrets stages, don’t you?” Killian asked, one side of his mouth pulled into a sad smile. “You can talk to me.” “I don’t know that you really want to know.” His hand dropped back to the ring around her neck – like he was reminding her what he’d given her, what he had shared and promised – and Emma got a bit of courage she didn’t ever think she’d have.

She nodded once, psyching herself up and started to talk.

“They’re going to get married and get an apartment and maybe move out of Manhattan. And they’ll settle into lives , real lives, picture-perfect lives that’ll have kids and PTA meetings and M’s will bake for every occasion. And it’ll be so painfully adorable and wonderful. It’s all going to happen. That’s what they’ve been waiting for their entire lives. David told M’s he knew he wanted to marry her when he was 17. Seventeen, can you even imagine?” “I was a bit preoccupied with baseball when I was 17,” Killian answered, smiling softly at Emma. “Can’t say I was planning a wedding.” “They were! Or at least considering it. Because they knew. They knew then that this is what their lives would end up.” “I’m missing the part where this makes you a horrible person, Swan. Or where it’s something I wouldn’t want to know.” “I’m jealous,” Emma admitted softly, the words cutting into her heart. She grimaced at him, eyes meeting Killian’s slowly. “So jealous my whole body hurts. That’ll happen for them because that’s who David and M’s are, but that’s not who I am.” “You don’t know that,” Killian answered. His hands hadn’t stopped moving once, tracing over every inch of her skin as if he were trying to keep her talking.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.” “You’re very certain. Things happen, love, change happens, but it isn’t always bad. And just because Mary Margaret and David have settled into their lives, doesn’t mean you automatically have to settle into yours.”

“You’re missing my point,” Emma said, straining over every single syllable. Killian shrugged. “I want that life. I want that with...it doesn’t matter. It won’t happen.” Emma’s breath stuttered in her throat for a moment – she had almost said I want that with you , before cutting herself off. Killian stared at her speculatively, waiting for her to continue and sighing slightly when she didn’t.

“Nothing’s set in stone, love.”

“Feels like it.”

Killian sighed again and Emma could see the realization hit him. “Hey,” he said softly, lifting her chin up with his thumb. “I’m glad you’re here. I want you here. Just about always.”

“Just about?” “Well, I didn’t want to come off as an overly emotional stalker.”

Emma let out a laugh – mixed with much more emotion than she was expecting this early in the morning or this soon after waking up – and smiled at him. “I just don’t want to be by myself again,” she whispered softly.

“You’re not,” Killian said. It sounded like a promise. “Not ever again.” “You can’t just say things like that,” she muttered, closing her eyes, and heard Killian laugh before he pressed a kiss on her head.

“What if I mean it?” “I’d try really hard to believe you in this apartment that isn’t five blocks away from mine.” “Change isn’t always bad, love. The future isn’t something to be afraid of. You just have to trust me.” “You really think that can work?” “You don’t think so?” Killian asked and Emma’s whole body felt heavy with the sadness in his voice.

“I’m not sure.” “I guess it’s even worse than I thought.”

“How so?” Emma whispered.

“You don’t trust me.” “I want to. A lot. And I do, mostly. But I also know you’re in Boston and I’m in New York and you left , Killian. And now M’s and David are going to leave eventually. And once they do, once that future starts, everything is different.” “We’re not different, Swan.” “A little bit.” “Evolving,” he said, doing his best to smile.

“I do trust you,” Emma said softly, hand pressed flat against Killian’s chest. She felt his breath stutter underneath her. “I just...I want…” He wrapped his fingers around Emma’s hands and stared at her. “Me too.” “Yeah?” “Enough to make you run away in an emotional outburst of overwhelming romance.” Emma let out another shaky laugh and scrunched her face slightly. “Hey, this time I ran to you.”

“I know you did, love. I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

“You could get a bit more sleep, Swan,” he said. “It’s still early enough.” “Or I could not do that.” His smile inched across his face as slowly as his hand trailed down her spine. Emma was fairly certain she had goosebumps everywhere . “What exactly did you have in mind, love?” Emma gripped his shoulders tightly, pulled her body flush against his and kissed Killian as hard as she possibly could. The future might be absolutely terrifying and overwhelming and absolutely uncertain, but the present was going to be a lot of fun.

Emma hated Boston.

She hated the crisscrossed streets and the cobblestones and the accents. She hated the obsession with Dunkin Donuts and ducks and anyone whose last name was Adams. She hated the memories of this city more than she ever would have thought she could.

And yet...she loved her job.

Emma was more exhausted than she had ever been in her entire life since taking over the Knicks beat, but she was good at it and – ridiculous video filmings aside – she was enjoying every single minute of it.

There was something to be said for being the only girl on press row, the only dress in the locker room and the only New York reporter who got personally acknowledged by three quarter of the Knicks roster.

So, Emma hated Boston – despised it with every fiber of her being – but she was good at what she did. Really good.

And she was happy.

Legitimately happy in Boston.

Surprise.

Emma got off the T and raced down the station steps, tugging her bag up on her shoulder and hoping she was going the right direction.

This city never made sense.

She glanced around the block – the same street she had shown up on the night before – and walked down the sidewalk, pressing the button on the apartment building intercom when she realized she was in the right spot.

He didn’t say anything, just buzzed her into the building and Emma made a face as she pulled the door back behind her. She tapped her foot impatiently as the elevator moved up and walked down the hallway towards Killian’s front door.

It was locked.

Emma shook the lock slightly and sighed, moving back to knock on the door. “Killian!” she said, leaning back to lean on the doorframe. “You want to maybe let me in?” The door swung open and Emma gaped at him slightly. His hair was a disaster , sticking up in every single direction, and he was still in gym clothes – a Red Sox t-shirt on with black shorts. She bit back a laugh.

“You ok?” Emma asked, still leaning on the door.

“You’re early.” “Fast writer,” she shrugged.

“Should have taken that into consideration when planning.” “Planning?”

Killian nodded, smiling at Emma with so much enthusiasm that it actually caught her by surprise. He swung the door open even wider and that surprise settled into every corner of Emma’s being.

There were candles – actual candles – and a tablecloth and, well, a table. That hadn’t been there when she left for her game.

She could smell the onion rings as soon as she walked in, dropping her bag in the corner and stepping out of her heels.

“Your whole apartment is going to smell like onion rings for days,” Emma muttered.

Killian glanced down at Emma out of the corner of his eye and smiled. “I’m willing to take that risk.” “What’s going on?” “I made food.” “There’s a tablecloth.” “I made fancy food.” “Fancy food?” Emma laughed, nudging her shoulder into his. “Onion rings are fancy food now?”

“They’re name-brand.” Emma was certain her smile took up more than half of her face. She shook her head slowly and walked around Killian until she was facing him – back turned towards the living room and the brand-new table.

“You didn’t have to do all of that,” she said, putting her hands flat on his t-shirt.

“I wanted to.” “Why?”

Killian sighed and pulled Emma’s hands down, wrapping his fingers around hers. “You’re really asking that?” She shrugged. “I think I just did.” “It’s Valentine’s Day, Swan.” “So?” “Aren’t you supposed to do something vaguely romantic on Valentine’s Day? Aren’t those the rules?” “I honestly have no idea.” “Well, this is the vaguely romantic,” he said, nodding back towards the living room. “Complete with onion rings.” “Romance would be nothing without onion rings.” “Of course.” “I didn’t do anything though,” Emma said softly, resting her forehead on Killian’s shoulder.

“That’s not true.” She made a noise in the back of her throat and shook her head. “It’s not,” Killian continued. “You’re here. You came here. In the middle of the night. If that’s not vaguely romantic, then I don’t know what is.” “You think running away is romantic? That’s kind of a twisted outlook.” “No, that’s not what I’m saying.” “What are you saying then?” “You came here , Swan. To...well...to me.”

Killian looked at her, brushing Emma’s hair off her shoulders and wrapping one hand around the back of her neck. “I missed you,” Emma mumbled. It was the first time she had admitted that out loud and she could almost feel the metaphorical weight lift off her shoulders. He smiled at her and kissed her softly. “That so?” he said, barely moving away from her lips.

“Yeah.” The buzzer on the oven went off and the two of them jumped away from each other as if they had been shocked. Emma sighed. “Sorry, love,” Killian said, laughing softly and turning away to pull the onion rings out before they burned. “You hungry?”

“Starved.” “No good food at the Garden?” “I try not to eat at games. It’s never good food.” “That is true.” “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” “Do you miss it?” Killian stared at Emma, taking a step towards her and tugging on her hand as he pulled her towards the couch. They sank down and Emma noticed that he didn’t let go of her hand once they sat down.

“Of course,” he said simply. “But this isn’t that bad. Plus, having you here makes it a bit better too.” “I won’t be here forever though.” “I know that,” he sighed.

His shoulders dropped and he stared at her feet. Emma suddenly felt something – so strong and so sure that out of all of the things that had surprised her in the last few hours, this one practically made her whole head spin.

She could do this.

She could trust him.

She did.

“Hey,” Emma whispered. Killian’s head snapped towards hers and he raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Listen for a sec.” “What?”

“I um...I believe you.” “I don’t understand, Swan.” “I believe you,” Emma repeated. “And, well, I understand.” “That so? Because I’m still not sure that I do.” Emma sighed and made a face. She wasn’t good at this. “I get why you had to leave. And it wasn’t fair for me to get so upset. I wrote the book on running away. But I believe you. This can still work.” Killian’s mouth ticked up and his eyes practically flashed at her. “I know it can.” “I trust you.” He didn’t say anything, just smiled at her and moved so quickly he was kissing her before Emma had even blinked. She pulled herself closer to him, wrapping her arms around Killian’s neck and trying to pour every single one of her emotions into the movement.

“That’s all I wanted,” he said softly.

“That’s all?” “Well, what I wanted most,” Killian laughed.

“Sorry it took so long to catch up.” “As previously discussed, Swan, I would have waited as long as it took.” “I want it. A lot,” Emma said softly.

She didn’t say anything – didn’t actually use the word future – but she knew that Killian understood what she meant. And she knew that he wanted it too – even if he ran away to Boston.

Because she ran away too – to him.

“It might not be easy, Swan,” Killian said, hands moving up and down her arm slowly.

Emma shrugged. “Not much ever is.” “And you’re good with that?” “If you are, then so am I.” “I am,” Killian said and the confidence in his voice was enough to give Emma goosebumps. “It might not be Mary Margaret and David levels of perfection, love, but I think it’ll be worth it. I hope so, at least.

“You are,” Emma answered. Killian’s eyes widened and Emma felt his breath hitch before he smiled at her.

“So are you.” “Hence the name-brand onion rings.”

“Of course,” Killian nodded, laughing quietly. “And the grilled cheese.” “There’s grilled cheese too?” “There will be eventually.” “You’re something else.” “Good?” “Even better,” Emma assured him.

“You’re not going to be alone, love,” Killian said softly. “Not again. I promise.”

He kissed her again and Emma couldn’t find a single reason to doubt him.

#cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #cs au #ypblag #not quite as many words but like a ridiculous amount of FEELINGS

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outfromunderthegaslight · 7 years

Text

Bitter Sweet Comes in the Morning

Last night I spent hours weeping. Not the kind of pretty tears that you see slowly pouring from girls eyes in the movies. The kind of grief that causes your whole body to shake without warning or explanation; stricken with sadness is a very real and horribly tangible thing. Sometimes the body’s response to extreme abuse comes over me like a plague. It seeps into the marrow of my bones like cancer. It’s not a good look for anyone, much less a lady. In those moments which seem to occur further and further apart from the last, I have this terribly dark though: Josh is still present in my roots. No matter how much my tree will blossom, no matter what good fruits or lovely flowers I produce. He still has destroyed a very deep part of my being.

I can’t decide if admitting that shows great strength or immense weakness. I suppose that like all things, perspective and time will shed light on both the weeds and the flowers in my little garden of life. I find great irony in the moments of my darkening hour, that my ex must have also been in a particularly dark spot for at 1:00 AM last night with I was crying myself to sleep he finally agreed to sign and proceed with paperwork for the divorce. Talk about a joy comes in the morning kind of day. It’s funny that I almost feel bad for something so long coming to actually maybe have closure. I have certainly moved on with my life, but having a looming indefinite portion was definitely the cause for some misunderstood, creeping below the surface stress.

Sometimes I feel completely happy and as carefree as Gene Kelley from “Singing in the Rain.” Other days, I can’t seem to muster enough motivation to put pants on, much less to dance. When I said “I Do” I didn’t think of it as a command for my own death sentence. I may as well have said, “I Will.” I Will forfeit years of my life to a boy who does not and will not know how to love me for all of me. I Will lie to my former self for years and make excuses for manipulation claiming that it is love and protection. Unbeknownst to me, I Will redefine for several years what health and happiness look like. I Will forget how much they once suited me. I Will deny the fact that my ex was unfaithful to me with countless girls. The multitudes of testimonies and his confessions and what I saw with my own two eyes diminished to a fairytale I thought or was made to think or maybe wanted to believe was the truth. I Will live in a false reality contrived to the point that even to this day, the details are all a little on the murky side. I will be broken down to the point that dear friends and family do not recognize who I have become.

I didn’t think it was possible to get to where I am. I swore that if I loved you and if you loved me that our love would be enough to weather any sort of storm. I truly thought that my “I Do” meant more to you than two words you would twist to shape and fill the darkest needs you had. The fact that I gave you my heart is a gut-wrenching reality, You put me through a fucking meat grinder and remade my soul into something easy for you to palette. Just so you could chew me up and spit me right out. I like to think that I grieved and moved on, but the truth of the matter is that your words and actions still very much have a terrible power over me. The kind of grasp that chokes me to tears. The kind of hold that truly sucks the life right out of me. Clarity of mind and word obliterated. I’m rarely at an extreme loss for words. If I’m being honest, I usually have enough thoughts and feelings to fill a novel. My reassurance is the hardest thing to admit that you snatched from the pit of my soul and replaced it with your most powerful weapon: self-doubt.

It didn’t happen over night. I didn't lose my fire with one heaping bucket of watery turmoil. It began with ember by ember being scorched and buried. For I was the one who buried my pride. Buried my opinions. But most of all, I hid away any and all of my wants and needs for absolute fear that if I were to give you my heart once more, you would surely do what you had done time and time again. Habits take time to form. I tried for years to give you my heart and show you my world. But it did not lead to a magic carpet ride. Instead, it led to my feminine being ground into the carpet so many times until I forgot.

I forgot how to love and be loved. I am truly remorseful that I took my wants and needs and dreams to other people. I am sorry that I stopped going on adventures with you. I am not and will not ever be sorry or regret my choice to leave you. You were never going to change and you proved to me that I was not worth it to you. I was not worth your time or your energy. Maybe it’s because you knew you had lost that privilege years ago. And that was by your own conscious or self-conscious doing. Maybe you really are crazy. Maybe you truly can’t help your own mental insanity. The psychologist's evaluation would certainly lead me to believe that as the reality. Did you know that I didn’t even read your evaluation in its entirety for over 6 months after you gave it to me? Maybe it was because I didn’t want to believe the truth that I knew to be so deep within my bones. Or maybe it was because, then, like now, you are not worth my time. In some ways, I wish I had been able to hold onto the anger that consumed my heart. It was much easier remaining angry as opposed to actually processing the truth.

The truth is that try as I might fix myself, to be a little bit better for you, to be enough for you, that I nor any other man or woman in the world would be either. For your sake, I wish that was not the case. I pity what you have become and truly wish you joy. But here’s where the sheep are separated from the lambs, where the men are distinguished from the boys; two halves do not make a whole: two whole people make a whole person. You were sick, you were not whole. My very best would never change that. And although I can acknowledge that now it does not change the conditioning to strive for perfection and never be good enough for you. You made that crystal clear. My truth was never enough, my lies were never enough, my work was never enough, myself was never enough because of you, yourself were never enough.

THat’s a bitter pill to swallow and a hard tea to let steep. I am not playing the victim card although if I am going to be completely real in this open letter the victim is what I am. the victim is what you made me into. I wept last night not just because of words you said to me, but because of truths, I was made to believe. I, unfortunately, had a hard time opening up about my wants and needs because you made me feel worthless for ever acknowledging those things. I was crumpled in a ball because someone wanted me to believe something I knew in my heart not to be true. I will never be force-fed a false reality even when it’s easier to nod and smile than to fight and have my body go into full shutdown mode. That I still have triggers like that. To that degree pains me deeply. But it is a kind reminder of why I went through hell and back to leave you.

Thank God for that. Who knows where I would be now. Maybe I never would have found and reformed the girl I once was into the woman I am now. That my dear is far scarier than an inconvenience I am experiencing now. I do still show the heartache of going through abuse. Sometimes I try to tell myself things that if they had run a different course would still allow for us to be together, although, after a taste of what it’s really like to love and be loved, even those changes wouldn’t matter. Because deep down, you would still be you. There’s far too much hurt there, far too much poison in the well to ever drink from again. I acknowledged that on Feb. 15th, 2015. Maybe and hopefully you accepted the same today.

So with all that said and so much left unsaid, cheers to our pending divorce. May you never have to go through what you put me through.

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sunflowertr · 7 years

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When at a loss for what to do…

1. Do what you know HOW to DO. 2. Remember what you KNOW to be TRUE. 3. Find something NEW for YOU.

I like to explore ALL my options. So much so, that it has become a joke in our family. If you want something researched like a dog with a bone, than I am your go-to-gal for turning what could simply fit onto a 3 x 5 card into a 16-page official document.

Ideas are my hobby. And fleshing out new options is my-kinda-fun.

But unfortunately, all this “what if?” or “maybe this!” ends up being time-consuming. And confusing. And life-sucking.

So after spending months and months and months, exploring (and testing) all possible courses that my career/life could take, I recently came to a few conclusions.

1. Do what you know HOW to do.

Why is it that often the most logical, suitable solution is sitting there right beneath our nose?

The thing I know best HOW to do is capture and spread beauty. This has been my official mission statement since 2001. How did I lose sight of my passion?

I was so busy looking for that new “thing” I was supposed to do, that it drew my away from the real thing I already KNOW how to do.

And for me, that real thing is to shoot not-so-good photos of beauty. NOT for Instagram or Facebook — but rather — with the express purpose of turning that snapshot of time into a painting.

A painting which documents the fact that there is still a lot of good in this world. A painting which can breathe a feeling of hope, peace, and happiness into a room.

Simple for me. Life-giving to my soul. And often a way to inspire others.

YOUR real thing probably won’t be painting. If it were — you probably would not be reading this blog — you probably wouldn’t even be on the internet because you would be blissfully lost in the chaos of your work right now. Not even knowing what day or time it was. Or when you had last eaten.

YOUR real thing… might be embracing the messy season of parenting life. With the express purpose of turning 2, or 3, or 4 (or more!) little pliable souls into first little —and then later — bigger little-people. Real people who grow up to be kind, and compassionate, and capable adults. People who do things that the world needs done. People who reflect all the good things they learned from you while they were growing up.

YOUR real thing… might be driving a truck across town, or across the country. Driving important things, to the places they need to be. On time. And without incident. Because that is what YOU know, and that is how you support your family. And along the way you have time to think and dream and listen. And SEE so many things that nobody else will ever have the chance to even know about.

YOUR real thing… might be hard, and boring, and thankless, but also RIGHT for this season of life.

Aren’t most REAL things basically just that? Full of lots of effort that feels hard, and boring, and thankless. But at the end of the day, isn’t it the REAL thing that we are intentionally doing (and viewing for what it is — the RIGHT thing) the ONE thing that best makes us sleep soundly, with a satisfied heart?

2. Remember what you KNOW to be TRUE.

Why does this sound so easy to do, yet so often the last thing we fall back on?

This year, at the suggestion of a dear friend, I have been writing down a sentence or two every morning. A thought or verse that has caught my heart from the devotional reading that I begin my day with.

WOW.

This one small practice, which only consumes about 10 minutes of my time, has been a game-changer for me the past two months. Who would have thought?!!

Here is what I wrote down last week. On Wednesday. In very messy, almost illegible handwriting…

*Isaiah 38* Hezekiah was going to die. He prayed to God to remember his faithfulness and “WEPT BITTERLY.” God heard him & said “I will add 15 years to your life. As a SIGN — I will turn back THE SHADOWS & make them go back the 10 steps they have already gone down on the stairway of Ahaz.” So HE did! God made shadows go backwards! “I have heard your prayers and seen your tears…”

[That was just my unedited paraphrase. For the actual verses, check out Isaiah 38 which talks about how God heard the bitter weeping of a man and then answered his cries.]

I am not sure this story has such a happy ending, but I was reminded of something I already know to be TRUE, but need to be reminded of. Through it ALL, the God who was powerful enough to reverse the shadows, was WITH Hezekiah.

In regards to all the soul-searching and angst that seems to have made up the better part of my adult life — and besides the part about God reversing the literal shadows on the ground— here was my other favorite thought from that chapter.

Isaiah 38:17 “Surely it was for my benefit that I suffered such anguish. In your love you kept me from the pit of destruction; you have put all my sins behind your back.

Since I DO believe the Bible to be a true document, with the power to change lives (sorry if that totally weirds you out!) I need to figure out a way to pour more of this TRUTH into my life. Period.

So. To both you AND to me, I say this…

Remember what you KNOW to be true; remember what you know to be good. And STOP listening to the distractions which are so strong and so everywhere that they are almost impossible to block out!

Phillipians 4:8 “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable–if anything is excellent or praiseworthy–think about such things.”

3. Find something NEW for YOU.

I did something crazy a few months ago. I joined a class in which I am the only white person. And also, the only person below the age of 60 (65+???) I am not sure why I did this, but I felt a voice inside me was saying I should go. And do something different. Because it was an opportunity that so few will ever get the chance to experience.

At first, it was the most uncomfortable thing I have ever done. But at the very same time — the most eye-opening, interesting, love-filled place I have been in years.

In my often too-driven mind, “I do not have time…” for a weekly, noon-day class. That being said, this crazy NEW thing has been the oasis for my parched, dry soul.

The class asks nothing of me, other than to show up for an hour. And be loved. I am not even sure why.

Except, I DO know why. In my head, I know there is a LOVE that can transcend race and age and gender. But until I jumped into this crazy new thing, I have never experienced it so deeply before. A love and unity that has no other explanation than this one true thing. We are all part of the same spiritual family.

Only YOU can find your NEW good thing. And if you can’t figure it out yourself, find some idea-factory like myself and ask them for a thought or two. There has got to be at least one something-simple you can squeeze into your week, or month, or year that is a good NEW thing for you.

Maybe a book club?

Taking an online class in something that has always interested you?

Hanging out at the dog park on Sunday afternoons to meet people who you would never otherwise cross paths with?

Walking with a neighbor?

Volunteering?

Making a concerted, documented effort to eat one new kind of food every week?

No matter what it is for YOU, I can attest that this crazy good NEW thing I am in the middle of, has been life-giving to my soul. It has taken me out of my sometimes dreary but still comfortable safety zone and dumped a clean, cold bucket of refreshing perspective into my week.

Bam. Done. There you go. Three easy steps to solving ALL of Life’s problems. In a nutshell. (Ha-ha! If ONLY life were so easy…)

“May we all listen closely for direction — but never let the weight of the wait, become that which we allow to crush us.”

— Ancient Proverb

[ Just kidding. I totally made that quote up! (See… I gotta stick to my Real Thing.) ]

MY “Real Thing” is painting.

Which is what I did last week. And THAT, is when and WHY, the painting at the top of this post was created.

So at least for now, I am getting back to painting in a more focussed way. Taking something seriously that I am ALREADY good at. And even though I have no plan (yuck) for what purpose this continued effort of love may have, I will continue to do what I know how to do. At least until somebody tells me otherwise.

If you would like to have a copy of my painting “True”— to remind you to think about what is TRUE for you — feel free to download my March desktop calendar by clicking on the image above.

Warmly,

Marie Scott Painter of beauty. Even if it is just for me; for now.

www.remembergoodness.com

A new painting for March. And a few ideas on “what to do when you don’t know what to do.” When at a loss for what to do... 1. Do what you know HOW to DO.

#Art #blog #business #Christianity #creativity #design #faith #inspiration #Life #lifestyle #miscellaneous #Personal #pictures #reflections #relationships #religion #thoughts #Women

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