#of my head) (i miss your hard edges i miss your bone marrow)

[oatbugs]

i can feel every single nerve and organ and bone inside my body. an exercise in emptiness: what will the next thought in your head be?

#i feel like im going insane . went in the psych department w my friend again i decided to stop hating it for no reason except that its not #maths . why the fuck dont you study ? because the module name starts with a PS ? i need to love it without #feeling shame for myself . i feel like im gonna get into trouble with my university for prying open locked automatic doors at 1 AM but its #alright (that building is haunted anyway). its not about him but it is but it really isnt its about everything it means its about the way i #cant cry for myself the way i used to its the sadness and happiness and that im turning 20 soon and im going a little insane but im shocked #that i still have friends i love im shocked that i am loved im shocked that i dont feel disgusted thinking about him yet #(and ill look for a man to turn me into a hare just like you did when you did what you did) #when alt j 3ww said . f5 f6 f6 f5 f5 #i constantly feel like my chest is about to explode and i have no idea why its a physical pain its great and also horrible #id like to rip out my ribcage and put a bird and some flowers inside it id like to rip out my sternum and pierce the thoughts with it #4 43 AM i have an exam about brains i stared at a vintage photo of a brain pinned and labelled i learned the names and positions of sulci #im learning about magic (action potentials) and gates inside your brain and every day i learn how hard your body tries to keep you alive #(his lips turn sharp when he smiles) (choking on flowers and music and fear) (feel every feeling inside my throat feel metal at the back #of my head) (i miss your hard edges i miss your bone marrow) #hypothesis : perhaps if i put my lips on someone elses lips and i dont let go of them for a few hours ill be okay #needle (sharp like the spice in what i made you) shooting 5 mg of haldol straight into the hypothalamus . gave myself a concussion and #since that night my head has been blooming . the violin today felt like liquid gold . moderato - spiritoso - the bow turned my heart inside #out . id like to scream and i have no idea why but one day i will turn my vertebrae into a bouquet of flowers for you all. #yesterday my boy with the beautiful hair looked at me and held me tight enough that i heard his heartbeat (or maybe it was mine) #for a second or two and i wish i could lean on him for this except his heart has been crushed by the mathematician discerning eyes #for a while and a half . #dyed your hair red i dyed your hair brown youre on my bed and your hand touches my hand and every day i am amazed by the way your mind #turns my guts and my heart inside out #for a second or two and i wish i could lean on his bony shoulders for this except his lungs have filled with water #for a while and a half . dyed your hair red i dyed your hair brown youre on my bed i stare at the grace of her hands you are evidence #that angels and pomegranate seeds and create the economist of our dreams . game theory and good actions by any other name . #she makes the sound the sea makes knee deep in the north sea

[joeys-piano]

Tagged by @voxofthevoid, who usually tags me in writing games when I feel a sort of way with my writing. It's happened twice so far, not including this time, so I feel something. I hope you don't mind the whiplash because I'm going off of my most recent works, and I've written for 5 different fandoms in the past 6 months.

Soft tagging: @fellshish, @sid3buns, @boinin, @kryptalia, @chenqing9, @heymacareyna

Rules: Post your favourite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.

To the Marrow, To the Bone | Blue Lock

“Guys like us…” Isagi pauses, and then he swallows. “The only thing that makes it better is to win the game, and prove them wrong.” And to show them, he doesn’t say that but it’s evident at his mouth. Him pressing edges of a broken nail against his lips now to cool the sting, him pulling away as he’s out of bed to feel the world beneath his feet. “And there’s no other option – ”

But that’s not true.

He thinks one of his ribs has shrunken in, like a ball and chain for a smaller heart than the one fighting inside his chest. Because he breathes in—all he smells is a brand new football from a shelf. And it’s on his clothes, on his bed, on his pillow, within the padding, on the heavy lurch of him trying to walk, and irrefutably in his mouth. He can swipe it across his lips. It’s in his organs, blood and bones. It’s the cover box to a thousand puzzles pieced together when he’s on the pitch. Because in Blue Lock, you start in the middle. But in Ichinan you start at the edge, and once the border is in you build the next one as you meander towards the centre.

Where the Book Ends, It’s Hard to Say | OHSHC

And so it goes that every fairytale had a beginning, middle, and end.

The doors had opened; the doors were closed. The guests arrived; the guests were home. The play was had; the play was done. The hosts were princes, and now there were none.

As Fire Tempers Steel, So Too Does The Cloth | Blue Eye Samurai

Safer still was a battered inn, battered safekeep, a single room, about as wide as one tatami if someone lied to you about the length.

Behind the checkpoint to old Kyoto, these sprung up as the shrines do. Twenty steps in—there’s an inn. Upon thirty others—then there’s two. One could pilgrim the forty stations of rickety rooftops above their heads before every stray line turns to one. Old Kyoto, there at the end. If you can manage it: sunken floorboards, nothing softer than your flesh, a row of strangers sent to rooms where even two of you was just too much, and there is no guarantee you’ll survive here after a single meal off the bone, a missing coin or two, someone fights, pray the sutra: and survive the night. Yet safer still was to wake up with a stranger inside your breath, tongue for tongue trying to bite you before they lose you for a ghost; but even easier was to wake up beneath a cedar or its limb.

Buoyancy | Link Click

“I’m taller.”

“So you are.”

“And so are you.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Cheng Xiaoshi narrows his eyes. “We’ll be in and out before it rains.”

“Then after you,” Lu Guang tells him. There’s enough room to move around him. “Hold the umbrella.”

He lets go. But the touch of him still remains: the trace of his outline fades to nothing just as silently as he walks, but still is the warmest spot on his elbow—as far as Xiaoshi would’ve noticed.

Sasaki and Ogasawara Discover Friendship is a Beautiful Thing | Sasaki to Miyano

“So spill it. What are they like?”

“Cute.”

He considers. “Anything else?”

“Oh, the height difference.”

“Just call ’em short, man!”

Sasaki laughs. “That’s weird, huh?”

“Unbelievable…”

“Big wooooooorrrd, ’gasawara.”

“So y’think they’re cute – ”

“I know they’re cute.”

“ – and you’re into shorties.”

“Am I that tall?”

They’re about the same height while sitting down. And who gives a fuck, but he indulges him.

“So you’re Godzilla and have a crush on ’em.” He finishes the chickens without him choking, sparing the soggy ones into a corner for Sasaki to nibble on. “And like ’em so much you don’t wanna hurt ’em.” Between the nibbling, Sasaki nods. “So what else?”

Hostel | Trigun

He is a cruel man, Nicolas, to love the worst of him, Needle Noggin. And to say the worst of him is still as beautiful as this fucked up little world.

#joey speaks #tagged #tag game #I don't write as much dialogue anymore but I'm loving the sass that's coming through

[revelisms]

Excerpt: You Can't Replace Her

Vi's return has Jinx floundering. Sevika sifts through the layers.

From 'heron blue,' an AU where Vi and Jinx reconnect under different terms. Slow, rocky relationship rebuilding, found family messiness, and political schemings. Full story on AO3

Sat at the table across from the kitchenette's thin galley, Jinx twists her plait about one finger—a single one, today, the weave of it adorned with scraps of bullet casings and clips—and doesn't say a word. She squeezes the cool metal of one of the casings, hard enough to sting.

"I'm not mad at you, you brat," Sevika grumbles, without sparing her a glance. "Not your fault the little shit's back from the dead. But, of the seven hells—" 

Her thick fingers spear into the creases beneath her eyes: a slow kneading. She says nothing, for a beat. Just smokes, and smokes. 

"He loves you too damned much," she growls quietly, then. She flicks the ash of her cigarette over a tray on the balcony's railing. "Your sister worth all this, to you?"

The casing between Jinx's fingers aches. 

Ever since he'd placed a meal and a plan before her—laid a quiet, terrifying choice in her hands—she'd turned the thought over, for hours, and hours. 

Do you want her near you?

She wanted her sister's presence, less than craved it—like a girl yearned for her favorite toy; like an infant wailed for their mother; like a child found comfort in the lonely walls of their room, closed off from the rest of the world.

She missed her. She was terrified of her. She longed for her. She hated her.

She hadn't been able to answer him, then. She couldn't.

The same denial sits on her tongue, now.

"I don't...I don't know," she mumbles.

"'Course you don't," Sevika snarks.

"I don't know, okay?" Jinx wrenches her head away, glaring into the yellowing paper of the wall. "She—she left me." Her nail picks and picks at her knee. "She left me, because I—I wasn't good enough, I wasn't strong enough, I was—I was weak." A crack in her voice, thin and sharp. "I was weak, and I ruined everything."

The shadow across from her chuffs, quietly. "Boss doesn't see you as weak."

Jinx curls her shoulders to her ears, pressing her cheek into one of them. "Doesn't matter."

"Like you couldn't knock me off my feet, if you tried." A steel-gray stare flicks over at her, cold points in the greenish haze that stretches beyond this small room, seeping through the open door like a sweet-soured fog. "When we took you in, you couldn't throw a punch for shit. You took to a gun like it was welded through you, though." Sevika lifts one brow, with a shrug of her shoulder. "Still need to work on your punches," she notes, dryly. "But they're better."

Mylo's voice scratches and claws through Jinx's ears.

"So what?" she spits. "I'm not—not like her. I'll never be like her."

"Why do you need to be?" Those eyes again, staring hard at her. "You can't replace her." Sevika huffs, turning back to the smog-tainted view that spills down from the balcony's edge. "If you had that in your head, with her gone—sure as hell doesn't matter, now."

The words tear at something in Jinx's bones, buried so deep into the marrow that it uproots her. She blinks. Breathes. Shakes.

"Something you Fissure brats should've learned, years ago," Sevika rumbles on, a low, muted thing. "Someone dies, you leave them dead. You don't carry around their corpse, making yourself into their image; you don't become them, to you, or to anybody else." She ticks the ash from her cigarette. "You can't."

Jinx's fingers tremble over her knee. The swallow she forces down clings like ash to her throat. "Then," she whispers, "then what do I—what do I do?"

Sevika's mouth curls at a snarl.

"You be." A final drag: the cigarette crushed into the tray, among a litter of countless others. "Whatever you need for yourself, first. Damn the rest."

Silco, in his own ways, had told her the same. Cradled her head beneath the cold drape of the Pilt's waves, with the gentlest sweep of his thumb: as though she were still only a scrappy street-cat of a girl, eleven years old and raging at the world. As though he were lowering himself back down into the place of his rebirth, where he had reforged himself, rebuilt himself. Where he'd found what he needed, to survive again.

She hadn't quite understood it all, then. 

She'd been too lost in the silence of the waves, in the strange peace she'd found floating in the blackwater, in the warmth of his hand lifting her back to the surface. Lost in her own fears of going back to the terrors gnashing on the shores. Too exhausted to move, to come back to herself. 

He'd carried her from the shallows, like he'd carried her back from the wreckage that day. They'd sat at the water's edge for hours, his coat draped over her shoulders, his eyes so faraway, and said nothing.

She thinks she might understand, now.

#fic excerpt #arcane fanfic #heron blue #heron!verse #jinx #jinx arcane #sevika #sevika arcane #jinx & sevika #the more times i watch acts 2-3 the more i'm like...who is jinx modeling herself off of? #because while powder's definitely still in there - visually displayed as much as emotionally - there's always a conflict #whether it's her trying to be what silco wants #what vi would have wanted #what vander told them all *not* to be #what she *can't* be to avoid the ghosts of mylo and claggor #visually it feels like she's a hodgepodge of those around her #and emotionally there's so much pulling her in different directions #in a way - for all her criticisms - i think sevika's almost a neutral party here #jinx constantly tries to demean her/reduce the threat of her #likely as a way to mentally separate how close sev is to silco + to wrestle with jinx's insecurities against her fighting power #but i'd argue that even then - there's parts of sevika's image that jinx has incorporated into herself #and so her perspective still matters to her #even if she won't fully acknowledge it #grumpy mentor/stepmom vibes through the roof #they hate each other (but not always) #writing

[hhoriginalworks]

reckless | f.w

Reckless- you still couldn't decide if it was the death of you or the reason you woke up every day. Maybe- most likely- it was both. Being reckless led you to Fred Weasley, a storm of wild and thoughtlessness coated in dirt brown freckles. Recklessness brought you to him, where you spent your teenage years loving him and being his. The two of you were the definition of ungoverned youth- you two were crazy, free, and escaping the harsh realities outside of Hogwarts. The two were stolen kisses between classes, uncontrollable laughter in the library, and reckless love in abandoned classrooms.

The only problem with being free and young is that one day you wake up and realize you no longer have that privilege. You wake older and with more responsibilities, and you suddenly understand someone has to suffer the weights of your reckless behavior. You were the one who felt the consequences of your wild youth with Fred- the two of you flew too close to the sun, but only you got burnt.

You grew up pretty quickly after Fred left Hogwarts, surviving by keeping your head down and pretending that you weren't a week late on your period. You grew up even faster when you no longer had Hogwarts, and for some reason, you were waking up every morning sick. You completely stopped pretending you were still young when you couldn't ignore the fact any longer- you had gotten pregnant.

You cried, you denied it, and then, you finally accepted it. You packed your bags and left for South America, where you had been invited onto a Herbology Research Team, and you swore to never look back.

You kept your promise for four years- caring for the twin girls to the best of your ability- but then, the unimaginable happened.

"I am perfectly aware that I am not a match, but what do you mean there is no other match?" You asked, your eyes trained on the healer. "I moved back to London because St. Mungo's swore they could help. This doesn't seem like helping."

"Ma'am, we understand-"

"No, you don't. I have nothing in this world- I'm not married, I currently don't have a job, and I don't have any family besides my kids. I quit my job because when I reached out to all the wizarding hospitals in the world, St. Mungo's said they could help," You seethed, narrowing your eyes. "I don't need healer training to know that this is not helping."

"Does her father happen to be alive?"

"I- I don't know," you replied, sitting down on the chair outside of your daughter's hospital room. "The war ended months ago, and I- I never even- he left. He left before I even knew, and I don't even know how to contact him if he is alive."

"Did he have siblings?"

"Loads."

"You need to contact them, ma'am. I don't know how to say this any other way, but if you can't find a bone marrow match, there is only a matter of 9 months left."

"Okay," you whispered, your decision made. "Just- you don't let my kid get worse until I find him, understood?"

"Yes, ma'am, we'll do our best."

You smoothed out your pants, walking back into the hospital room, where your two daughters sat on the bed drawing together. "Hey, girls. What are you two up two?" You asked, your voice still shaking from your conversation with the healer.

"I'm coloring in a dinosaur," Genevieve stated plainly, her hand gliding across the smooth white paper. "The healers said they would hang it up in my room."

You smiled at her, sitting at the end of the bed. "Mummy has to go on a trip to Diagon Alley, and well, I'll be looking for someone who- is going to give you a toy for free. What would you like, Genevieve?" You asked, deciding it is too hard to explain something that might not even happen. "Perhaps a toy or a-"

"Cat. I want a cat," Genevieve interrupted, looking up from her coloring book. "But, I guess that you can just get me a plain toy."

"Nice try, and I'll see you when Finley and I get back," you chuckled, ruffling the girl's head hair. It was thin to the touch, but it was the same color of red you fell in love was years ago.

You got off the edge of the bed and grabbed your other daughter's hand, leaving to go to a place you could help but dread going.

You landed on the cobbled street with a gentle pop, the soundings of your surrounding deafened by your heating beating loudly against your chest. "Come on, Finley, let's go into this shop here," you urged, your eyes set on the shop in front of you.

You had memorized the address the twins had yelled when they left your seventh year, but you never imagined it would be as crowded as it was. You had to carry your daughter to keep her from getting lost in the crowd, and you had to place a hand on a shelf to steady your shaky legs.

"Y/N?" You felt the air knocked out of your lung- hearing the same voice that used to laugh with you until midnight did something to you that you hated. "I didn't know you were- I mean, you look- I missed you."

You stood frozen, your daughter asking questions in one ear and Fred talking as if he hadn't just left in the other. "Fred," you finally answered back, turning around.

His smile dropped, his eyes darting to the small child resting on your hip. "You had a kid- I didn't realize that you had moved on," Fred mumbled out loud, more to himself but audible nonetheless. "She looks just like you, except for the hair! If I didn't know better, I would say she's a-a George?!"

Another redhead hurried over, small dark bags under his eyes and an eccentric yellow vest over a striped button-up. "Hey, y/n, I didn't know you had gotten back from- Woah, is that?"

"I'm not here for you," you commented, straightening up your shoulders. "I'm here because I need you to get tested- my daughter needs a bone marrow match, and the best chance is a familial match. I- I have the right blood time, but for bone marrow, you need to match with antigens too."

"Familiar match, but you never- y/n, you never told me that you were pregnant," Fred replied, grabbing your arm and pulling you into a backroom with George taking Finley out of your arms. "I had- I have a right to know about these things."

"Stop it, Fred," you hissed. "You don't have a right to anything, and deep down, you know that. I wrote to you about it- I wrote to your friends about it!"

"The war- I was in the Order of the Phoenix, and I was a target, and you would have been too. I left because I wasn't ready to have your blood on my hand- I wanted to keep you safe," Fred argued back, his hands running through his hair. "I loved- I still love you. I've written a million unsent letters to you, but none of them seem right. I- I would've left the war if you had told me."

You looked down at your hand, still shaking and unsteady. "I know you would have, but it doesn't change anything. I-I can't even have this conversation right now, Fred. My daughter- our daughter- is sick, and she needs a match. You have to get tested."

"Okay, let's go." Fred grabbed a jacket and pushed the door to the back room open. "George, watch the shop- I'm getting tested."

"What? I think I deserved more information than that," George shouted, grabbing his own jacket and hurrying after Fred.

You watched in amusement with your daughter by your side- they were the same boys from Hogwarts. "Come on, Finley, let's go see Genevieve," You cooed, quickly paying for a small pygmy puff. "How do you think your sister will feel about this?"

"She'll like it," Finley chuckled, holding onto the small ball of fluff as you apparated.

You landed on the hospital's linoleum flooring, your heart rate racing as you walked into your daughter's room. "Hey, Genevieve, look what I bought you," you sang, setting Finley down so she could give her twin the pygmy puff. "I figured we could all name it together."

"Is it a boy? or a girl?" Genevieve asked, wrapping her small fingers around the ball of fluff. "If it's a girl, I like the name, Tessa. If it's a boy, I like the name- uh- George. Like the monkey."

"It's a boy," Fred stated, walking into the room, his eyes glued on the two girls that were sat on the hospital bed. "Only green pygmy puffs are boys."

"George, then," Genevieve stated simply, nestling the ball of fluff against her cheek. "I know you. Mummy showed up pictures of you, and she said you are her best friend."

"I-I am, yeah. I'm Fred," Fred grinned, his voice cracking. "I'm your mum's best friend in the whole world, and I- I'm so lucky to meet you."

"You have red hair like us," Finley added, pulling at her red locks. "Mummy says redheads are her favorite."

"Yeah, she used to tell me that too," Fred chuckled, cautiously walking over to the twins and sitting down at the edge of the bed. "I'm a twin, too. My brother, George, he's getting some tests done right now, but you'll get to meet him soon."

"My pet is named George," Genevieve grinned, handing over the small pygmy puff to Fred. "My mummy said my daddy is a twin too, but I don't know my daddy."

"Yeah, but mummy says he loves us a lot," Finley chimed in, causing Fred to quickly wipe his eyes. "Mummy said that our daddy is allergic to South America, so he had to stay here in London."

"That's enough, you two. Fred and I need to talk," You quickly interjected, grabbing Fred's wrist. "Be good, okay?"

"I want to come," the girls whined together, crossing their arms over their chests.

"You do? But we are going to be talking about big kid stuff like math, and rocks, and the color brown," you stated, pretending to be shocked when the two girls quickly quieted down. You turned to Fred, a smile playing on your lips. "Come on, best friend, we can talk outside."

You and Fred walked away from that wing of the hospital, a silence forming between you two. "I'm sorry, you know that, right?" Fred asked, breaking the silence. "I would've been there for them- for you."

"I know," you stated. "You can ask about Finley and Genevieve if you want."

"Finley and Genevieve," Fred repeated, a smile forming on his face.

"I knew you liked the name Finley, and well, I figure to keep with the 'F' and 'G' trend," you quickly explained, a blush forming across your cheeks. "They are like you- enjoy a bit of trouble. Too much trouble if you ask me, but I guess it adds character. They are too young to be showing signs of magic, but sometimes things just seem to happen. Finley -the oldest- is more like George than you. She is more contemplative, while Genevieve is more-"

"Reckless," Fred finished for you with a laugh. "I wish I had been there."

"It's not all your fault," you sighed. "I heard that you survived after the war, and I heard you got awarded the Order of Merlin. I just- I just was still so mad at you for leaving. It wasn't until there wasn't any more hope that I reached out."

"I should've reached out- Merlin, I love you. I thought about you every day, and when I heard you went to South America- I just- I'm sorry."

The two of you fell back into a comfortable silence, words that should've been said years ago settling between you two. "I'm staying in London, and the girls, they could use a father. I don't know how to explain it to them, but they deserve to know."

"I'll do anything- everything. I'll spoil the girls rotten," Fred smiled, reaching out for your hand. "I'll be the dad I wasn't for all those years."

"Not exactly- they know all about you, well, in a way. You're their favorite bedtime story," you told, taking his hand.

"Thank you for telling them that I loved him," Fred mentioned, rubbing the back of his neck. "I-I do already, but you could've easily told them the truth."

"I did it for you, but also for them. The girls needed to know someone else out there cared for them as much as I did, and I knew that if you knew, you would've been that someone," you smiled.

The two of you somehow found yourself back outside of the hospital room, your hands intertwine and the feeling of something unfinished lying between you two.

"Hey, where were you two? They got the results back, and I matched perfectly!" George cheered, a pirate hat placed lopsidedly on the top of his head. "Us G-named people have to stick together, right, Gennie."

"Right!" Genevieve giggled, high-fiving George.

"I guess this is the start of a happy ending," Fred whispered to you, wiping the falling tears off your face.

#holyhead-hufflepuff archive

[hueningshaped]

☆ crown | xu minghao and jeon wonwoo

▰ genre: college au! / NO READER INSERT = ORIGINAL CHARACTER / drama, coming of age, romantic, angst ... so original characters and seventeen *gasp* you guessed it — a svt fanfic

▰ word count: about 2.7k

▰ a/n: interest check of a full fledged story i’ve planned but am refraining to put effort in due to possible, complete lack of reads or audience (nobody’s fault but mine). i’d love to hear your feedback! this is chapter one; please let me know if i should continue or just leave it at this LOL

▰ synopsis: jo woolim can’t juggle to save her life, and yet she is somehow managing to stay with her boyfriend: jeon wonwoo, who is possibly cheating on her (again), her strained friendships, fitting into her new school, estranged family, learning to wholly love and forgive herself - in a time unprecedented and searching for the boy of her dreams, xu minghao, the prodigal foreign exchange student. she’s looking for real love, where it’s lacking, where it’s needed, and where it’s always been. by the way, it is not easy!

▰ additional: i listened to epilogue by justin hurtwitz as well as mia and sebastian’s theme (which is somewhat a reprise of it despite it being previous to epilogue, of course) as i wrote it so here u go!

Jo Woolim's feet hurt for multiple reasons, but getting stood up, time and time again, to now, at the age of twenty three is the main contribution to the pain.

The stairs are a pretty humiliating choice of seating, especially to conduct her double digit calls to the person who stood her up, which is her harmless best friend, Sookyung. So, no hard feelings, right? (Right?)

She shouldn't even be that embarrassed because it's not Wonwoo — the Jeon Wonwoo, her very own boyfriend — that stood her up, but she supposes she can be since he'd refused to go and even teased her about wanting to go.

The staircase is fine marble, allowing each footstep to click and clack with each heel that ascends because the party's just beginning. With this venue mimicking a palace, Woolim feels way out of place. Some girls have poofy dresses and others possess thinner material, accentuating the hills of each girl's curves and edges walking in. The boys are all the same, offering the bare minimum. Why does everyone get to be beautiful except her?

Shaking the last thought off, Woolim exerts so much effort to make it look like being alone and ugly doesn't bother her. But, she has to bite the bullet and make a move.

So, her legs spring up, taking her up to the rest of the party. She ignores the heat accumulating from the small of her back to just about every part of her body as she walks in, trying to take everything in and not look like such a loser. Jesus, is everyone looking at her? Are they talking about her?

There were definitely perks to this new university and one of them is the commencement of her class, which arrives in the form of a ceremony with a festivity that follows immediately after. Of course, as a transfer, she gets the initiation that throws a theme, so she has to wear the clown paint and clothes that they inform you to wear to match.

All she is missing is a crown and she's a royal fool.

The Masquerade Ball, as the provost and student affairs staff, had been rumored since before she'd even transferred to the school, which added up to just two months ago. Three months before, she had received that acceptance letter.

She should've known.

Woolim stifles a cough, hoping that the callousing - painful callousing - in her soles due to her starchy dress shoes would be able to mask the humiliation that was beginning to sting behind her eyes.

Of course, she had no identity, but everyone still looks over at her in pity.

The room offered dim lighting, romantic hues of pinks, and citrusy chardonnay beading the adjacent walls. Woolim thirsts for an exit.

The song changes to something unattainable audibly but she must not even be able to hear herself, and before she knows, someone to the side of Woolim bumps into her, back slamming against her body and into the wall.

A frantic, male voice follows, yelping out apologies, as he reaches down to pull her up.

"Jesus, I'm so sorry. Told him to not try and shake what his mama gave him and here we are, here you are, we're both so sorry..." Woolim's vision focuses as she returns to eye level and manages a minor grin at the boy as much of his appearance stands out wonderfully.

With heavily dyed platinum hair, a turquoise suit with rhinestones in various floral designs across the front and wrists, tiger eyes, and led lights curling around the outline of his mask, this boy looked like a lot of fun. A head of chestnut locks remain bowed by his shoulder.

The blond grabs her palm desperately, and he's making wailing sounds.

"I apologize for not only Seokmin but for his upbringing. May Satan guide him in return." He prayed aloud, apology too comical to be real but nonetheless real.

Woolim finally speaks up when the music quiets down just a touch and she doesn't have to stammer to be heard.

"No, you're fine! I can't really see with this mask." She reveals, voice too out there for its own good, but at this, the boy's eyes expand in shock and the bowed head lifts up with intrigue.

"Are you sure? It was pretty rude of us, wasn't it, Seokmin?" He nudges his friend, who's dressed in a simpler, humbler suit, who nods sullenly.

"I'm really, really embarrassed... besides, I think she gets it, Soonyoung."

"Whatever, Oprah singer."

"It's opera!"

The air around them hardens as they begin to bicker. Seokmin places his hands on his hips to deliver his rebuttals but the last thing that Woolim wants is to make two friends fight, let alone cause trouble while she has no date.

"I really am alright! No harm done. I'm just...a little relieved actually that someone's speaking to me," she admits wincingly. There's no need to be as honest as possible, but that doesn't stop her from adding, "I didn't come to the ball with anyone."

The two boys frown and coo, letting out maple syrupy aw's, surprisingly sympathizing with her.

"If it makes you feel any better, our dates were too busy to come, so he and I came together. We also do have another buddy with us, officially making it a threesome!" Soonyoung chats loudly and Seokmin elbows him in the chest at the last comment.

"That's not what a threesome is, Soon."

"Whatever," he waves his hand dismissively. Woolim notices that despite the gravity between the two friends, they remain focused on her. It feels nice. "We did lose him a little while ago though. Maybe he's around here somewhere."

Woolim then levels with them to form a line so she could follow their eye as they peer around the venue, which seems futile since their view is obscured by the angle, decorations, and crowds. The opaque curtains of the many entrances within the main venue gave the illusion that this place was endless. It feels like a trance that went on forever. Reality washes over Woolim and she can feel the weight of being the person one meets and should leave.

"Uh...I'm sorry for getting in your guys' way initially," she announces with a tone that makes her seem unsure of the words on her tongue. Seokmin rolls his head over at her, eyebrows drawing inwardly and puppy dog eyes. She's about to coolly and casually make her leave to no longer bother the boys, but Soonyoung has a different idea.

"Nonsense! It was our fault to begin with, and to repay your gracious hand," Soonyoung then motions to Woolim's bare hand as the other apparels one silky dress glove. "We're trying to at least become an even foursome with you and our friend! God knows where the hell the great Minghao is though!"

"Right behind you." A chilling, oolonged voice speaks up suddenly and startled enough, Woolim's disposition remains unaffected despite her heart catching up to leap in her chest with her delayed reaction.

"Minghao, you wanted to give me a heart attack, didn't you?" Seokmin sighs dramatically, voice hitching to imitate crying. Upon hearing the rich laugh, Woolim tips her head slowly and changes her footing to turn round.

The supposed Minghao peers down at Woolim, unreadable expression through the simple glow of his ivory mask. His raven black hair, lengthy and healthy, adorns his crown like he deserves a throne to come with the apparel.

"We found a person and we found you!" Soonyoung hesitantly wraps his hand around Woolim's wrist, loosely keeping his fingers around to lift and wave.

Minghao snickers delicately.

"I found you actually," he corrects, eyeing his friends, even meeting Woolim's to speak. "And I'm sure you didn't meet because of an accident, right?"

"That was on my part," Woolim speaks up but bites on her bottom lip once his piercing gaze trains upon her. "Sorry..."

"You’ve done no wrong, though?" Minghao's lips stretches into a wonderful smile.

" — yeah, it was Seokmin." Soonyoung mutters, earning himself a tiny shove.

"Minghao, you didn't come here with anyone for a date, right?" Seokmin poses. Woolim notices from his accent that Korean is not his first language but has such a grip with his words, it almost passes one's mind initially.

"Not this time," he answers nebulously. Woolim has to hold back a scowl. "If you’d like, I would love to have you... er, and what's your name?"

She can feel Soonyoung's and Seokmin's excited watch upon her but since this is the first night that she's seen boys be so decent, she figures she might, as well, make their night. They certainly have made hers, after all, excluding this Minghao at the moment.

"I'm Woolim. W-Woolim," she says twice, one too many. Minghao's expression loosens with pleasant awe.

"No surname?" He quizzes, voice too serious for it to be a joke. Woolim feels absolutely no urge to joke around, anxiety fizzing in the very marrow of her bones, so she just shakes her head and hopes he wouldn't see her cocked eyebrow.

"Well," he clears his throat. "I'm Xu Minghao. Seo Myungho. I've got 4 names."

"I've got three," Soonyoung pipes up and everyone groans.

"Soonyoung, don't say it in front of her. That's so gross." Seokmin leans over to shake his head but eye Woolim, in the way that friends who’ve known each other for a long time do. It's a nice feeling.

The music changes, taking a turn from some pop electronica to some heavy pulse from a contemporary rhythm and blues type, and the bass rocks hard enough to shake her ribs.

Minghao locks eyes with her and beams charmingly. He even takes her surprise further by reaching a hand out, fingers long and elegant.

"Would you care to dance with me? Or do you want to take this chance to leave like you were looking for earlier?"

Woolim feels like she merely imagined him asking the last question, which leads her to consider bolting for the doors last minute. Surely, Wonwoo would be home and maybe tonight, he'd be in the mood to love her and like her.

Oh, what she'd do to be loved and liked at the same time.

"Do what you would like," his tone lightens into something sweeter like rosehip. "I don't think you should put your lovely ensemble to waste."

Woolim swallows hard at that and just when she is about to acknowledge the two excited chitters from the other two boys, Minghao takes her hand into his. A cool grip overtakes a clammy warmth. Wordlessly, they somehow sail across the linoleum floor.

All the half hidden faces that had been judging her now evaporate with the blue and green lighting, hues and keys ascending into reds and minors.

Minghao is the type to maintain eye contact and Woolim hates it.

In the back of her mind, bits and pieces of her mind offer memories of what she could see of herself in the reflections. Since Sookyung shared the same favorite color that she did, Woolim went with another: sleet blue. Thin straps hang off her thick shoulders that had a loose, lace cover across her biceps and chest. The hems are riddled with sparkles and flowers. The rest of the silk sticks to each and every edge of her body before drifting off past her chronically swollen ankles with the extra layers adding volume. Her skin appears mottled but overall amber. Her mask is ridden in silvery lace and false white gems and roses. Woolim never knew she could look lovely.

"Do you mind if I hold you close?" He leads, raising their joined hands to sway.

Woolim opens her mouth only to nod. Despite the darkness of the brown and the dim lighting, she sees that his eyes are dotted with flames of the bits of lighting around the venue. The night of his pupils burn right through her and yet she only feels sparks from him, especially once his other hand comes to gently graze her waist.

"Are you okay with this?" He sways them a little more to the right with each movement. Woolim doesn't fancy being this quiet and immobile so she moves his hand into her. His hold is gentle and electrifying as if eternities have passed since she's last been embraced as sweetly as this.

"How long have you gone to this school?" Minghao leans in to better emphasize his question.

"I just transferred, actually," she says as casually as possible since the strokes they make when they sway are becoming too grand for her to catch up.

He's incredibly quick on his feet, so much so that her eyes must drop to follow their direction. Many bodies and pairs round about the two, but they all blend in with the backdrop of the room.

"Follow my counts. One, two, three ─" He drifts into quadrants, slow enough for her to catch up but she continues to knock into his chest. "─ and four. Let's go again. You're alright, I promise. Seokmin used to firmly believe his body was not built at all for anything besides existing."

Woolim glances to the side to see Seokmin rocking his hips next to Soonyoung side to side within frequent increments. They also somehow manage to can-can despite the slow synth and phrases of the song.

"Are you always this quiet?" Minghao breathes and this question catches her off guard. Perhaps taking her breath away had been his intention and he uses this to intertwine their fingers like they're meant to be.

"I’d tell you a lie but since you don't know me, I'm going to tell you the truth; I think I like having you try and get me to talk." Woolim purses her lips tightly as soon as she finds herself smirking.

Minghao steps back, which she nearly leaps to follow, but with the gentlest pivot of his wrist, Woolim twirls like one of the toys she'd wanted all her childhood. Her chest rides past the clouds and her heart pursues, shuttling upwards.

"My goodness, you're a natural!" He comments when he swings her to one side and right back into his embrace. She's smiling.

The song is still playing, and if at all possible, it's hanging above her head precariously and it's just the two of them on the planet.

"Are you sure you don't want me to know you?" He asks once more, and this time, she sheds a few feathers of her insecurities.

The song is still as powerful enough to beat as her heart.

"You ask a lot of questions, Minghao." She manages to grin and their steps narrow to continue to tread the same space.

He peers down at her and the flames are still lit.

"I can't help it. Honestly, honestly. I want to know you truly, honestly."

His loving smile buckles under the bite into his lip. She must be lying when she sees his eyes drop to her mouth. This must be a dream.

"I'm-I'm an open book," she murmurs, captivated by his own lips, and gasps quietly when the hand on her waist is suddenly cupping her jaw. No, she is not, the more authoritative Woolim reprimands silently. But it matters not - she's not loud either.

The song is still playing. It could play for eternities.

He rubs her cheek so tenderly and it has her eyes all a twinkle without realizing.

Wonwoo is no longer a thought. Sookyung no longer crosses her mind.

It only takes a few more countless seconds of wordless confirmation before Minghao dives in to take her lips with his and something behind her rib cage blossoms. He speaks against her mouth, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care.

He continues devouring her lips for the taking and she's left speechless, breaths searching for something to hold onto in between their own mouths.

The daily lows of her life are a fleeting death as she now soars high in a fairy tale-like limelight that only pertains to the two of them. All she's missing is a crown.

Where is her crown? Her mind's whispers fade with every proceeding second. And for once, Woolim feels so good that nothing matters.

#so should i keep going....? *head in hands* #seventeen fluff #seventeen fanfic #svt fanfic #seventeen hoshi #seventeen dk #seventeen the8 #seventeen angst #seventeen college au

[scullydubois]

Only the Light ch. 6

read on Ao3 here. read earlier parts here.

This was getting quite long, so I decided to cut what I planned to be chapter 6 in half. I’ll try to keep the chapters a bit shorter than they have been cause I know lots of people prefer that. Anyway, that means I’m now almost done with chapter 7 so that’ll be posted in a couple days too. 

Please let me know what you think in the tags or message me! I’d love to know if you think something like this should have been canon or even if you think it was canon, just not shown to the audience (is that possible? haha). 

Description: As Mulder and Scully begin their investigation in Aubrey, Scully finds herself sympathizing with the detective who found the bones more than she would prefer to.

*includes a few lines of dialogue from season 2, ep 12 “Aubrey.” Credit to Sara B. Charno, writer of that episode!*

WC: 2595 words

tagging @today-in-fic​. Thanks for all you do!

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

Scully stares at the bones on the autopsy table in front of her. She has always been capable of separating her feelings from her work. Too good at it, even. But right now, looking at these bones that have been in the ground since before she was even born, all she can think about is how they once were a living, breathing person’s. A partner. A son. An FBI agent just like her. She had narrowly escaped a similar fate. How? What made her survive while this man became a bundle of bones to be poked and prodded? She knows she shouldn’t dwell on it, but sometimes she wonders if her luck would stop if her overthinking did. 

Mulder mentions the killer the detective was investigating. Three victims, all young women between twenty-five and thirty. Scully’s current demographic. He doesn’t say that part, of course, but Scully’s thinking it, and perhaps he is too. The word ‘sister’ was carved onto their chests, then painted on the wall with their blood. That could have been her. 

Nevermind that she wasn’t alive in 1942, let alone living in Missouri. Horrific, misogynistic crimes had been happening well before she was born, and they would happen well after. Scully had no doubt something like this could happen to her at any time. A petite, female FBI agent? She would be the perfect victim.

She had been the perfect victim. And she survived! But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t victimized by all of it. Surviving doesn’t mean living. She is coming to terms with this. It is like going through it all over again.

She lifts one of the rib bones, runs her fingers over it. The rubber gloves catch on a series of tiny cuts down the length of it. Were these a result of decades underground, or had these been inflicted before the detective bled to death? She shivers at the thought.

“Scully?” Mulder’s voice anchors her back in reality. 

She turns around. “Yes?”

“Are you cold?”

He had seen. He grips the edges of his jacket, prepared to place it on her shoulders at a moment’s notice.

She shakes her head. “No. I was just imagining being cut like this.” She points to the razor marks, each one a separate wound. 

Mulder winces. “Do you think that’s what killed him?”

Scully turns the bone over in her hands. It has known pain, and she can almost feel the ghost of it in the marrow. 

“I don’t know,” she says, meaning it. “That would be a horrific way to die.”

“Most ways are,” Mulder replies, not missing a beat. They stand there, this dead body adjacent to them, thinking about death, and life, and what it means to be a person. What a situation they have gotten themselves into. 

A few minutes later, they are looking at computerized scans of the bones when BJ, the detective who dug them up, enters. She asks Mulder a question about the case, but doesn’t seem to listen to his answer. It’s like she’s in a trance.

Just as quickly as she arrived, she goes, excusing herself and staggering out of the room. Mulder and Scully exchange a glance like two gossiping high schoolers. Wordlessly, Scully follows after BJ. She finds her in the women's restroom rinsing her mouth. A pang of guilt circulates through Scully’s insides. She and Mulder have involved themselves in something that is, frankly, none of their business, but it’s too late to back out now.

“Feeling better?” she asks, holding a clean paper towel out for BJ, who ignores it and pulls one from the dispenser herself.

“I’m fine now.” This is all she offers. 

Scully has given this answer enough times to know that BJ is most definitely not fine. She considers her options: she could respect BJ’s hostility toward her, pretend she saw nothing, & return to Mulder, or she could probe further into the situation and try to comfort BJ. She knows the terror that BJ must be feeling.

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” The words leave Scully’s mouth before she registers deciding to say them. 

The terror surfaces on BJ’s face. “Does it show?”

“No, not yet,” Scully reassures, patting the detective on the shoulder. She will try to be the comfort she wishes she had at the moment. The comfort she knows she could have, but...

BJ interrupts her train of thought--”Now I know why my mother only had one child. She told me about the nausea, but not about the nightmares.”

Scully blinks. There’s that pang of guilt again. “Nightmares?”

BJ nods. “It's always the same. I'm in a house, it feels familiar. There's a woman that's been hurt. There's a mirror... I see a man's reflection. I recognize his face, but I don't know it. What I remember most is the blood.” She looks up at Scully with desperate eyes. “There's a lot of blood.”

Scully swallows. Hard. She can feel acid in her throat, the contents of her stomach threatening to follow BJ’s lead. She’s glad to be in the bathroom. Nightmares are not a particular indication of pregnancy, she knows this. But she also knows that changing hormone levels can trigger vivid, sometimes upsetting dreams--she had not connected those dots until just now.

“Have you talked to anyone about these nightmares?” Scully asks.

BJ shakes her head. “I'm sure it's something about the pregnancy. If anyone else knew I was pregnant…” She trails off in a way that makes Scully ache for all the women that have ever feared their own body, herself included. There could be no worse betrayal than one’s own body.

“Brian would kill me if I told anyone,” BJ finishes. Her fear is evident in her voice. Scully packs as much sympathy as she can into her glance at BJ. 

“Thank you for opening up,” she says. “I’m sorry about your situation. Let me know if I can help.”

BJ nods in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything. She lingers near the sink, as if waiting for the bell to dismiss her.

Scully can feel her uncertainty. “I won’t tell anyone,” she reassures.

BJ releases a breath. “Thank you. I need to...sort things out.”

“I understand.” Scully offers her a soft smile. BJ reciprocates, then quietly exits the bathroom.

Scully stands there a moment, hands in her pockets, heart in her throat. Then the queasy feeling passes, and she moves on.

She returns to the office and takes a seat next to Mulder. He’s gobbling some cookies while the computer analyzes the cut patterns on the bones. It is interesting what their line of work does to them; how it desensitizes them to the most gruesome of wounds, the most horrific of situations. She sometimes forgets that ordinary people don’t play doctor on dead bodies for a living, or chase phantoms, or get abducted by--well, plenty of people claim that’s happened to them. And she doesn’t see why, considering how unpleasant it all was. Is. Maybe that’s why people talk about it, because they just want someone to believe them, someone to know, but Scully’s mind has never worked that way. It’s exactly the kind of thing she’d like to forget forever and never share with anyone else. How shameful to get caught up in myths like that.

Mulder lifts an eyebrow, expecting a report on BJ. 

Scully shrugs. “Food poisoning.”

“Yuck. Remind me not to have what she’s having,” he wisecracks.

Scully’s teeth clamp down on her tongue. “I don’t think you need to worry about that, Mulder,” she says, a knowing edge to her voice. She wishes she could say the same about herself. 

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

They return to their motel after sunset. Mulder walks Scully to her door- number 13, to the right of his--and parts ways with her chastely, telling her he’s planning to set his alarm for 7am and saying goodnight. 

“Night, Mulder,” she says, twisting her key in the lock and pushing hard against the door stuck from humidity. She casts one final smile his way before entering her room, shutting and locking the door behind her.

Mulder turns his key in his room’s lock, but waits for Scully to disappear into the safety of her room before opening his own door. He is not going to lose her again.

Relieved to be in a space of her own after a long day of traveling and consorting, Scully switches on the bedside lamp, illuminating the room. One queen-sized bed with a plaid comforter, a boxy TV with an antenna, a flimsy wooden desk, and a bathroom about three Scully steps deep. It is not much, these lodgings never are, but at least it’s not coming out of her paycheck. She pulls her badge from her jacket pocket and throws it on the bed. It does a backflip against the mattress. She shimmies off the jacket then, folding it up and setting it in the side of her suitcase reserved for the dirty laundry. One time Mulder saw the way she organized her suitcase and laughed. He’s more accustomed to throwing his worn clothes in a garbage bag...or just wearing them over again. 

The shoes come off next, lined up neatly by the door. She craves a shower. After spending the day with decades old bones, she is in need of a baptism. 

She flicks the bathroom light on, and the fluorescent bulb buzzes in protest. There’s no telling when this motel was built; the wall is supposed to be light blue, but entire sections of paint have chipped away into an aged white exterior. Fissures snake through nearly every square of the floor’s tile like they’re there for decoration. Scully looks for her reflection in the mirror and gets the blurry outline of a woman instead. The mirror is somehow permanently fogged. 

She ponders the science of that while she pulls back the shower curtain and turns the knob for hot water. It spurts noisily out of the faucet, interrupting her peace. Speaking of interrupting her peace...she remembers that she forgot to leave Missy the number for the motel. She is not used to someone keeping such close tabs on her. She switches off the water and heads for the phone.

She dials the number, her own number--now her sister’s too--and waits. One ring, then another, then Missy’s steady voice.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Missy. It’s me. I forgot to leave the number, I’m sorry.”

“So I take it you’re not coming home tonight?” She knew her sister never was, but she’ll milk it anyway. 

“No, we got a motel.”

“You already had the reservations, didn’t you?” Melissa inquires. “Or else how would you leave the number?”

Scully rolls her eyes, though she knows her sister can’t see it. Missy can probably sense it anyway. 

“We did, but we would have cancelled them if we didn’t need to stay. It looks like we’re taking the case.”

“Is it an interesting one, or can you not say cause it’s vital to the security of the nation or something,” Melissa teases.

“It’s pretty freaky, but nothing really supernatural. Just your run of the mill humans hurting other humans.”

“Hmm...I thought the suspect had to be like, a werewolf, to qualify as an X-file.”

Scully smiles. “Well, it’s like Scooby-Doo. You always think the culprit is some crazy creature, but then you unmask them and it’s just a cranky old man.”

“Even worse!” Missy quips.

Scully laughs. Her sister’s right. At this point, she’d be relieved to find out that the worst atrocities of humanity were not committed by humans after all, but by some beast with no morals, just instinct. Maybe she’d feel less guilty if she didn’t have to atone for all the sins she’s seen. If they weren’t the sins of humanity. 

“Anyway, you’ve got this number now, so just ask for room 13 if you need me. Or room 14 if you want to prank call Mulder, I don’t care. I’m about to hop in the shower, but did you have a good day?”

“Uh yeah, work was busy and I just got home a little bit ago. I’m waiting on some pad thai from that restaurant you suggested. Probably gonna veg out, watch some Golden GIrls, maybe do a face mask.”

“You’re living a life of luxury,” Scully murmurs.

“Very much so. How was your day?”

“It was...good.” Her voice rises unevenly between the words.

“That’s a ringing endorsement.” 

Scully can hear the hollow noise of Missy twirling the phone cord around her finger.

“The first day on a case is always a bit overwhelming,” she assures. “We’ll get through it.”

“I’m sure you will,” Missy replies with a flat voice, not at all impressed by her sister’s answer. 

“We always do.” There’s a note of optimism in her voice. The statement is more of a prayer than a reassurance. 

“Well, come home safely, okay? I’m not used to sleeping in a big city by myself.”

“I’ll be home as soon as possible,” Scully says, not holding herself to any safe returns. 

“You’d better.” The cheekiness in Missy’s voice takes Scully back to the conversations they had when Scully had just moved to college and would recount the titillating tales of living in a co-ed dorm. Having never had such an experience, Melissa would live vicariously through her stories, and Scully would realize that her sister would make much better use of the situation than she ever did. “Love you. Bye.”

“Bye, Missy,” she says with some weariness. She puts the phone in the receiver, closes her eyes, and wonders how many times she’s uttered that exact phrase. Twenty-nine years worth, so the number’s got to be high.

She returns to the bathroom, feeling significantly grungier than just a few minutes ago. She repeats the routine with the water, slipping off her pants and blouse as the room steams up. By the time her bare skin hits the water, sweat is sliding down the ugly walls.

Usually the motels they stay in don’t have very warm water, so this is a treat. She doesn’t usually take hot showers, seeing them as wasteful somehow. Maybe she subconsciously doesn’t want to increase her water bill. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t apply right now, and every muscle in Scully’s body softens as the water runs down it. Touch. How many times had she been touched today? Surely this is one of the only instances featuring a force with any life in it. It's the most intimate too. She ravishes in it. 

There’s a noise, or rather, a sudden absence of noise, and Scully realizes that Mulder’s shower is on the other side of the wall and he has just turned off the water. She pictures him on the other side of the tile, naked and dripping wet. Slick all over. If only she had x-ray eyes... This is what partners do, isn’t it? She has goosebumps despite the temperature of the water. 

She blinks her eyes closed, holds her breath, and tilts her face toward the showerhead. Baptism. Rebirth. New beginnings. The chance to make up for missed opportunities.

She carries this energy with her through the rest of the night. Through buttoning her silk pajamas from hips to collarbone, through towel-drying her hair because she left her blow dryer for Melissa, through flipping the channels and finding nothing but reruns she never cared to watch in the first place, and through dozing off with her hair cascading off the pillow. Not all nights are as delightfully simple as this.

---thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!!

#the x files #x files #txf fanfic #fanfic #fan fiction #txf #missy & scully fic #only the light fic #msr #fox mulder #dana scully #mine

[imjustthemechanic]

The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage Part 10/? - Private Funding Part 11/? - Just Passing Through Part 12/? - Party of Four Part 13/? - Resolute Part 14/? - The Wreck Part 15/? - Body Snatchers Part 16/? - Out of the Frying Pan

Out of the frying pan, but into the fire would be a worse mistake than Peggy knows.

-

Part of Peggy’s mind was flying.  How had Masters found out about this?  Thompson would have let him know when Kay escaped, but wouldn’t have had any idea where they were going because Peggy hadn’t told anyone about the coordinates except Daniel and… well, there was Russel, who could probably guess the significance of them but would not have known that Peggy was planning to actually investigate.  She’d only mentioned them to him once.  Had Kay left a note?  Or was her initial theory correct, and he’d just overheard Jason’s radio message to Stark Industries?  What had Jason actually said?

Another part was doing its level best to clamp down on the urge to punch him in the face.

“Agent Carter,” he said.  “Fleeing the country upon finding out you’re under investigation doesn’t look good at all.”

“I had every intention of returning, which you would know if you’d asked my landlord or my employer,” Peggy replied.

He was not impressed.  “And what’s your explanation for assisting in the escape of a known Soviet agent – again – and attempted theft of US Government property?”

“Don’t insult me,” said Kay.  “I escaped by myself.”

Masters glanced at her.  “From full-security police lockup under the noses of the entire East Coast SSR and the CIA?”

“What?  Like it’s hard?” asked Kay, in a mock ‘dimwit’ voice, wiggling her head and shoulders to cement the implication that any floozy could have done it.

“What government property are you referring to, Mr. Masters?” Peggy asked.  She had a feeling she knew the answer, and she didn’t like it a bit.

Masters turned to her again.  “You know damn well I’m referring to Captain America and his equipment.  The shield is the world’s entire known stock of Vibranium, and his body is the only hope we or anybody else have of recreating Erskine’s serum.  And you were about to sell both of them to the Russians!”  He looked her over in disgust.  “Were you already planning that when he was alive, or is it that now he’s dead his wishes don’t matter anymore?”

This time Peggy very nearly did punch him – she actually raised an arm before she managed to get herself under control, leading Kay to grab her around the shoulders to stop her, and several of the soldiers surrounding them to aim their guns at her face.

“They certainly don’t seem to matter to you,” she said through her teeth, shrugging Kay off of her.  “Steve would not have wanted to be an object of study after his death.”

“Captain Rogers wanted us to win the war,” Masters replied.  “We’re fighting a new war now and he’s gonna be our key to winning it.”  He stepped back.  “I want these two put in the brig, Captain Lewis – and don’t take eyes off them for a moment.  They’re slippery.”

The man who must’ve been Lewis nodded.  “Do it,” he told the men.  “And get the Captain straight down to the morgue to thaw out. The scientists are waiting.”

Peggy and Kay were taken unceremoniously by the shoulders and frog-marched inside.

It took a few minutes for the red haze at the edge of Peggy’s vision to fade away and her fists to unclench before she could think about this logically, and when she did, she began to realize she was in very serious trouble indeed.  All this time Masters had nothing on her but suspicions and circumstances, but now she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, so to speak.  Who would believe her story that she and Howard were just bringing Steve back for burial when they’d been so secretive about the whole thing?  Perhaps Kay would testify in her defense… but who would believe her when she was an admitted spy and a murderess?

The soldiers put them in a cell in the brig, far down in the belly of the ship, and left two very large and imposing men to watch over them. Peggy and Kay sat down on the little cot in the cell, and their guards sat down on either side of a small table outside, and dealt themselves a hand of cards.  How ironic, Peggy thought with a barely-suppressed sneer.

Kay had said nothing since mocking the SSR’s security out on the deck.  She did not look particularly inclined to say anything now.  She merely sat looking at her watch.

“Have you anything to say for yourself?” Peggy asked her.

There was no reply.  Of course there wasn’t.  Kay had never explained anything and there was no reason for her to start now. Instead of trying to talk, Peggy decided to try to think.

What were their options at this point?  They could sit here and be taken back to the States for trial – that would most likely end in a guilty verdict and imprisonment, if not hanging, for both of them.  They could try to escape.  Peggy could probably pick the lock on the door but the guards would see and hear her doing it, and she doubted she could take both of them.  Perhaps Kay could take one, but that would just be further evidence that the two were in cahoots.  What a silly-sounding word cahoots was.  Where on Earth had it come from?

If they did escape, where would they go?  They were on a ship.  Peggy could not fly a plane or a helicopter, although she wondered whether Kay might be able to.  Their only options would be to take a lifeboat or to jump into the water.  The former would be easily pursued, and the latter meant death by hypothermia.  The same fate Steve himself had suffered… also nicely ironic.

They could try to escape long enough to go get Steve’s body back, but what would they do with it?  The options seemed to be destroying it or dumping it overboard.  The second was not a good idea – it might still be retrieved.  But the former was deeply distasteful.  Peggy couldn’t imagine cutting him up or… or burning him?  The ship would have huge furnaces to keep the crew warm and provide steam for the propellers.  Those would certainly make a fine crematorium… could she bring herself to do it herself?

Maybe she could, if she were desperate enough.  At the moment Peggy had nothing to lose… but that still left the question of how to get out of this cell…

“You stupid bitch,” said Kay suddenly.

Peggy’s head snapped up.  “Excuse me?” she said.  Her companion had said nothing at all for what must have been ten minutes at least, and now was offering insults out of nowhere?

Kay shot a glance at the guards, then glared at Peggy. “You had no plan, did you? Here I thought you were coming out here knowing what you were doing, but you had no idea and now we’re in here!”

Ah.  “Why should I have a plan?” Peggy demanded.  “I didn’t think we were going to find a bloody thing up here except ice and snow!  Did you really think I was taking your word for something so important?  How can you be smart enough to escape from Thompson and yet stupid enough to think I would trust you?”

“You didn’t need to trust me!  You just needed to have a backup plan!”  Kay gave Peggy a shove.

“Don’t you dare touch me, you daft Russian whore!” Peggy shoved her back, and the two of them rolled off the cot to grapple on the floor.   Having fought with Dottie more than once, Peggy knew the Russian women were ruthless and skilled, but now Kay wrestled like a child who’d never been in a fight in her life, grabbing and pinching and pulling hair.  Peggy did likewise.  If this were going where she thought it was going…

“That’s enough, you two!” a male voice announced. Keys jingled.  Peggy didn’t dare look up as two pairs of heavy boots approached – the men were going to try to separate her.  For an instant she caught Kay’s eye, and saw a smile on the other woman’s face.

Then a pair of hands grabbed Peggy’s shoulders.  She wrapped her legs around the man’s boots and twisted – he fell against the cot.  Before he could right himself, Peggy was on her feet and grabbed him by the hair to smash his face against the wall repeatedly.  By the second impact his nose was bloody, and by the fourth he was limp in her hands.  She let him drop and turned around.  Kay had gotten a hold of the second man’s tags and twisted them tight around his neck. Peggy was just in time to see him turn blue and pass out.

“Well done,” Peggy said, as the soldier collapsed at Kay’s feet.

“Letting them think you’re stupid and emotional is always your best weapon,” Kay told her, brushing off her hands.

“I have some experience with that myself,” said Peggy. “To the morgue?”

“Obviously.”

They helped themselves to the unconscious soldiers’ guns, and Peggy took the keys off one of their belts and locked the cell door on them.

The ship they were on was a Casablanca-class escort carrier.  Peggy had never been on one, but she knew that on large military ships both the brig and the morgue were deep in the interior, far from anywhere the rank and file sailors would normally go.  Left to her own devices, it probably wouldn’t have taken her very long to find the one from the other, but she didn’t have to.  Kay appeared to know exactly where she was going.  She headed down a flight of steps, and then paused in the stairwell, putting an ear to the doors.  Peggy crept up next to her.

“How’s he doing?” a male voice asked.

“He’s free of most of the ice,” a woman replied, “but still pretty solid.”

Peggy put her eye to the gap between the two doors. Two doctors in white coats were talking to a brunette nurse, just to the right of a solid door labeled MORGUE. The door was closed and apparently locked.

“We can’t wait too long, or the blood will start to clot,” said the shorter of the doctors.

“We’ll still have the bone marrow,” the first man reassured him.  “Can you give me an estimate, Miss Harper?”

“They’re saying at least another hour,” the nurse said, and turned to unlock the door.  All three people headed through.

Peggy and Kay exchanged a glance to make sure they were still agreed as to the plan.  It seemed they were, so they both burst out of the stairwell and took the trio from behind. Peggy clocked the taller one on the back of the head with the gun she’d taken off her jailer.  He dropped to his knees, holding his bleeding scalp.  Kay vaulted onto the shorter one’s back and knocked him forward into Miss Harper, spilling both of them onto the floor. Miss Harper tried to scream, but Kay kicked her in the face, and then drove her knee into the second doctor’s jaw. He fell.

Inside the morgue room, two more doctors and three nurses were standing around the gurney where Steve’s body was now lying.  They were, for the moment, too shocked by this sudden and violent intrusion to react to it, which gave Peggy and Kay the advantage. Peggy grabbed the nearest equipment tray and hit one of the doctors in the face with it.  The first blow appeared to merely stun him and he just stood there blinking at her.  She hit him three more times, until he fell.  One of the nurses tried to flee, and Peggy pushed the doctor’s body into her.

While Peggy was occupied with that, Kay had shoved the other doctor into the open drawer that had been waiting to receive Steve’s body. She shut it and turned the lock, then she and Peggy both pulled out their guns and trained them on the two nurses still standing.  Both women put their hands up.

Kay twitched her chin towards the first two doctors and Miss Harper, all lying on the floor in various states of unconsciousness. “Get them out of the way,” she ordered the nurses.

The women didn’t move.

“We have had a very upsetting day,” Peggy warned them.

Terrified, the nurses went to start rolling the bodies of their co-workers away from the door.  Kay kept her eyes and a gun on them, while Peggy took the brakes off the gurney.  There was a white drop cloth over the corpse.  Peggy knew it would be a terrible idea to look beneath it, but she told herself that after all this trouble they had better make sure they had the right body, and lifted it for a peek.

There he was.  They’d cut his uniform off him, leaving him quite naked.  Bruises and scrapes he’d gotten on his last mission were still there.  Peggy recognized one on his arm where a bullet had grazed him.  She’d bandaged that herself, because he’d been too sunken in depression from the death of his friend to do it.  And the cut on his cheek, just beneath his left earlobe. She’d kissed that.  The memory, buried for three years, was suddenly as fresh as if it had happened moments ago.

She reached to touch the place, and quickly drew her hand back upon finding his skin was wet and still icy cold, feeling more like frozen meat than human tissue.  How was he still pink?  As he thawed the blood ought to start pooling in his back and buttocks, like it always did on dead bodies.  Maybe those parts were still frozen.

“Peggy!” Kay barked.  “Is that him?”

Peggy quickly dropped the cloth and wiped her wet fingers on her coat.  “It’s him,” she said.

“Follow me,” said Kay.

“Where are we going?” Peggy asked, as she wheeled the gurney out of the room.

Kay led the way up the hall with the longest strides she could take.  “The boiler room,” she said.

“Oh, good,” Peggy nodded.  Had Kay’s mission perhaps been to either secure Captain America’s body for her own people or, failing that, to see to it the Americans didn’t get a hold of him either?  Peggy decided she didn’t care anymore.  Whatever the reasons, they were going to do right by Steve, and after that, if Masters wanted to hang her, she would go to the gallows with her head held high.

#fanfic #captain america #agent carter #peggy carter #steve rogers #steggy #fix it fic

[thewillowbends]

BotW Link/Zelda or Link & Zelda: A-10, B-13, C-3?

Oh God, this took forever to finish because I rewrote the ending like three times before I found something I was satisfied with.  I hope you enjoy!

Long after the night has fallen over them and the air turned cold, the rain follows them. It lasts until midnight, where the bitter ache of his bones keep him sentry for the long night of their camp. Zelda rests fitfully, turning in her sleep, but it's more peace than she has known for years, and he dares not wake her. His guilt is a relentless beast, one that prowls and twists through the corridors of his mind when he is idle and curls at his feet to look at him with piercing eyes when he dares let his sword rest. The earth still carries the memory of pain; he feels the echo of the world's grief in the wind.

Link rubs his eyes, feeling the fatigue of a night that wears heavy, the ache of old wounds whose pain lingers after healing. Behind him, Zelda twists in her sleep, her breath so quiet he strains to hear them - and strains he does because her dreams are the blood and marrow of his. It is her voice that carried him in the long and lonely hours of a battle that seemed ever at an end, and it is his vision that drives them now, into the world hungry for hope. He tries to imagine a time when the world will be healed, when the hills and valleys won't hold the scars of great battles, when the air is no longer sullied with poison, when they are more than a scattered people scavenging the bones of a world's remains. He thinks of the Zora, where the rivers still ran clean, and the desert, with its soothing monotony and purifying heat, and the image cannot coalesce in his mind as anything whole, fragmented by loss of a mind that has only known the ruin. The dream of a world restored is Zelda's. He can only hold it in his fist for so long before he clasps too tightly, and it slips through the cracks in his fingers.

When she stirs, he stills, cautious in his regard for her wants. Zelda has spent her life a sacrifice on a great stone slab, waiting for the flash of the ritual knife. The world is always eager to ask more of her; he cannot fashion himself as one to be among their number. So when she comes to sit beside her, he tilts his head at her skeptically, his eyes sharp and knowing.

"You should be sleeping," he says firmly.

"I could not," she admits. In her hands, she fiddles with the gold chain of her necklace. She worries it keenly, this remnant of her past, as if it could be compelled to conjure something more than memory. She is quiet for a long moment, looking with him to a cloudy midnight sky, the stars hidden by the haze of a passing storm.

"I dreamed of my father," she admits after a moment, releasing her necklace to clasp her hands in her lap. When he does not speak, she continues unprompted, "I dreamed of him as I knew him in life, in the grand halls where the throne once stood. I saw him as he was in the prime of his youth when I was but a child, grand and proud." She smiles faintly. "A happier time, before the prophet brought word of the resurrection."

He looks at her thoughtfully, uncertain of the emotions that wells in him - compassion, yes, but also something more sordid, something with sharp edges that pricks should he grasp it. Envy, perhaps, he wonders, or something darker, more resentful. The cruelty of a life stolen, even as he knows the past exists mainly to cause her pain. Her grief is momentous yet contained, a lake to whose edge he can step but from which he cannot drink. Memory is a stranger to him. The novelty of it is an uncertain weight, as heavy as its absence.

"Did I know him then?" he asks after a moment.

"No," she answers, "you hadn't come to us yet."

Her feet are bare despite the cold. She wiggles her toes, digging them into the grass and soft earth. Her body still carries the litheness of youth, a countenance girlish and sweet; it remembers youth that she does not, her mind eaten away by years of madness gripped in Calamity's iron fist. He wonders if either of them have ever been children, if they have ever known laughter that came easily.

"Do you miss him?" he asks abruptly.

Zelda tilts her head to look at him, her eyes a blue as dark as the ocean in the dark. For a moment, he thinks he's offended her, but after a moment she smiles faintly. "Sometimes," she says quietly, and it has the color of a secret. "I loved him. He was a good man - but a hard one. He had to be. The world required it."

He nods, looking out in the vast plain, where the night lights up with the gentle glow of fireflies and the distant fire of Death Mountain. He thinks of time, how it shaped him as much as it has the contours of this land, how it continues to shape them. He wonders when the stories are written, will they be grand as the shadows of distant mountains or passing through like rain, a footnote among the pages. A sigh forms on his lips, and he lets it out, forming a moist cloud in the air.

"The Zora have been telling me about my family," he says finally. "My father they knew died in the Calamity. My mother and sister left soon after, and they know not what became of them. Though all these years later, they would have passed."

"I'm sorry," she says, and her tone is genuine, carrying the weight of all their failures.

"You are not the one I expect to answer for it," he tells her gently, and though he is honest, he can see she does not, cannot believe him. Perhaps with time, though he can only hope they are given as much as was stolen from them. He gives her a smile, as faint as the whisper of the night's wind, which she returns with favor.

"I only met your family once," she admits after a moment. "The day you arrived at the castle with your father." She sighs a little. "We were so young, then, to recall it. You could not have been more than fourteen, but the sword had called to you already. I remember you were so quiet, even then. I thought you shy or perhaps reserved, but thinking back on it, I think you were just as frightened as I was. A huge duty had been laid at your feet, as big as my own."

Link tries to imagine himself as a boy, the shape of the fears he held then, an abstract idea of an uncertain battle to come; he wonders whether the knowing and concrete pain of his failure wears heavier. The face he sees in the mirror has it deceptive youth, a certain delicacy that lends itself to a nurturing and condescending regard from those who cannot recognize the weariness in his eyes, who do not see the scars etched in his skin. He wonders if his mother beheld his face now if she would even recognize it.

"The past is uncertain companion," he says eventually.

"So is the future," she answers, and he cannot bring himself to disagree.

He breaks a twig and tosses it into a fire. Its sudden flare lights up in Zelda's eyes, the flames dancing in her pupils. The shadows give her the edges and contours of sculpture, something hewn from stone, sturdy and with heft. Link thinks of all the years and days and hours she spent waiting, the way she hardened her heart against the possibility of a hero that may never come for her. He wonders if the strength that carried her through that time is enough to carry them forward.

"Do you think Impa will have the answers you seek?" he finally asks.

Her face falters, the smile easing to a flat line. It hurts his heart to see it; there has already been so much pain between them.

"I don't know," she admits after a moment, her voice quiet. "I'm not sure there are even answers to be had, but we need to start somewhere. Hyrule deserves a second chance."

He nods. "We owe it to the people to try."

She looks at him curiously, an expression he can't quite read on her face, like a book abruptly closed. They sit with the quiet of the night for a few moments more, before she turns to him more fully, her face reflecting a warmth more common each day the calamity is put behind her. Reaching out a hand, she touches his shoulder, and he twitches at the feel of it, the tension that holds them snapping like the taut string of a tightened bow.

"Does your shoulder bother you?" she asks after a moment.

He blinks, rolling his shoulders a bit, feeling them crack as he does. The storm makes his bones ache, but no more than anything else does. His wounds are deep, but he has learned to value the pain that tells a body it is still living.

"It is only the rain," he says. "It is nothing of so much concern. These things pass."

"They do," she answers softly, "but so does kindness, and the world has far less of that."

His smile is bitter. "That it does."

Zelda shifts, moving to her knees, then moves behind him. He glances at her in confusion until he feels her hands come up to rest on his shoulders tentatively, and he tenses, years removed from any tender touch. She lets them rest there for a moment, letting him feel the heat of her palm warm him skin. His shoulders remain tight; this sort of casual touch is not common between them.

But oh, that it could be, his mind whispers, full of weariness and longing. Link wonders if she knows how many nights he laid awake, the sound of her voice the only comfort, the only way he knew how to remember hope.

"May I?" she asks, and when he nods slowly, the touch of her hand is so gentle and kind it makes him sigh.

She rubs firm circles around the places where his muscles twinge and bones ache. It a strange thing to let her care for him, a strange thing to be cared for at all. It unbalances something between them, like a face reflected in a rough mirror, familiar and yet indistinct, not unpleasant but neither completely comforting. What a pair they make, two incongruent puzzle pieces trying to make a whole: a man who cannot remember the past, and a queen who wishes to forget hers.

"Did you dream in the ether?"

"What do you mean?"

Link stares out into the night, feeling its cold and dark keenly, black magic of the earth. "All of those years your soul was tied to Ganon, as you watched his power slowly expand past the breach, you must have held on to something." He worries his bottom lip with his teeth. "I want to know what it was."

Her hands continue their work, but he can feel the gears of her mind turning in the quiet. It is a long moment before she responds. "I dreamed of the day you would show to the gates with sword in hand. Or with a bow, riding a great horse. I dreamed of a day when Hyrule would be whole again. I dreamed of peace."

His hands tighten around his sword, a spasm running through the palm. "And when the years wore on, and I did not appear, what carried you then?"

"I did not allow a thought, otherwise," she says simply. Her hands move down his back, to the place where the tension knots like rope between his shoulder blades, where he wears the worst of his burden. "Understand that my thoughts were not wholly my own in the seal. To bind a spirit..." A shudder runs through her, fine and brief, but he catches it. "I had not known what it would cost then. I thought only of what must be done, but when you are bound, you are one. I saw what was in him, his plans for Hyrule, and I knew it must be stopped. I dreamed because I had to. It was all I had to keep the nightmares at bay."

Her hands pause on his shoulders, and when he turns to her, her eyes are wide and wild, the dark pupils round as black holes. It is fear, he realizes. The memory of madness that was not hers but found a home in her all the same. Before can stop himself, his hand is clasped around her own, firm and kind; she returns his grip tightly, an anchor for all her grief. He smiles at her sadly, feeling how very small her hands feel in his; how they have carried all of that grief alone, he will never know.

"Link," she says, then stop, her eyes glassy. A fine tremor runs through her hand into his; Link runs a thumb over her hand, soothing her.

"You're safe now," he tells her and means it with his whole being, every muscle that swings the sword and the soul that waited for her voice in the deep well of his lonely silence.

Zelda looks down at her hands, turning them over in his, looking at the way calluses are forming there that they have never known before. She has known hard work, but not like this, building a world up from a grown-over ruin, a little like coaxing life from dry and dusty earth. Now her hands know the heft of the axe and dirt under the nails. Her body knocks the ache of muscles worn and tired.

"And you," she says after a moment, "what did you dream of all those years you slumbered?"

Link weighs the truth in his mind, the way it scales against the pain he knows it inspires. He thinks of the gaps in his memory, like the darkness of space between stars, the past that is lost somewhere beyond his reach. In the time he slept, there was nothing; *he* was nothing. It is only when her voice awakened him, coaxing him out of the dark, that he grew out of his own ruin.

He closes his hands around hers, feeling the warmth in them, the way her pulse thrums in the delicate angle of her wrist. It anchors him to the moment, tethered to her in a way that has damned him as often as it has been his salvation, but he would no sever it, not for the privilege of any freedom beyond her reach. It makes what he says feel like something a little more truth, the bones of something like faith.

"I dreamed of nothing," he says, "but I remembered you. When there was nothing else, I had your voice."

Her hands are shaking when they unclasp from his and then when they move to cup his face, gentle and light as a bird's touch. When she moves toward him, Link feels he has seen this moment before, has known the contours of its shape formed in the eaves of his mind, in the shadows where hope flickered like the pale light of a struggling flame. Pressed this close, it is easy enough to reach out and clasp her to him, whole and warm and steady, more than a dream and greater than memory, to ease her trembling with the strength of his arms as they tighten around her, the way she fits so very well against him, tucked into the space he makes for her.

"All of those years with Ganon," she says heavily, her voice loud in the quiet, "I would never have survived if not for you. If it was my voice that kept you going, it was hope of hearing your answer that carried me." She presses her face against his shoulder, and he feels the wetness of her tears. "I cannot do this alone. I never could."

And it is the promise unspoken that he did not realize had kept him wanting, the one that slept inside all the hollow spaces of the silence between them, the things unsaid. They have been alone so very long, trapped in the prisons time made for them, kept distant by the failures that made them. How he has longed for her in the hours and day and years that have made them, two halves of a whole cleaved apart by a blade that could not sever them from the destiny that awaited them It has taken a long time to come back around to the voice that speaks in the darkness, the one that says you need not be alone any longer.

"You have me with you always," he promises fiercely, a vow as weighty as any he made on bent knee, and when she sighs against him, full of sorrow and relief, he knows this much is truth. "I wish only to stay by your side, to build the world you dream of. It is our now, our future to make."

His grip loosens on her, and slowly she looks up at him, all the trembling parts of her that held when Ganon wanted her to break. It fills his heart with warmth where memory leaves him cold. When she reaches for him again, he does not fight it, even as time seems to skip its rhythm, stuttering past them to leave them this moment. Then her hands are on his face, her eyes are glittering like stars, and the touch of her mouth is so sweet against his, warm and perfect as sunlight or summer's breeze, the moment that has waited for them through darkness and shadow, memory and time.

Outside, it is raining, and the night is long and dark. It does not touch them.

#legend of zelda #breath of the wild #zelink #my fanfiction #meme response #sparklylurkdragon

[kyber-kisses]

I, Alone (Part 4)

Dean Winchester x Reader

Want to start from the beginning? Find the Masterlist HERE!

Warnings: angst, ITS ABOUT THE YEARNING

Summary: as Dean tries to figure out what is missing from his life, the reader is still attempting to run from her past.

A/n: I’m so sorry guys, this should have been finished days ago my writers block is hella bad. Anyways I hope you enjoy and please tell me what you thought!

Two years.

Two years of running from the past. Most people would say you could have stopped running months ago, and they were probably right. . . But once you get used to it it can become addicting. Plus it kept you busy, kept your mind off of Sam. . . And Dean. You kept hunting though of course, you couldn’t give that up no matter how hard you tried. No matter where you ended up there would always be a monster that needed slaying.

Two years.

 Two years since you left the bunker and drove east until you couldn’t anymore. You found an airport, bought a ticket and left the back roads of the good old US of A behind before you could stop yourself.

And where did all that running lead you? To this moment now. The suns rays were almost too bright even with your sunglasses on, but your eyes were trained on the quaint street before you, watching as people went about their daily lives. normal lives.The small outdoor cafe you found yourself nestled at was the closest thing to peace you would probably ever find. It was better than some of the other places you had been. The small town was tucked into the lush countryside of France far from anything evil.

To bad you’d have to leave in a day or so.

That was one of your only rules. Never stay too long. If you did that you’d meet people and the last thing you wanted to do was build connections. (And look how well everything turned out the last time you cared about someone.)

It was almost funny how it had all played out. In the beginning you had been terrified of being alone in the world and now you preferred it. You got to finally get an outside look of how you had been living and you realized that if you let people in they were just harder to let go of. It was easier being by yourself. That much you knew.

“Alright, where to next?” You mumbled, unfolding the worn and fading map out in front of you, taking up most of the small sunlit table.

You had started running two years ago, you couldn’t stop now. Eyes on the horizon, no second glances back.

*. *. *. *. *. *. *.

Something was missing.

Dean could feel it in the very marrow of his bones. As days past and turned into weeks the older Winchester was trying desperately to figure out what was wrong. After his first few incidents he began writing them down, from the random bag of candy to the extra cup of coffee he had poured- it all was written down. Some things happening more than once. It’s as if his mind had shifted into some sort of auto pilot. Yet no matter how hard he stared at the list or went over it out loud, his head would not give him the one thing he was desperately digging for.

Answers.

He tried to piece it together like a puzzle, but for the life of him it was like two things weren’t connecting in his brain. . . Either that or there was some sort of dumb wall in his head that he couldn’t knock down or climb over.

But he knew something was there. It was just. . . Hidden.

“Sam, I’m telling you man- something’s not right.” Dean tried once more, following his brothers heels as they stepped up into the library.

“Cas has checked on you several times these past few weeks, don’t you think he would have told you if he felt something off?”

Dean paused mid stride, watching as Sam sunk down into his seat. “You think I’m crazy don’t you?”

“You want me to be honest?” Sam quirked an eyebrow, looking over the edge of his book. “Yes. Just a little bit.”

With an exasperated sigh Dean let his head fall back, the older Winchester rolling his eyes before he moved over to the chair across from Sam. “So you’re telling me you don’t feel anything. . . Off?”

“For the final time, No!”

“Not like something’s missing? Like something’s should be here but isn’t?”

This time it was Sams turn to sigh, slamming his book shut before tossing it onto the table. His brother had been talking about this for weeks. weeks! And it was beginning to drive him up the wall.

“Dean, you lose shit all the time. You’re always misplacing crap. You need to calm down!”

“Calm down?! Sam, I’m losing my fucking mind over here, I can’t calm down!” Slamming his hands down on the polished wood of the table, Dean quickly stood up, his anger beginning to fizz in his veins.

Quickly fed up with his brothers lack of help the hunter pushed away from the table, making his way back down the hallway. But once more his brain went into auto pilot and before he could register it he had passed his own room, instead halting outside the door of a room that as far as he could remember had been vacant and empty ever since they found the bunker.

The brass numbers were tarnished, and the door itself sensibly shut. It was just another one of the spare bedrooms. Nothing special about it. Hesitantly he ran a calloused hand over the numbers, working his mind to try and find the missing piece. It was like he was trying to follow a trail of breadcrumbs but it kept stopping so he had no choice but to stop as well. Where there should have been memories there was only blank space.

“What the hell?” He grumbled, jaw clenching in anger. He was trying so hard to remember. So hard. Yet nothing was showing up. The exhaustion of it all settling over him like a heavy cloud.

And that’s when he felt the tears running down his face. The hunter moving his hand from the brass numbers to wipe at his face in confusion, eyebrows drawing together as he looked down at his wet palm.

He was crying? Why the hell was he crying?

And then suddenly his knees buckled and he was sliding down the opposite wall, head falling into his hands. He was trying with everything he had to remember but his mind wouldn’t let him and he could feel himself falling apart. Sam wouldn’t listen and that didn’t make him feel any better.

“Dean?”

The sudden voice had Deans head popping up, jade eyes fixating on the trench coated angel walking down the hallway towards him, his own eyes filled with concern.

“Cas?”

“What’s wrong?”

The angel knelt down, eyes filling with more worry at the sight of his friend who’s eyes were red and filled with tears. Dean opened his mouth to speak, flinching only when his voice cracked.

“I’ve lost something very important to me and I don’t know what it is.”

SPN Taglist (still open!)

@familybusinesswritingbro​​​​​​​​@a–1–1–3 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​​​​​​​​ @music-is-all-i-need @agusdoti​​​​​​​​ @callmekda​​​​​​​​ @jordangdelacruz​​​​​​​​ @orphiceseum​​​​​​​​ @andthatsmyworld​​​​​​​​ @marvelfangirllll​​​​​​​​ @fandomnerdespressourself​​​​​​​ @gladiosamicitias​​​​​​​ @castielsangelsx​​​​​​​ @lxstgxrl-ck​​​​​​​ @tis-i-the-wayward-idgit​​​​​ @amendoise​​​​​​ @phoenixuprisingsstuff​​​​​​​ @ericalynne007​​​​​​​ @kaitlaitlaitl​​​​​​​ @neerness​​​​​​ @totallyluciferr​​​​​​​ @supernaturalenchanted​​​​​​​​ @dolanfivsosxox​​​​​​​​@supernatural-ocs @emptycanvasposts​​​​​​​ @akshi8278​​​​​​​​ @defenderrosetyler​​​​​​​​ @heyyy-hey-babyyy​​​​​​​​ @idksupernatural​​​​​​​​ ​​​ @vicmc624​​​​​ @all-will-be-well-love​ @busy-bee-angel-misska​ @starsandmidnightblue​ @lilulo-12​ @beanie-beebo​ @xoxoaudreymarie​ @greenarrowhead​

#dean winchester #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester series #supernatural #spn x reader

[keelywolfe]

FIC: The Rose and the Thorn: Chapter 3 (Mafia AU)

Summary:  For Rus, things seem to be going from bad to worse,

Notes: Well, I can’t stop now.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Mafia AU, Flower Shop AU, Violence, First Meetings

Warnings: Some violence. A wee bit of unwanted touching and some innuendo.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Since they came to the surface, most of Rus's days were pretty much the same old, same old. He got up, yanked the blankets over his mussed sheets in a semblance of making the bed, and got dressed: uniform on workdays, and his grubs on days off. He’d go to the kitchen and make a pot of coffee in the wheezy old Bunn that Rus found in someone’s trash, tinkering with it in the evenings until he got it working. He’d drink a cup of coffee that always had a faint burnt note to it no matter how fresh it was, leaving the rest for Blue when he got up, and he’d head into the shop to make the floral arrangements for the afternoon deliveries. When his shift was over, currently doubles until they managed to hire someone who wouldn’t either steal from them or quit three days in, Rus would head home and shower away the stink of soil and plant food before flopping on the sofa to fall asleep in front of the tv until Blue came home and made dinner.

He couldn’t say it was better than the Underground, but then, he couldn’t say it was worse either and once the newness of the Surface wore off it was, well, it just was. Such was life and all it meant was Rus tended to cling a bit to anything fresh and different; like a stranger wandering in on his mornings for a single red rose.

He soaked those moments up like fuel for his what-ifs, his little daydreams as he worked with his clippers and floral wire, writing out small cards that declared ‘happy birthdays’ or ‘with love’ or ‘my condolences’.

Same old, same old, sure, with a few bright spots in between.

This week, though, ah, this was a week of first. First time he'd been shot at, for sure, first time a mysteriously gorgeous stranger ever gave him a kiss, even if it was hardly more than a brush of teeth. First time the police ever put up even the pretense of being on his side without an unspoken warning to stay in his place.

Also, his first time at being kidnapped and Rus couldn't say that he was very happy that his second chance came so soon after.

Point of fact, he was fucking terrified.

He'd woken up with a dismally aching skull and his magic still lingering out of reach, unable to see as he struggled against bonds that held him immobile no matter how hard he fought, until the throb in his skill matched his freshly strained joints. From the way it felt, he was tied to a chair and he couldn't see because of a blindfold that didn't budge no matter how hard he shook his pained head. The throbbing pain was worsening, threatening to make him black out again and Rus finally subsided, trying to keep panic at bay as he took a mental assessment.

His arms were uncomfortably bent and bound on either side of him at the wrists and he could feel the smoothness of wood against his bared forearms. His knees were tethered together, the joints straining as his feet were spread apart, each ankle tied to a separate chair leg. More ropes were wound around his upper body and across his femurs so when he tried to move, he couldn’t so much as rock the chair. He couldn't budge an inch in any direction without hurting himself which was probably the point.

Worse, they hadn't gagged him and somehow that seemed more frightening, not less, that they didn't care if anyone heard him scream.

Rus licked his teeth, drying flecks of marrow clinging disgustingly to his tongue. Tentatively, he called, "hello?"

He thought he heard someone move, cocked his head in that direction.

"hello?" he persisted. "is anyone there?” His voice seemed to echo around him, reverberating, “please, this is all a mistake! i run a florist shop i…i'm nobody…"

"Yes, we know."

Rus jerked instinctively towards that voice, stupid, he couldn't see anything around the blindfold. Not even the glow that voice suggested he should, that was the language of the Fire Monsters, a strange combination of crackling and sibilant consonants. Almost impossible for anyone who wasn't flame to speak and the only reason Rus could understand it was because of a childhood friend.

This Monster didn't sound anywhere near as cheery as his old pal. Those brief, smoldering words were the cold burn of near frostbite and there was no echo, only silence followed them.

Rus swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in his mouth, rasping out, “what do you want?”

There was a scrabbling shuffle of unknown feet and a new voice, “He said—"

“i know what he said!” Rus snapped. He choked off more desperately angry words, grimacing. His bro always said his mouth was gonna get him into trouble and yeah, this problem wasn’t one he’d started but better not to make it worse.

“Do you now.” A single step, the scrape of a shoe against concrete. “Well, that is interesting. A flower shop clerk who can understand flame-speak, how…unusual.”

What did that mean? Rus wasn’t sure and he didn’t know if he should explain his quirk with languages. His head ached painfully and so did his nasal aperture where he'd taken that hard punch. Licking at his teeth found one that was a little loose in its socket. He really hoped Blue could heal it. He really hoped Blue had a chance.

From close by came a soft murmur of indecipherable words and the sound of clawed footsteps walking away, a closing door.

An unexpectedly touch between his shoulder blades made Rus stifle a cry and he tried not to cringe as the heat blazed a path down his spine down before drawing away at the back of the chair. “I admit, I was disappointed when I first saw you. His taste has certainly gone downhill.”

There was an unspoken question there that Rus didn’t know how to answer. “please. what do you want?”

His question was ignored. “But perhaps you have,” that crackling voice lowered, scalding hot breath gusting uncomfortably against the side of his skull, “hidden depths. He’s quite enamored of you, isn’t he.”

“who is?” Although Rus was very much afraid he already knew.

The snap/pop of that scoff meant his captor knew as well. “You’d best be careful, if you’re dealing with the Fells.” A swath of searing heat fell across his skull as a large, flaming hand settled on top of it, burning fingers lightly digging in, “When they’re done with their toys, they break them.”

Rus tried to nod, desperate to get away from that paining touch. That blazing grip only tightened, the temperature rising until Rus whined, cooling tears seeping from the corners of his sockets to wet the blindfold.

“You should be thanking me for the warning." The flame monster chided. There was an impression of a large body, moving closer, blanketing Rus entirely in heat as his voice whispered in lowered luminescence, "Well? Thank me."

"thank you," Rus gasped out. The grip on his skull released and Rus sagged against his bonds, breathing heavily. All his clothes were clinging sweatily to his bones, his wrists aching anew from chafing against the ropes. He hadn’t even been consciously trying to struggle, only desperate to get away from that painful heat…wait. Was that shouting he could hear? Some calamity was going on not far away, muffled through the walls and doors that Rus knew must be around him.

It was impossible for hope not to swell in his soul, shriveling back when that aching heat shifted to stand in front of him.

“You do have a pretty mouth.” Thoughtfully, as Rus’s chin was gripped painfully in a simmering grip, a hot thumb smoothed over his teeth. A new, unthinkable fear rose in Rus, one he hadn’t considered; he’d been afraid for his life, not his body, but the implication was unmistakable. “I’d give it a try but from the sound of things, that’s all the time we have together, lovely. We’ll have to play again sometime.” Then louder, he called, “You’re slipping. I expected you much sooner, old friend.”

The grip on Rus’s chin abruptly released and instead an arm slipped around his neck and tightened, his cervical vertebrae squalled in uncomfortable protest at a threatening upward tug. “Ah ah. Not too close, darling.”

“Stop this.” There was no halting the wave of shameful relief at Edge’s rich voice, oceanic and deep. Only to be choked away by the arm around his throat and Rus couldn’t move, but he couldn’t stop trying to thrash away from the pull that threatened to separate his skull from his neck, straining against the unyielding ropes as he tried to rise even a bare inch for some relief.

“What? And spoil the game? See you soon, and do tell your brother I miss him, won’t you? Ta.”

Then that agonizing grip released and the burning presence was abruptly gone, leaving Rus to sag against the ropes, gasping in sweet, cool air.

Rus’s blindfold was soaked with tears and sweat, clinging uncomfortably against his face. More tears felt like they were strangling in his bruised throat, desperate to be shed. It was difficult to hear anything over the aching pounding in his skull and the rattle of his bones as he trembled, but he couldn’t feel anyone close by, had they left him here, bound and helpless to anyone who might wander in?

“is anyone there?” Rus asked pathetically. All his panic seemed to have caved in, collapsed in on itself to numbness that left him empty and spent. Feebly, he tried to twist his hands free again, if he could only get one loose—

“Hold still, you’ll hurt yourself.” Unexpected and gently said, it set a candle flame of hope flickering in Rus’s soul and…no. No more flame metaphors, not today.

The blindfold was suddenly gone and Rus blinked at the flood of light, trying to see anything past a blur. When his vision cleared, he could see he was in a sort of warehouse, one that didn’t look like it’d been used in a long time. There were crates and broken pallets stacked all around them on a dusty floor and the overhead lights were sodium-yellow and dim.

Edge was already moving to kneel at his feet, inspecting the ropes binding him. Somehow, the way he moved, the powerful grace in his long legs as he bent to crouch before Rus was desperately appealing and fuck, Rus really was as stupid as their pop always said. All of this could be laid right back at Edge’s doorstep, he knew that, only his stupid libido didn’t seem to have gotten the message. Rus stifled it, stuffed it down back into the back of his mind with all the rest of the bullshit that usually crept out to taunt him in the middle of the night.

Whatever Edge saw, he didn’t seem to like it; his brow bone pulled down into a frown and he made a low, rude sound before pulling something out of his pocket. Rus couldn’t help flinching from the mellow gleam of metal as a knife flicked out, but there was nowhere for him to go. He could only sit mutely as Edge got to work, the ropes parting easily beneath the sharpened blade until thy lay on the floor around them like thin, unmoving snakes.

A moment or an eternity later and he was loose. His shoulder joints felt sprung and achy, his hands flopping loosely into his lap as Rus tried to work feeling back into his fingers. The bones at his wrists were painfully chafed and bruises were already darkening the bone. He wondered absently where there might be other bruises, his ankles certainly, maybe at his knees, on his upper arms where the ropes dug in so terribly.

Edge stood next to him, waiting, his long coat pulled open by his hands in his trouser pockets. He seemed in no undue hurry, allowing Rus to assess the damages and he only spoke again when Rus finally looked up at him, pouring out all his desperate fears and confusion in one look. There were no answers forthcoming, Edge only held out a single gloved hand in offering.

"Come on," Edge said quietly. His clothing was unruffled, the same sort of obscenely expensive suit he’d always worn to the shop. Even his tie was perfectly straight, not a single snag in the rich crimson silk. He practically exuded calm competence and the only sign he might be feeling anything else was in his eye lights, the dimmed shadow of regret. "I'll take you to your brother.”

That sounded…that sounded like a slice of heaven right about now, to be wrapped up in the blanket of his brother’s love and concern. Rus ignored that extended hand and tried to stand on his own. His legs disagreed vehemently, knees achingly wobbly and he would have fallen to the ground if Edge didn't catch hold of him.

“don’t!” Rus tried, but he couldn’t stop Edge from lifting him into his arms, his weak struggles useless against that strength. All the questions bleating around in his skull –who was that, what was going on, why is this happening— twittered away into a single painful realization, one that Rus’s daydreams never even considered. “you—” His breathing was a ragged sob, “you’re some kind of criminal, aren’t you!”

Edge didn’t deny it. He only walked towards the far side of the room where a large cargo door was hanging open, leading out into a hallway.

He should have known. That scarred face he’d thought was so sexy was as much a warning as a damn sign, only it looked like Rus wasn’t very good at reading what was right in front of his sockets, too busy getting his panties wet to worry about the flashing neon ‘danger’ blinking in his face.

Rus let his head fall against Edge’s shoulder, burying his face against his wool coat and uncaring that he was smearing it with tears and other fluids as he moaned out, “what have you gotten me into? what did you do?”

There was no answer and as they stepped out into the hallway, Rus could barely stifle a shriek as he caught sight of what lay within. There were bodies lying everywhere, splashed with a rainbow’s worth of various bloods, ungainly limbs twisted into impossible configuration and pinned by jagged bone constructs that were slowly dissolving away.

“Easy. They aren’t dead or they’d be dust,” Edge reminded him patiently. Like that was so much better. His footsteps were even, heels clicking lightly on the concrete as he walked towards another doorway with daylight pouring through a broken pane.

Outside was a car with windows tinted almost as dark as the glossy black exterior. Edge didn’t set Rus down even to open the door, holding him close until he set Rus into the passenger seat. For a humiliating moment, Rus’s fingers refused to loosen their grip on Edge’s coat, the heavy material nearly tearing under his blunt fingertips as Edge tried and failed to draw away. Strong hands circled his bruised wrists with care, thumbs working their way coaxingly into Rus’s palms until he finally let go. Edge buckled his seat belt on for him like he was a child and then rounded the front to settle into the driver’s side.

The car pulled away with a near silent purr, smoothly guiding them through narrow alleyways between the warehouses, out into the main street.

There were other cars on the road, driving along without a single clue that there were terrible people out in the world right now, driving right next to them. Reality was slowly settling back in, brutal and implacable, stealing away his blessed numbness. Rus kept his gaze on his hands, tracing the bruises he could see purpling on the bones, unable to keep from prodding at them even as it blossomed hurt.

“i want to go home,” Rus said, pettishly.

Edge’s focus was on the road, both hands on the wheel at a proper ten and two. “I told you I’d take you to your brother.”

Implying that wasn’t the same place and Rus turned his head to stare at Edge mutely, then slumped back into the seat. More fine leather, great, hatefully comfortable as it cradled his aching bones. He wondered how well it would muffle the sound if he buried his face into it and started screaming.

He didn’t bother. Rus didn’t feel much like talking anymore.

~~*~~

tbc

Read Next Chapter

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #mafia au

[jrctolkien]

don't blame me for falling, iii

read the first and second part!!

pairing: tom holland x reader

summary: he comes back to town after years and years, and the press are just eating it up and you're falling too hard and too fast

an; how unnecessary long can I make this challenge. also how dumb can I make this challenge lmao why is elon musk in this chapter?? I don't know!!

the news was, at first, too far fetched to be true. 

but as the months passed and the seasons changed and frost covered the green, green grass you could no longer look at, the fact that Tom Holland Had Quit Acting sunk with a finality into the world and its people.

when you were young and sweet and when your favourite colour was blue and you were so adamant that you hated pink, you remembered how much tom liked to act, be a dramatic idiot over the tiniest of things. how, if a teacher tried to send him out of the classroom, he'd whine and groan with the essence of a shakespearian actor. how, when summer term rolled around, he auditioned for every any role he could, dancing and prancing around the drama studio in front of you and harrison at lunchtimes. how, when he was fifteen, he had left to go have a shot at a life-changing part, bagging almost everything he could until he hit the big one: spiderman homecoming came out and the entire town rallied about the little boy on the big screen.

in his interviews, the subjects were far and few, all whittling down to one thing; why? his answer made no sense to but a few, "it was a little squiggle I did when I was young."

the tattoo on your ankle, the stick and poke you had done on a slow january evening when you were fourteen, the little squiggle that looked like a three with a somewhat long tail, the tattoo that had stayed infected for weeks and weeks. it burned into your skin, even after it had long faded, even after tom had left you and his hands were nowhere near your knees, even ten years on when you watched the occasional interview, eyes yearning to look at the way he sighed and heaved like his world had fallen to pieces, wishing you could reach out and stroke the pain away with a small smile.

"why?"

"I left too much behind." he once replied.  

"do you not like it?"

"I just think that he left a lot behind." you had once replied in an interview you regretted greatly. "perhaps a bit too much, too soon."

 london was a huge city.

the tall buildings and the exotic smells and the crowded pathways were unfamiliar to you, and you couldn't leave the apartment without harrison for a good week before you braved it by yourself.

 the greys of the buildings built a small, weak wall around your soul and when you shook tom's hand for the first time in half a year, it didn't warm you from your skin to your bones to your soul and it unsettled you in a way you couldn't describe.

london was foreign, and you hated it. you regretted taking the job there and you missed your friends and the familiar roads and the familiar smells and the lack of cameras that were around whenever you were with tom.

it had been a true mistake becoming his assistant, carrying his files and not talking to him like you used to. it was your fault, simply nodding and smiling whenever he made a joke only you would get, brushing him off like you thoughts you should've for so many years.

summer in london was the worst.

tom, ceo of a tech company now, was busiest in the warm weather and you could feel your forehead start to sweat even as you sat in the comfortable air conditioning in his car.

"what happened?" tom's voice was soft and the tentativeness of it made your heart clench.

"pardon?"

"to us." 

it was an unfamiliar topic, one the two of you always purposefully swayed from.

"you're my boss now." you answered after a pause. 

and then the silence enveloped the two of you again, only being broken by harrison's loud voice when you arrived at his apartment, tonya waddling behind him, all tummy, all beams and smiles. 

"baby!" you giggled, sinking into the hug tonya gave you. she had become a close friend, letting you stay and get on your feet upon arriving in london, watching bad tv shows and movies with you late into the night.

your neck was wet to touch, the heat unbearable out in the sun. you fanned yourself with such vigor it offset tonya, who looked at your hand with such a sharpness you felt as though she'd frozen it. 

"come in, come in." her voice was like honey, thick and goopy and smooth. she led the group of four into her home and a smile appeared on your face at the appearance of harrison's hands steady a few inches away from his very pregnant wife's back. life had been good for the two of them, the horrors of the world hidden out of view like they'd been kicked underneath the sofa. god had been kind to the two of them, and it showed in the golden glow of their faces when they smiled, and the crows feet already appearing on the twenty four year old harrison, smile upon smile that crinkled his eyes and his entire face, dimples appearing like he was a scrunched up piece of paper. tonya was still tall and leggy and her hair had been coloured by the sun, a beautiful shining gold that matched the darker strips across her nose and cheekbones. 

your grey skirt was stiff and tight around your legs and you frowned at tom, who was also fidgeting with his outfit. the suit that had been shrunk by the dry cleaners was stretched painfully across his slumped shoulders and frown lines had begun to appear on his cheeks and chin, as young as he was. life had been rough for him since his abrupt job change, many long nights and many people wondering what this young boy had to say, had to do about the current advancements in the technological world. now, half a year later, his company was off on its feet, taking its first few steps into the harsh world. 

"do you want a drink?" tonya offered, hand already holding a cold can of coke. you accepted it gratefully, stiffening as you felt tom place his hand on your back. he was inches away, breath fanning onto your forehead as he read an email, eyebrows furrowed. 

a soft hum was music to your ears, despite the grumbly undertone it had. he looked up at tonya, then to harrison stood behind her, "we have to go, im so sorry."

you glared at him, and you would've glared at yourself if you could for the whiney tone you took. "we just got here." you complained, "she could have a baby by the next time we visit!"

tom's frown focused on you and your heart flinched as he snapped, "unless you want to keep your job, which, might I remind you, I gave to you with no prior interview, you're not going to complain."

"oi, mate," harrison's cool voice butted in and he placed a tanned hand on tom's shoulder. it was a familiar action, where he would tighten his hand a little much, clap the shoulder just a tad too hard, his grin stretched and hiding malice in it. it was a trick of harrison's, in the i-just-wanna-vibe bloke kind of way, clap a hand on tom's, or yours, or a drunken stranger's shoulder, stand tall, too tall, and hulk his shoulders and his neck out in a way that always made you laugh. harrison always made you laugh.

tom was quiet, you saying your goodbyes for him - 'we'll be back before this little man pops out, I promise!'- and was fiddly and stiff and loose and a nervous wreck all over in the car, tugging at his collar until it became wrinkled, his eyes a little crazed. 

"soo," you dragged out, your warm breath breaking the icy tension in the room, "what we doing today, boss?"

"mr musk is here." tom said, and his voice was shaky and your heart clenched. when you were thirteen, or perhaps fourteen, or maybe even fifteen, (or perhaps forever), you had cared for tom so much that you every one of his mannerisms down to a tee. the tapping of his expensive shoes on the car floor? too much coffee, which you had learnt when tom had discovered it at the blooming age of thirteen, when he had carried it around in this cute pink thermos you and harrison had bought for him. the way his head twitched to the right after a long, hard couple of days was barely there, but you would always know, his shoulders stiffening and his jaw clenching as he tried to stay as resolutely still as possible. you knew him to a tee, you knew how he felt, you knew how he ate, you knew how he loved.

and that was, perhaps, why the wall between you was so thick and hard to crack. you knew how he loved and you knew that he knew the way you loved. you were loving each other at different paces, in different ways, in different dimensions, but in the same unobtainable, scary way that everybody loves.

"elon musk?" you whispered, your voice making tom's fingers thrum with warmth.

he nodded, brown, scared eyes gazing at you. "well, ok." you hurried, heart pounding in your chest so loudly you could almost feel it in your fingers. "that's fine, that's cool. don't you worry, he makes cars."

"and flamethrowers." tom's voice was shaky, and the playfulness dripped off in such a way that you winced.

"well, hopefully he'll lend me one to burn that bloody honker off your face."

"oi!" tom waved a finger at you and you laughed, drifting into a comfortable silence that was bordering on uncomfortable, all at tom's fault of course. his nervousness came off his in huge, tsunami-like waves that soaked you through to the marrows of your bones.

the car came to a slow stop outside the office, parking between two expensive black cars. the sun was scorching as you stepped out, puffing and almost burning your hand on the heat of the chassis.

"bloody hell." tom breathed, tugging on his collar once more. "it's fucking boiling."

you hummed in agreement, laughing at a memory, "remember when-"

"yeah." tom agreed , eyes crinkling at the edges. "almost late for temple, wasn't he?"

you nodded, the memory of your brother frankie falling asleep at his mate's on a warm, stifling summer's day one june floating in the air between the two of you. your mother had shouted at him, so loud the entire neighborhood had heard, and you and your sister esther had hid in the rabbit coop to escape her wrath, the comfortable smell of grass soaking into your clothes. 

you had hid there once again, years and years later, when frankie had lost his voice breaks and the ie at the end of his name, and had set off to war in some foreign country. your mother had shouted then, in english and french and yiddish, but your brother had heard none of it, setting off two weeks later. 

"is he still,," tom trailed off, hand twitching towards you. you shook your head, lips pursed. he had been killed by a stranger in a foreign land, and the person you nor your mother knew who had gone to collect his body had been killed too. 

"right." tom moved a hand to you and you smiled a shaky smile hands reaching up to his neck to find some sense of comfort.

"can't see mr musk all raggedy looking, now." your voice was playful, light, but it shook as you touched his neck.

the stiff collar creased under your fingers with ease, and you slipped it back into place, flush against his sunburnt skin. his tie was in a muddle, and it resembled that of a fourteen year olds so much so that you let out a giggle, sliding it up to his top button. you lingered, eyes looking up into his face.

so, so, close.

he wasn't smiling, no, but his eyes held a warmth that told of bygone days, when your ma would cook the two of you a hot apple pie, when you would wade about in the paddling pool of the only bloody nature park in your town with your shorts wet at the hem, when you would camp out in the frozen aisles of supermarkets before being kicked out, the warm sun a constant on your young backs. 

his eyes were pools of honey, the sticky brown of them golden in the sunlight, wrinkled around the edges in the way that spoke of love and fun. the two of you were aging, and the world was moving around you at a steady pace and the two of you were still figuring things out, your hearts guarded but your eyes true.

his face was rough with the beginnings of stubble and the sun drying it out, but you were stood stroking his cheek so what would it matter anyway. the way he leaned into your thumb, fractionally but with so much care made your heart thump and your breath catch. the domesticity of it scared you, and so did his eyes and his nose and his lips and the way he knew you so well and the way you knew him. it was so familiar, being this close to him, like visiting your parents at the holidays with the snow falling and being scared about what they'd think of your hair and your clothes and the accent that had been created anew and the way you laughed like the world was yours.

"I'm sorry." his voice was quiet against the din of london but he was so, so close that it just slipped into your ears like how he slipped and slotted into your life perfectly, filling all the missing gaps. "for leaving. so much." 

you took a shuddering breath and slid your hands down to his shoulders, giving them a friendly clap. "can't keep a billionaire waiting, tommo!"

it was harsh, perhaps, but however hard tom was pushing to get to the heart that was sure to be soft putty in his hands, you couldn't dare let him. for your heart was soft and made of putty, malleable and so easily thrown out after use. you didn't want him to leave one day and put it on the kitchen counter like his keys those many, many years ago.

elon musk was a remarkable man,and the way he spoke was so eloquent, in a messy way that reminded you so much of the world.

"your company is that of the stars, mr holland," he had spoke, his hands a blur in the air in front of you. it was rather nice, the motion fanning your boiling skin. 

he had left in an even quicker blur, the smell of expensive cologne and pricey suits trailing after him. your body mourned the loss of his hands, but was rather please at the addition of a pair of oh so very familiar hands.

"so?"

"so." you answered. elon had proposed a few things that were all very unclear and far and few, his american voice harsh in your little english head. 

"I don't make cars." tom breathed, tugging on his collar with a small smile.

"no we don't." you smiled back at him, the sun shining just a little brighter. 

#tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland fluff #tom holland smut #tom holland x you #tom holland x reader #don't blame me for falling #dbmff #sorry this out a little late I hate it :)))) #mine #masterlist

[penaltybox14]

Decofiremen: Soon Be the Dawning Days

@darknight-brightstar @zeitheist Every single one of my attempts to write pleasant holiday-oriented things ends up ass-deep in character dissection and plot exposition.  @squad51goals @its-skadi

In this installment, we talk about seasons, changes, and things to celebrate.

December darkens the days, and sharpens the nights.  There is frost every morning, and the sun is a pale consumptive, waking feebly and slipping weakly into evening.  The potbelly stove in the dorm is always burning, always someone up in the night to tend it, every hour.  The lads spend a productive few hours one off day re-arranging their beds, recaulking the windows, and hanging curtains.  When Josiah asks what they are up to, they explain the lads at the ends of the rows have been getting cold in the night, and they are trying to fix it up so that either everyone is warm, or everyone is cold.

"You mind, Captain?" Jules Menlo asks.  He and Bertram Cochrane have taken up the lead, since Antoine and Ellis left for the City.  They are raw to it, but they are learning yet. 

"Not at all, boys, carry on."

Josiah is pleased with them.  Neat and natty rows of beds can go to hell, the lads are making a fine hearth for themselves.  They make sure to vent it properly, and Lufty nods approvingly at their work - a house inside of a house, a canvas-flanked beast breathing and snoring in the wind-snipped nights.  Josiah only scolds them once, when he catches Davey at three in the morning carrying wood in for the stove.  Sure, he is wrapped up tight as a beetle in a sack of flour, but Josiah reminds them that he's just a boy, yet, and needs his rest.

Young Cleary had stumbled a while, the days after Antoine and Ellis were graduated.  Eddy had given him a scorcher of a talk for forgetting to include Davey in the proceedings, and he deserved it.  That responsibility is still so new and giddy to him - where now, he can remember his own graduation, and think well on it, and not always be so bitter - and he had left the boy bereft.  Fool that he is.  Even Silky would've cuffed him for it. 

My true friend Silky, he writes, one glassy morning when the sun had lost the strength to lift the frost from the grass, you would not believe me or maybe you would.  Do you remember the day the bell sounded for us, at breakfast?  In the good cheer of sending my lads to the city, I left out the boy who needs us most, our young Cleary.  Your god, my friend, would smote me off the earth.  It was a terrible mistake, for I frightened him so badly.  I had to set him down later in the day and explain all the proceedings and the ceremony.  I am not yet sure he forgives me.  I am not sure I deserve it.  Here he is, a boy who has already lost one family, and I am to take another from him.  You can be sure Eddy let me have it. 

yours irresponsibly, Birchy

In those following days, after Antoine and Ellis depart on the train from Troy, his heart aches, something like a tooth you want to forget, something a body can't escape from.  The long hallway is there in his dreams, in the boy's dreams, and now he hears the piano, and the distant laughter.  He smells the books in the study.  When he wakes, he feels the far-off gaze of a man much his senior, cool-eyed but in such a way as a lake when the summer days grow taut about the city streets.  An expectant look, a waiting.  Far off down that hallway, as far from the boy now as the Bronx for him, as the dorm he once sweat out his sear in.  He would want to look away, as the village folks and the oakbellies look at his scars and his brace.

He knows that hallway, and that's just the trouble, for young Cleary has walked it alone, trailing his fingers along the green wallpaper, and Josiah, trembling for the thought of the beam waiting in the ceiling, has not followed.  Coward, he thinks.  To let the child walk his hallway and stumble, smoke-wrecked, to his wide lawn, alone.  A one-legged and half-hearted coward.  Davey looks at him askance often in those following days - doesn't come to read with him or practice his Latin, doesn't follow the lads out on their drills no matter how they coax him.  He walks down the pathway past the brambles and into the woods, his too-large coat down past his knees and his collar up so high it leaves just his dark curls tumbling out in the sharp wind, and when he comes in for dinner, he is quiet and small among the lads. 

It is one of those long, weary twilights when the winter rattles like dry bones, and his leg aches.  He is fixing the ledger, making notes, and Silky's reply is on the edge of the desk.  Davey slips in so quietly he only hears it with his sear, so startlingly that Josiah leaves a blot on the end of a row. 

"Capper?"

He puts his pen down and smiles like he imagines Silky would at an Antoine or an Ellis.  Truth to say, he has missed the boy, even the sometimes frantic, fledgling winging of his sear.  He is far too young to grieve such an emptiness as that long, black hallway and the smoke-torn sky.

"May I ask a question?"

Times, the boy's genteel raising surfaces, softly like the wave on the shore.  Times, as now, he holds his cap in his hands as if he's in a holy place, and his eyes are the shyness of moss on a shadowed ledge. 

"Course.  Always."

"Eddy said firemen don't take holidays."

"Come sit.  What're you onto?"

"It's almost Dawning Days, that's all..."

"Oh, ghosts above, Davey - " Josiah has to laugh.  " - no, that's not how Eddy meant it.  He only meant that fires and accidents and all our work, it can happen any time."

Davey sits in one of the clutter of chairs in Josiah's office, kicking his legs, the gesture of a younger boy, an apologetic sort of gesture. 

"I don't mean to laugh, young Cleary, but we do know the Dawning Days."

From the sundown on solstice to daybreak on New Year's - the time of spirits, the time of the seasons shifting, the time to do good and remember that the sun is only resting for a grand debut.  The oakbellies throw a grand to-do at New Year's, all the officers invited to come at their most festive.  He has not gone - and the oakbellies are likely to be glad of it, he figures, for he would not cut such a charming figure in his full dress and a tin of polish on his leg.  They would, as they did at his promotion, shuffle and swallow hotly above their stiff collars.  He would probably stand the whole night out of pride and spend the week after in bed.  Perhaps it would be worth it.

"Do you have a party?"

"As many as we can."

"And lights?"

"As many as the sills will hold.  The lights and the cups left out for the ghosts.  Eddy has probably got another little tree to plant - you know, that stand of maple by the stables, that's his handiwork."

Davey is looking as delighted as Josiah has ever seen him.  His eyes are younger, now.  He is more the boy that he must have been in golden days, before his long dark hallway. 

"And you already know Bertram and his fiddle, and save us all, we've heard the lads sing."

"They taught me the fireman's song."  Davey grips the chair, and then pauses, as if lost of a sudden.  "Lyddie would've liked that song, I suppose.  Mother scolded her because she called the music our teacher brought her 'musty old tunes'."

From far away, in the marrow of his bones, Josiah feels the soft carpet of the parlor under his shoes.  Dark walnut bookshelves and rich, salmon-colored wallpaper embossed with an intricate pattern, the sort of thing a child would run their fingers over.  The books are less a rainbow than a late-summer forest, greens and smatterings of red and orange.  The girl playing the piano, with the bow in her hair, likes to spin cleverly from the plodding strains of an old mass to the bright chirps of ragtime and dance.  The brother laughs. 

The oak floors in their dormitory had what seemed to be a century of wax and polish creating glistening currents in the low lamplight.  They could have greased the bedsprings with a gallon of lard per man and the damned things would've screamed like witches every time a man so much as thought of rolling over.  A cold night outside, and a warm hearth within, each coat and helmet hung on its hook, each woolen blanket tucked neatly around each mattress corner.  The brothers are singing and the brothers are laughing. 

"Antoine wrote me a letter," Davey says, quietly.  "He says he got his sear."  Davey bites his lip.  "He says everybody looked after him, and his captain Jack Prince gave him a pocketwatch.  Does it hurt so much, always?"

"Every man is different.  It's a hard hand of days.  But we look after each other." "I don't remember, exactly.  I hurt so long, I was in bed and the lady wanted to call the doctor, I think.  I hurt so long, and then - then it just felt like - "  Davey leans forward, puts his arms on the desk and his head in his arms and sighs.  Muffled, he whispers, "I felt like - "

Like wandering, Josiah thinks.  That strange stillness when the fever breaks, before you come around to your mates watching over you, before you pull yourself out of your bed weak and stunned and brand-new on foal's legs.  A fresh and open field, the shaded place where the last dollop of snow lives nearly into June. 

"I know," Josiah murmurs, and lays his hand - his scarred hand - on young Cleary's shoulder.  "I do know, son, I do."

"I wished Antoine didn't have to hurt that way.  Or Ellis.  Or Jules or Betram." "I dunno what it was like - " Josiah sighs.  " - but for me, I had my mates around, and my pal, we got it together.  I never would've got through it, without him."

"Thomas."

Josiah starts.

"Sorry, Capper.  I read it on the letter.  Eddy talked about him once, too."

"Silky."

"Capper?"

"Silky.  That's what we called Thomas."

"Why?"

"I don't remember, really."

"What's he like?"

"Oh," Josiah says.  "I'll tell you.  You'd like him a sight better than me - for one thing, he's got two entire good legs and he could take you down to the fish pond.  Second - "

Davey is kicking his legs again, scuffing the toes of his boots on the wooden floor. 

"Well, I'll tell you.  The day I met him, here at Wynantskill, he very nearly ran me down with a horse, a big old dapple grey gelding we called Chubby..."

Davey leans on his hands. 

Silky's letter, half-unfolded, is by his elbow.  I never really got the brothers' whole forgiveness bit, it says, but I do reckon it's a little bit like when you turn over the ash of a building, and you find a little green thing growing underneath.

#decofire #decofiremen #yes I realize that's an 11 day span #and yes sometimes that's an eleven day food alcohol and music bender #but you also get plants

[devilishsahbi]

Dark Wings, Dark Words (0.5/??)

JAPAN WAS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE when you slowed down enough to admire it. Diavolo had, had more than his fair share of trips to the above world, but he had never spent them quite like this⏤or, perhaps, he was far more used to having a body slumped at his feet with a gun to their heads.

Tonight, it was only his fists that sported the evidence of his recreational activities. Knuckles raw and bloodied, he rejected the demonic energy that flowed through him, that demanded he heal himself. Taking lives was not something he did lightly, and reminding himself of it⏤like a human would⏤made his thoughts just that bit heavier. Just that more burdened.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Lucifer crept up beside him without him knowing, arms crossed in a permanent expression of calm. "You aren't usually so quiet after a session."

Diavolo glanced back towards the metal door to the questioning room almost lazily, then looked towards the city lights once more. He completely skipped over Lucifer entirely, favoring the tender skin on his hand instead. "It's rare that I get to take in the frivolities of the human world like this. It almost makes me miss it."

"I wasn't aware you favored the human realm." Light. Deceptively curious. "Or that you frequented it enough at all to lament the loss."

"I never said that I did."

"I didn't accuse you of anything, Diavolo."

"You were thinking it." The redheaded demon shrugged off his blazer and tossed it over the back of a plastic chair. His crisp white shirt was now stained dark red with blood, drying to an unusual hardness, and flecks of it still clung to his face, some fresh and some old. "I'll need to buy a new wardrobe after this."

"Beel did tell you to let him take over," Lucifer reminded him gently, as if he were dealing with a different beast tonight. Which he was; Diavolo might have hid it well, but underneath the cool admiration of the city, he was boiling with unspent rage. "But no. You kept going, and still keep the reminders, I see."

Diavolo narrowed his eyes. He swept up his sleeves, drenched in blood from the wrist up, and pinned them at the elbows. "It keeps me from reverting to my baser instincts. Which you would know nothing about, seeing as Mammon draws it out of you on a day to day basis."

"You're being short with me. Should I worry?"

"Don't ignore what I just said." The prince patted his back pockets and pulled out a soiled cigar. He examined it in the dim light of the moon and shrugged, placing it between his lips and flicking it to a light with his power. "Mammon isn't as stupid as you think he is, Lucifer. I gave him to you for a reason."

"Yes, well… he has yet to prove that." Except the slightly guilty expression on his face proved otherwise. "Or anything, really."

"Is that what you do?" Amusement⏤thin, but barely there, threaded with a demand for an answer. "Let him get under your skin until you can't take it anymore, then take it out on his flesh?"

"Diavolo…" Lucifer warned.

"Don't. I've seen the scars. The wounds he has when he reports back to me." He released a solid stream of smoke through his nose, taking pleasure in the bewildered look that the other demon sent him. "You didn't think I was just going to hand him over to you just like that, did you? I suppose you did, with that look on your face."

The sparkling lights of Japan seemed to dim in the face of the fallen angel's wrath. His anger was potent, his desire to hurt and maim rising to the surface, cracking that veneer of crafted elegance that he desperately desired to keep.

"What I do to my people is my business," he began, the beginning threads of his horns poking through the glamour,"not⏤"

"They're not your people. They're mine." Diavolo abandoned the kind façade with a sneer. It tired him to use it when there was no one else to witness it but Lucifer himself⏤the one who needed to be reminded of his place. "You're just a pawn on a chess board playing lapdog. Your life debt to me is forever; or did you forget about that little factoid? I'm sure Lilith would be disappointed in you."

The angel's entire body stiffened at the thinly veiled threat. The prince⏤the heir⏤was only serious when he wanted to be. And that tone, that wording… It put Lucifer on edge.

"Diavolo…" His voice was soft now, not tinged with the anger that he fixated on Mammon. "Please…"

"I got her out, like you asked." The demon prince leaned over the railing and inhaled a heady breath of smoke. Released it into the night air. "I got her a new life, like you asked. I stripped her of her demon and her status. I would think the least you could do was quit abusing your subordinates⏤or am I thinking too highly of you?"

"No." Lucifer was choked. "No, you aren't."

Diavolo huffed. He raked a hand through his hair, grimacing at the tugs and pulls from the dried blood. "Leave."

"What?"

"What I said. Leave. Go back to the underworld."

"And the human?"

"I don't care. Let Beel eat him. He was a waste of time, anyways." Another puff of smoke. "And Lucifer?"

The fallen angel paused outside of the balcony doorway. "Yes?"

"If you question me again, I'll be paying a little visit to Lilith. And I know you don't want that. Do you?"

No anger. Only fear radiated off of him now; and loathing.

"No."

"Good." Diavolo ripped the cigar from his lips and ground it into dust on the railing. "Now get out of my presence. Consider yourself banned from the human world until I feel like you've groveled enough."

And for Lucifer, the hit to his pride was enough. He sunk down into a portal without as much as a farewell, the entrance closing with an audible snap.

"Angels," the prince huffed, thumbing away the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease. "So loyal, and yet so very defiant. Maybe I should have killed that little Seraphim after all."

He lingered in the human realm for a few more hours, watching the glittering lights of the city once more, but the allure had vanished. All that was left was an immense void that he couldn't fill. Not even the bright lights of humanity could fill it.

Diavolo's mood soured. His knuckles suddenly felt tight, like he needed to hit something for a few hours more. To break bone, turn marrow into dust, obliterate souls and drown his enemies in their blood.

"Now I remember why I hate this world."

#obey me #obey me diavolo #mafia au #diavolo x reader

[fluffyvillain]

The Bond

Chapter: 8/?

Summary: First date, first kiss, first other things ;)

Pairing: Henry Cavill/OFC

Warnings: SMUT

@ly–canthrope​ @vikingsbifrost​ @peakygroupie​ @winchwm​ @thethirstyarchive

A/N: This chapter is longish and smutty. I don’t really think that I’m good at writing smut, but I still occasionally try doing it because smut is love, smut is life. Smutty part was inspired by this  ⬇️

Mila drove a rented Vespa, which was her mean of transportation while she was staying in Italy, to Henry's hotel. It took only about a minute of driving up the hill to see his smiling face waiting for her by the road. He was waiting for her in a pair of jeans and a crisp white shirt with arms crossed across his chest. Why does he always look so good? Her eyes wandered over his body before she came to a full stop. "Hey. Hop on, you have a helmet in the basket there in the back."

Henry thought he would get to kiss Mila once she arrived, at least on the cheek, but it never occurred to him that she would be coming on a Vespa, with a helmet on, ruining his plan. Although, she did look darn cute on that old fashioned Vespa in a white floral dress. "Isn't this a little too small for the both of us?"

"Maybe you'll have to squeeze a little bit, but it will only take us 10 minutes to reach our destination." She watched Henry as he approached the back of the Vespa so he could put on the helmet. Once he was done, he pulled out a strand oh Mila's hair that was stuck under the chain of her purse. "Thank you." He climbed up and hugged her tightly, pressing his stomach on her back and her body shivered as his thumb grazed her breast. "You have hand holder on the sides."

"I'm fine like this, thank you." He put his head in the crook of her neck. "You smell wonderful."

Mila took her hand of the brake and ran it over his forearm and it made him hug her tighter. "Thanks, so do you."

"Where are you taking me?" Henry hoped his mind wouldn't wander in a wrong direction and cause his dick to go hard.

Mila started the Vespa and got back on the road. "Up to the village, there's a music festival."

"Sounds great." Henry watched over Mila's shoulder her thighs being pressed against his.

Juts like Mila said, it took them 10 minutes to reach the village which was already crowded. A small stage was set in the middle of the village and one of the bands was already playing. On the edges of the main square, a bunch of vendors were selling their goods on the stands. Henry thought that this had be an important event as people all ages were scattered across the streets.

This wasn't Mila's first time at this festival, so she mostly focused on Henry and him soaking in his surroundings. "Let's go get some pizza."

"Sure." Henry followed Mila's lead, watching the contour of her ass under her dress, he was sure it would feel amazing in his hands.

"Can I choose? It'll be good, I promise." She suddenly turned around, catching Henry staring at her butt and she loved how he blushed at being caught red handed.

Henry thought about apologizing, but when he saw her biting her lower lip, he flashed her a smile. "Sure. You took me on a date, I believe I'm in good hands."

Mila ordered two slices of prosciutto pizza and threatened to leave when Henry wouldn't let her pay, so he gave up. "Let's go there," Mila pointed to a low wall, not so well lit and not with many people passing it by. She set on it, straddling it, one foot on the floor, while other one dangled above the abyss surrounding the hill.

Henry mimicked her, sitting so their knees on the side of the floor touched. Mila waited for him to take the first bite and once he did, his eyes widened. "This is," he took another bite, speaking with his now full mouth, "the best pizza I've ever tried. This dough was made of a piece of heaven."

"Told you," Mila dug in too.

"I want to know more about you, scratch that, I want to know everything about you. I know some things, but I want to know more." Henry couldn't stop eating.

Mila started talking between bites. "I'm an only child. I was born in New York, my parents died in a car crash when I was 5." Even though Henry knew that, it sounded so much more real when he heard it coming from her. He covered her hand with his on the wall between them. "That was a long time ago, I learned how to live with it. My aunt Rose and her husband raised me, I have two unbearable idiot twin cousins and I adore them and my mom's father is the reasons I'm into hospitality. He made an empire with his 10 fingers and a lot of hard work and effort. I moved back into my parent's house when I started University and I've lived alone ever since. What else? I have a PhD, I love reading, binge watching TV shows, swimming. Anything else you want to know?"

"Wow, you have a PhD?" Henry was listening carefully, but couldn't stop eating until he finished his slice completely.

"I do, I started dragging it, I honestly thought I would never finish it, but then the thing with you happened and it writing it helped me take my mind off you."

There wasn't any bitterness in her voice, but Henry still felt the need to apologize. "You have no idea how sorry I am."

"It's in the past now," and she honestly thought at that moment that it was. "I want to know more about you too, even though I did Google you."

"I don't know what you read, but not everything is true. I was born in Britain, Jersey. I have four brothers."

"Your poor mom." Mila glanced at his hand which was still on top of hers, it was so much larger than hers.

"We used to drive her crazy, we still do when we're together. I love playing video games, I'm a nerd. I've always wanted to become and actor, I didn't have much luck in the beginning, but look at me now."

"Yes, look at you now, and still so modest about it." Mila withdrew her hand and swung her leg to the other side of the wall before getting up. "Wait here, I'll be right back."

Henry put both of his feet on the ground and followed her with his eyes until she got lost in the crowd, he was really enjoying her company, he felt like he could listen to her talk for days. She's been gone for less than a minute and he already missed seeing her in front of him. She was so cute and beautiful and hot and smart and she was humane. For Christ's sake, she donated her bone marrow. Unbelievable, she is unbelievable. Mila finally came back after about five minutes which seemed like hours to Henry.

"Here you are," Mila handed him another piece of pizza and then set next to him, holding two of ice cream in one hand. "You are twice my size, I bet you're still hungry. And I bought us pistachio ice cream."

"Thank you." She was right, one piece was definitely not enough. She started nibbling on her ice cream before he finished.

Mila occasionally glanced at him, trying not to be too obvious, but every glance of hers was caught because he kept staring at her. When he was done, she handed him his cone. "Here you are."

Henry noticed a little bit of ice cream on Mila's upper lip. "You have a little..." He pointed to his lips, but before she could react, he swiped it with his thumb and brought it to his lips so he could lick it off.

A pool of heat formed in Mila's stomach and without thinking, she pressed the tip of her ice cream on the corner of his lips. "You have some ice cream on your face."

"Oh, really?" Henry grinned at Mila.

She leaned in, pressed her lips to the corner of his and licked it clean. Both pairs of eyes remained open, both of them caught by surprise by Mila's action. Mila slowly pulled away and Henry looked at his cone before pressing it to the center of her lips. "Oops." Henry cupped her cheek and pressed his lips to hers, he's been imagining it for weeks, but this was so much better. He applied gentle pressure, barely moving his lips at first. Every inch of Mila's skin got covered in goosebumps. Her hand landed on his thigh and she parted her lips slightly, loving the feeling of his darting tongue on them. Henry pushed his tongue deeper and and she welcomed it, parting her lips wider. Her hand squeezed his thigh as she grew bolder and her tongue started exploring his mouth, touching the roof of it. Henry moved his hand to the back of her head, tangling fingers in her hair, her hand also found a new stop, his hip. His tongue retreated a few times only to plunge back in her mouth, licking hers over and over again and warm feeling spread though his whole body.

Mila's breath was starting to get ridged and she was becoming light headed, but she was pulled back to Earth when Henry's ice cream dripped on her knee. She moved her hand to his cheek and pulled away, but not before pecking his lips once more. "Your ice cream is melting." She pointed at her stained knee before she swiped it, but Henry prevented her from licking it off herself by grabbing her wrist, bringing her hand to his lips, licking her finger, before sucking it and swirling his tongue around it, not taking his eyes of hers. Mila contained a moan, but it took her a lot strength to do so, as she imagined what it would be like for him to suck on other parts of her body.

"There, you are all clean now." He kissed the root of her palm before letting go. He noticed her pupils dilated and knew that she was feeling the exact same thing as he did at that moment and he didn't know how he managed to contain himself from taking her on that little wall then and there. "Let's go," he offered his hand and Mila took it. He led her through the crowd, not letting go of her hand until they were in front of the stage. He took the last bite of his ice cream and moved behind Mila, one hand crawled from one shoulder to another, across her chest, while he rested his other one below her breasts, placing his chin on top of her head. Music rhythm took over him and he started moving with it and Mila started swaying too, grabbing his forearm with both hands, leaning back.

The more they moved together to the beat, the bolder Mila became, she started gliding her hand over his arm, to his biceps and back to her other hand which hung on his wrist. At one point, she let go of his arm and kissed his hand which held her shoulder. Henry pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, angling her head so he could bite her lover lip before pressing soft kisses on it. She turned around, putting her hands on his neck, pulling him down and pressing her body against his as she kissed Henry over and over again. She let go of him, putting her heels on the ground, but his lips followed hers as he hugged her tightly with one arm while cradling the back of her head with the other. Her hands crawled up to his chest, pushing him away lightly. "I almost forgot there are people around us, we need to stop."

"Whatever you say," Henry nuzzled the back of her ear. "It's my turn to take you on a date tomorrow. Can you be ready at 7 tomorrow morning?"

"Sure, but if you want me not to be cranky because I didn't get enough sleep, we should get going now." Mila linked their arms together.

"Don't be surprised if you see someone on the beach in the morning." He unlinked their arms so he could hug her shoulders, kissing her temple.

She squinted at him. "Okay." They walked over to the Vespa and she fished out the keys, unlocking the basket first.

"Before you put that on," Henry crashed their lips together, teeth clashing together, his hands lowering to her knees and then going up her thighs, lifting her dress until he almost uncovered her ass.

Mila moaned, digging her nails in his hips, pressing her lower part of the body to his, receiving a groan in response. Henry grabbed her ass, deepening their kiss. "Henry," he continued kissing her despite her tugging at the back of his t-shirt. "Enough, leave something for tomorrow."

He squeezed her ass once more before letting go of her, adjusting her semi hard on while she was putting her helmet and getting on the Vespa. He did the same, hugging her tightly once again.

Mila tried to focus on the road as Henry lowered his hand to her thigh, trailing fingers all the way to her pubic mound, Mila felt a knot tying just above it. "Stop it, we will crash." Henry put his arm back on her stomach, but he grabbed her breast which filled up his hand perfectly. "Behave." She pushed his hand away and he behaved indeed for the rest of the short trip. Once they arrived, Henry tried to persuade her to take of his helmet so he could have a better access to her lips, but she refused. "I will never leave if I do that."

"I don't want you to leave." He kissed her despite the obstacle the helmet represented.

"Go, I'll see you tomorrow." She ran her had through his hair.

"Fine, fine. Goodnight." He waved at her and waited for her to get back on the road and drive away until he could see her.

Both of them pleasured themselves once they got into their showers, both of them imagining each other and both of them climaxing rather quickly.

Mila got up as soon as the alarm went off at 6 o'clock. She did her morning yoga and meditation, except that for the first time in 5 years, she didn't have to block Henry's feelings, she let his excitement float through her. When she was done, she grabbed some breakfast and got ready. A few minutes before 7 o'clock, she entered a balcony, seeing a small yacht anchored on the beach and a man getting on a jet ski behind its driver. At 7 sharp, a doorbell rang and Mila ran to the gates to open them. Henry was standing in front of the gates, holding a woven picnic basket. "Good morning," she waved at him, running to the gates.

He waved back. "Great minds think alike." He pointed at her clothes, she was wearing an indigo blue shorts and a white polo shirt, while he was wearing a white short pants and an indigo blue polo shirt.

"They do, indeed." She opened the gates and rose to her feet to peck his lips once he was in. "Taking the regular path to the beach today?"

"For a change." Henry put his hand in hers. "Did you take everything you need?"

"Let me just take my phone and a towel. I figured we'd also go swimming so I already put on my swimming suit. You can head down, I'll be right with you."

Henry took the stairs to the beach and waited a few moments until she was by her side. He took off his hoes and swung them one by one with them ending on the yacht. "You might need to do the same if you don't want to get your sandals wet."

She followed his advice and then followed him up the ladders, getting wet to her knees. "So, you're gonna be the captain today?"

He assisted her with the last few steps by giving her a helping hand. He pulled up the ladder and a wooden platform. "Mhm. I need to pull up the anchor and I'm gonna need your help, so you'll be the captain for a minute." They walked to the cockpit and Henry moved back the seat before starting the engines, he liked to steer while standing. "Just move the wheel in the direction I show you, okay?"

"I guess." Henry walked to the deck, checking the anchor chain, pointing to the right and Mila turned the wheel slowly and Henry started winching and he did so until the anchor was completely lifted and in place. Henry came back, taking over the wheel, moving the yacht slowly.

"I'm gonna take a look around." She walked around the yacht, it looked brand new, shiny white, with a lot of wooden details. She was grateful that if was a small one, the large robust ones didn't really seem secure to her. She soaked in the morning sun for a few minutes on the deck before going to the cockpit to Henry, who was intently staring at her while she was on the deck.

"I was getting lonely here." Henry glanced back at Mila.

"I'm sorry," she pressed her chest against his back, sneaking her hands below the ham of his shirt to his perfect abs, running over every single one of them with the tips of her fingers, feeling the gentle hair covering them. "You know, I think you would steer better if you took off your shirt."

"You think? Well, if you say so." Henry pulled his shirt over his head, throwing it to the side. Mila scratched every inch of his back gently, pressing soft kisses down his spine, making him shudder. He turned on his heel, pulling the edge of her shirt above her head as she instinctively pulled up her arms, throwing her shirt over his. "I think this is the only fair option."

"Oh, is that so? Well..." Mila pulled down her shorts, kicking it to over their shirts and their clothes started to pile up. "I'm raising the stakes."

Henry's eyebrow shot up and his lower lip immediately ended up between his teeth. Mila was so tiny and so perfect, maybe he did prefer tiny girls in the end, well, this  particular tiny girl. He unbuttoned his short pants, pulling them down and sending them to join the rest of the clothes. "I would gladly continue with this game, but a beautiful cove is waiting for us." Henry got back to the steering wheel and Mila ducked under his arms facing him, she hugged him once again, resting her head against his chest. Henry kept one hand on the wheel, while he tugged her ponytail so she would look up, allowing him to trap her upper lip between his for a few seconds. He kissed the top of her head, gliding his hand over the smooth skin of her back. The exchange of soft kisses and caresses lasted until Henry announced that they arrived.

Henry went to the deck to anchor the yacht, leaving Mila at the wheel again. He lowered and secured the anchor before coming back. "Is everything okay?"

"Peachy." He shut off the engines and suddenly picked up Mila, catching her by surprise, her legs wrapped around his waist and arms wrapped around his shoulders. "Do you know how you make me feel?" He nuzzled his nose in her breasts.

"I kind of have an idea." She smoothed back his hair.

"Let's go for a swim." He let go of her and walked to the back, lowering the platform and the ladder.

Mila admired the beauty of the cove, a really narrow passage lead to it and it was surrounded by steep cliffs. "How did you find this place?"

"I asked the locals in the hotel." He picked her up again, but this time bridal style.

She squealed at the surprised contact. "What are you doing?"

"Well, we are going for a swim." He moved to the deck.

"There is a perfectly fine ladder just there. We can't jump, the water is freezing, I'm sure." Mila clutched his shoulders, trying to squirm out.

"Yes, we can." He stepped over a fence, jumping with her in his arms. He let go of her once they touched the water surface and he emerged first.

Water splashed over Henry's face as soon as Mila emerged. "I told you it was cold, you gufus."

"Race you to the passage." Henry started swimming, not waiting for them to start at the same time.

Mila was was half way there when Henry reached the goal. "That's not fair! We didn't start at the same time," Mila screamed at him as she continued to swim to him.

"Because that would make much of a difference." Henry dunked himself under water a couple of times while he was waiting for her to arrive. "You are so slow."

"Oh, shut up." Mila continued swimming through the passage. "Wow, this is just wow."

"And it echoes. Listen to this. Mila..." Her name echoed a few times. "...Is...The...Most...Gorgeous...Woman...On...The...Planet."

Mila swam to him, kissing the tip of his nose. "Let me try. Henry...Is...A...Cheater...Who...Doesn't...Play...Fair..."

Henry pulled her to him, biting her cheek before kissing it. "I'm so happy," he whispered in her ear.

"I'm glad you found your way to me," she whispered back. Their lips connected, molding perfectly together as Henry kept them both above the water. They swam around the cove for a while, splashing each other, kissing and hugging each other. "Henry, I don't think I have anymore strength."

"Okay, let's go." Henry led the way, but he adjusted his speed to hers, making sure she was always next to him.

When they reached the ladder, Henry grabbed them, getting ready to climb first, but Mila stopped him, holding his other hand, while she also grabbed the ladder with the other one. She started kissing his throat, with her tongue darting over every place her lips touched. He wrapped his arm around her waist and she wrapped her legs around him, pushing herself against him, feeling him getting harder by her every move.

Mila submerged her hand under water, tugging on the waistband of his swimming shorts. "Mila," he sunk his teeth in her shoulder.

"Shall I stop?" Mila pulled away her hand, but he caught it, putting it on her stomach.

"No, God, no." He grabbed the platform with both of his hands, towering over Mila, keeping himself above the water with the pure strength of his arms.

Mila hooked a finger under the waistband, not taking her eyes off Henry, she flattened her hand on his abdomen, moving it south until she was at the root of his penis, circling it with her forefinger and thumb. She bit her lip. "Thicker than I imagined you would be."

Henry smirked, but his smirk was gone when she went up his shaft, the rest of her fingers joining too, swirling around the tip. "Fuck." Mila sped up her movements, occasionally massaging his balls. Henry's forehead fell on hers, nose against nose, eyes still not breaking eye contact. His lower lip started trembling, his breath became uneven and the speed of his chest rising and falling changed. He shut his eyes as he twitched in Mila's hand a few times before shooting up jets of sperm which mixed with salty water.

Mila kissed him as his eyes were still shut and he became softer in her hand, causing her to retreat her hand from his shorts. "I'm going out." Henry still hanging onto the platform made Mila swim around him to reach the ladder. Just when she climb it, he was behind her in two steps.

"It's my turn to have fun now." He pressed himself against her back, lips on her neck, hands on her breasts. Mila pushed her ass against him, as the region between her legs started to tingle. Her breasts lost the grip of his hands as one of them covered her belly button and the other one sneaked inside the bottom of her bikini, the root of his palm putting pressure on her clit and his middle finger circling around her entrance. Mila inhaled sharply and her knees grew weak. "I already know I'm going to get addicted to your pleasure." He bit her earlobe, while pushing just the tip of his finger inside her. "Get on your back."

She covered his hand with hers, urging him to go deeper. "Here?"

"Mhm." Henry lowered himself to his knees, getting his hand out of her panties.

Mila did what he asked her to, sitting on the platform before lowering her back too. Henry watched her every move, adjusting his dick as he started to get hard again. Mila waited for him to make a move, but he didn't and she couldn't wait any longer to have something inside her, so started rubbing herself over her swimsuit before entering a digit inside her as Henry licked his lips watching her do it.

"Not today, darling, but I'd sure love to watch your show some other day." He pulled her knees apart and Mila got her hand out of the bikini bottom, Henry grabbed her hand, licking her middle finger that was inside her just a few seconds ago. "Delicious." He kissed the inner parts of her knees and rubbed his beard on both of her inner thighs, causing her to put her legs together. "Spread them, honey." He moved to her lips, covering her whole body while settling between her legs. His tongue penetrated her mouth and she kept letting soft moans as hers fought for dominance inside her mouth. He squeezed his arm between them, suddenly pushing two fingers inside her, causing her soft moans to become loud cries. He left her mouth to kiss her collarbone, while simultaneously moving his fingers in and out of her. He left her empty suddenly, pulling her swimsuit bottom down. "Lift your ass, these have to go." She followed his command and she was butt naked in front of him in a second. He bit her inner thigh before engulfing her labia in his mouth, applying pressure with his tongue on her clit, licking it and flicking it over and over again, preventing her from moving by pressing his forearm over her abdomen.

Mila felt her orgasm building up and her hand flew to his hair, he put two fingers back inside her, curling them up. Her head fell back as her heart rate jumped and her breath shortened. Feeling her whole body tensing, Henry moved up, kissing her fiercely, mixing the taste of her core with the taste of her lips. He added the third finger inside her, applying pressure on her clit with his thumb until she couldn't follow the rhythm of his kiss and her body spasmed , waves of pleasure washing over her, her legs jerking and her nails digging in his back. "Oh, God, Henry. Oh, my God. This was amazing." As she slowly got down from her high, she cupped his cheeks, kissing his whole face.

"It was, you are amazing, you smell amazing, you taste amazing, you clenching around my fingers feels amazing." He withdrew his fingers from her, rolling on his back, pulling her with him, letting her rest on top of him, running his fingers up and down her back. Henry was rock hard again and wanted to bury himself in her, he wanted to slam with full force, but he had planned that for tonight.

Mila felt his hardness on her stomach, only thin material separating it from her skin. "It seems that we are not done here yet," she started circling the lower part of body on him. "Did you bring protection?" Mila wanted to feel him inside, not his fingers, nor tongue, his dick, but she never did sex without protection and Henry wasn't an exception.

"Oh, how I wish I did." Brilliant thinking, Cavill. "I didn't really plan on this happening here. Not that I'm not enjoying it immensely."

"Well..." Mila set up on him, feeling his hardness below her, her shins resting on the platform on both sides of Henry. "We'll have to do it like this." She arched her back, grinding on him slowly, her still swollen labia enjoyed the friction against the fabric. Henry reached his arm to her breasts, pulling one side of her white swimsuit top down, exposing one of her breasts so he could twist and pinch her nipple.

Henry reached her lips, sticking two of his fingers inside her mouth, she sucked them and her tongue circled around them and Henry's hand moved to her hip, digging his fingers in her flash in a bruising manner, pressing her harder against him as she sped up, grinding for her own pleasure until her stomach clenched and she fell on his chest again. She stayed like that for a minute before placing kisses over his chest and down his stomach. She pulled down his shorts enough to take him out of them, she pumped him, loving the weight of his dick in her palm. Her lips placed kisses from the root to the tip before swallowing all of him, his tip hitting the back of her throat. "Jesus, Mila, you are my goddess." He grabbed her ponytail and she looked up, locking eyes with him. He started thrusting up slowly as she sucked him off. His dick started throbbing and Mila prepared herself for the semen he unloaded in her mouth. She sucked him dry, until there wasn't a drop left, she pulled her lips to the tip, letting go of it with a pop.

Mila got up to look for the bottom of her swimsuit and she put it on once she found it, adjusting her top to cover both of her breasts. Henry tucked himself in his shorts, but remained on the floor, unable to move. "I think I could get used to this." Mila stood above Henry, looking at his gorgeous blue eyes with a brown freckle, they had a special gleam in the sun.

"You better." He tapped a place next to him and Mila joined him on the floor again, using his biceps as a pillow.

"You are so unbelievably handsome," Mila kissed his jawline and scratched his beard.

He turned to his side, facing her, careful not to move his arm on which she was resting her head. He put his hand on her cheek, moving his thumb over the tips of her eyelashes. "I feel like I could conquer the whole world now. You are the piece that was missing all along."

"Well, you made your missing piece hungry. What can you offer me?" She lifted her head so she could rub her cheek against her beard.

"Some hotel sandwiches, strawberries and champagne. Will that satisfy your hunger?" He put his heavy leg over her thighs.

"That sounds great, big guy." She winked at him.

#henry cavill #henry cavill/oc #soulmates au

[rttnx]

𝙋 𝙔 𝙍 𝙊 𝙈 𝘼 𝙉 𝙄 𝘼

      “   monsters  are  real   ,    and  ghosts  are  real  too  ��.            they  live  inside  us   ,   and  sometimes  ,   they  win   .    ”

it  was  an  irish  ditty  he  whistled   .   something  old   .   traditional   .   rabastan  couldn’t  quite  remember  the  name   ,   but  it  lived  rent  free  in  his  mind   ;   like  an  earworm   ,   carrying  him  through  the  day  atop  several  musical  notes  .

he  would  sing   ,   but  the  lyrics  evaded  him   .   that  and  rodolphus  once  kindly  informed  him  that  he  sounded  like  a  dying  pig  on  a  hot  summer  day  . 

so  he  whistled   ,   shaking  the  giant  tin  bucket  as  gasoline  splashed  about   .   he  moved  to  the  tune   ,   holding  the  container  in  place  before  the  melody  picked  up  again   ,   and  then  emptying  its  contents  with  a  bob  and  tilt  of  his  head   .    he  walked  around  the  room  (  or  maybe  danced  was  the  right  word   )   as  he  covered  the  ground  with  enough  gasoline  to  burn  for  days   .

“   please   ,   ”    a  weak  voice  muttered   . 

rabastan  paid  it  no  mind   .   the  song  was  still  going  and  the  bucket  wasn’t  empty  yet   .

a  crash  was  heard  behind  him  as  irish  men  ,  burly  in  size  and  tiny  in  mental  capacity  ,  rummaged  through  the  house   .   galleons  upon  galleons  were  stashed  in  the  small  cottage   ,   proving  to  be  worth  more  than  ten  times  what  the  land  they  stood  on  was  worth   .  

 they  stuffed  bags  filled  with  money   ,   quite  literally  cleaning  house   .

“   please   ,   ”   the  weak  voice  cracked   ,   sobs  escaping  his  mouth  as  he  pleaded  . 

the  brown  haired  criminal  was  raised  to  believe  that  begging  was  a  tool  used  only  by  the  pathetic  and  weak   .   lestrange  men  never  asked   .   they  never  pleaded   .   they  simply  took   .   so  when  a  voice  would  raise  an  octave  ,   or  someone  would  adopt  a  widened  expression  like  that  of  a  puppy   ,   he  wanted  to  cringe   .   it  was  pitiful   .

and  yet   ,   even  under  that  stern  belief   ,   he  knew  he  had  begged  before  .   recalled  it  quite  clearly  ,  really   .    but  never  for  his  life   .   rab  only  begged  for  things  worth  begging  for   .

and  this  man’s  life  clearly  wasn’t  worth  the  snot-infested  sobbing  .  

ew  .

“   please   .   ”

“  jesus   .   wish  you  weren’t  so  repetitive  there  ,   bud .   ”   he  responded   ,  cigarette  tucked  neatly  behind  his  ear  as  he  tossed  the  bucket  carelessly  to  the  side   .   being  mindful  to  step  on  the  areas  of  the  floor  without  gasoline   ,   he  practically  skipped  to  the  bloodied  man  who  remained  tied  to  a  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  ransacked  room  . 

rabastan  moved  as  if  he  had  endless  energy   ,   but  he  couldn’t  have  been  more  exhausted  .  he  was  worn  down  to  the  very  marrow  of  his  very  fatigued  bones   .   the  job  always  left  him  feeling  like  that  .  empty  .  absolutely  depleted  .   missing  any  hint  or  spark  of  whatever  humanity  he  could  scrounge  together  on  his  best  day  .   it  was  hard  not  to  feel  that  way  when  he  lived  a  monotonous  existence  filled  with  nothing  but  violence   ,  manipulation   ,   and  the  ever  sharp  dagger  plunged  in  his  back  by  his  own  family  members   .   

frankly  ,  he  could  not  care  less  about  the  man  drenched  in  gasoline  ,   crying  for  his  life  as  if  it  meant  anything  to  begin  with   .

“  i’m  sorry  i  tricked  you  ,  i  didn’t            “

“  ah  ah  !  “    rab  admonished  with  two  wags  of  his  calloused  finger   ,   moving  to  press  the  digit  against  the  man’s  lips  .    “  i  think  it’s  adorable  you  thought  i  didn’t  know  .  you’re  a  smart  man   ,   so  give  me  credit  for  being  a  clever  one  too  .   ”

the  man  ,   ulrich   ,   shook  in  his  seat   .  it  was  a  nasty  combination  of  being  cold  from  the  liquid  and  of  being  terrified  of  ,  well  ,   the  lot  of  it  .   he  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  speak   ,   but  he  couldn’t  bring  himself  to  chance  it   .

“  go  on   ,  ”   rabastan  encouraged   ,  albeit  with  slight  irritation   .

“  if  you  knew   ,   why  didn’t  you   ...   ”

“  why  didn’t  i  stop  you   ?   ”   he  finished  for  him   .    “   gold  fucking  star   ,  ulrich   .   didn’t  i  say  it   ?   didn’t  i  tell  him  he  was  a  smart  guy  ?   ”   rabastan  turned  toward  a  large  blond  man  who  had  recently  stuffed  a  bag  to  the  brink  with  galleons   .   following  a  grunt   ,   he  swung  the  bag  over  his  shoulder  and  gave  a  stern  nod  .

“  sure  did  ,  boss   .   told  him  to  his  face   ,   you  did  .  ”

“  i  did  .  ”   he  nodded  in  agreement  before  turning  back  to  the  man  in  the  chair  .   “  and  you  really  are  ,   i  mean  wow  .  aside  from  your  proclivity  for  crossing  the  wrong  people   ,   that  was  quite  a  business  plan  .  i  watched  you  for  months   ,   workin’  your  ass  off  and  getting  nothing  but  top  grade  results  .  and  i  really  appreciate  it   ...   you  makin’  all  that  money  for  me  .   ”

the  man  froze   ,   suddenly  aware  that  the  brilliance  of  his  betrayal  was  only  because  rabastan  had  allowed  it  .  the  younger  lestrange  son  covered  up  his  tracks   ,   giving  him  the  opportunity  to  run  his  business  without  a  single  hitch   .   had  oisin  or  rodolphus  known   ?   he  would  have  been  dead  within  hours   .   and  the  money   ?   nonexistent  .  rabastan  saw  the  potential  in  him  and  he  wanted  to  push  it   ,   to  see  how  far  he  could  take  it   .   and  even  with  the  theatrics  and  the  threats   ,   he  knew  there  was  a  possibility  that  ulrich  would  survive   .   he  just  needed  to  want  it  enough  .

“  now  i  get  to  kill  you  ,   steal  your  hard-earned  fortune   ,   punish  your  loyal  followers   ,   and  sell  all  your  merchandise   .  and  who  knows   ,   ”    he  paused   ,   taking  a  moment  to  remove  the  cigarette  from  behind  his  ear  and  place  it  between  his  lips   ,   lighting  it  nonchalantly  before  finishing  his  thought   .   ”  maybe  i’ll  fuck  your  wife  too  .   ”

smoke  cascaded  from  his  mouth  as  he  leaned  forward    .   “   c’mon  now   ,   give  us  a  kiss  .   ”   he  muttered  with  a  wicked  smirk  before  transferring  the  lit  cigarette  to  ulrich’s  lips   .   all  they  needed  was  a  loose  bit  of  ash  to  fall  on  his  person   ,   or  anywhere  in  the  room  really   ,   and  it  would  be  game  over  .   “   enjoy   .   it’s  my  favorite  brand  .   ”

taking  a  stand  and  walking  toward  the  front  door  of  the  house   ,   he  motioned  for  his  men  to  follow   .   the  windows  had  been  boarded  up   ,   so  the  shift  from  complete  darkness  to  bright  sunlight  caused  his  features  to  contort  drastically   .   fuck   ,   he  muttered  under  his  breath  before  walking  down  the  steps   .

a  sound  emerged  behind  them   ,   a  small  gust  of  wind  tickling  his  back  as  he  made  it  to  the  sidewalk   .   of  course   ,   the  wizard  could  make  an  educated  guess   .   short  styled  tufts  of  chestnut  hair  canted  to  the  side  as  he  turned  ,  quietly  appraising  the  house  as  it  was  being  slowly  engulfed  in  flames  .   ulrich  hadn’t  lasted  very  long   .

“   that’s  a  shame   ,   ”    rabastan  sighed  in  disappointment   ,   the  edges  of  his  lips  curled  downward  to  showcase  a  frown   .   part  of  him  wanted  the  man  to  survive   ,   if  only  to  preserve  whatever  clever  ideas  he  had  stashed  away  in  that  head  of  his   .   regardless  of  the  betrayal  ,   even  he  had  to  admit  ulrich  walsh  had  a  talent  for  what  they  did  .   it  was  a  waste  .

“   sir   ?   ”

“  i  would’ve  eaten  the  goddamn  cigarette   .  ”

he  watched  the  fire  before  him   ,   entranced  by  the  anarchy  of  it  all   .    by  the  way  the  flames  shifted  and  danced   .    he  felt  like  a  fire  himself   .  he  was  becoming  unhinged  ;  unresponsive   ;  like  chaos  in  human  form  and  he  desperately  needed  someone  to  drench  him  in  water   ,   if  only  to  smoke   out  the  real  him   .   but  the  real  him  was  hidden  in  a  cluster  of  flames  and  soon  he  would  be  just  like  ulrich   :   ash  and  dust  and  regrets   .

“  give  it  time  and  put  the  fire  out  ,   then  take  the  money  to  o’sullivan  .   he’s  got  the  books  and  he’ll  compare  .   ”   rabastan  wiped  a  spec  of  dust  from  his  black  coat  before  flipping  the  collar  up  ,   protecting  his  neck  from  the  harsh  winds  he  would  feel  after  disapparating  .   things  were  about  to  get  very  cold  for  the  younger  lestrange  man  .

“  you’re  not  joining  us   ?   ”

“   no  ,   ”   he  replied  quickly  ,  shoving  his  hands  into  his  pockets  as  he  turned  to  leave   .   “   i  have  a  funeral  to  get  to  .   ”

#.writing #.self para

[grim-faux]

20 - Shepherd’s Apostle

The world faded into a thick haze, like a memory I wanted to recall but the further I reached for it the harder it was to grasp.  The hard carpet dug into my cheek, it was soothing to lie down like this and just put everything out of thought, out of mind.  It was impossible to describe how tired I was.  But I had to press on.

I couldn’t open my eyes.  Everything had turned dark in an instant and I was alone, in silence.  But for a dull throbbing.  My heart, I decided.  I felt my steady breath, about the most of my movement that I could manage.  Okay, just for a while I’ll lay here, then I’ll be ready.  I couldn’t recall where I was headed initially, but I was standing on the ground floor watching the lobby.

There was a charge in the air.  Palpable thickness as if something was happening or was to happen, I was on edge.  People were presently on their rounds, dressed in clean uniforms, formal.  They looked like normal people. I managed to crack an eye open and gaze blearily into the musty carpet.  The House of God.  That’s what I was looking for.  The dull tingle worked its way through my marrow, it unnerved me.  I closed my eye and returned to the fresh ground floor, just as people were running.  I felt liquid trail across the bridge of my nose and soak into the carpet under my face.  Blood soaked the floors, the desks.  Organs twisted, bodies crumpled, skeletons splint from skin.  The red droplets glistened oddly under the bright lamps. One of Murkoff’s security held a small Beretta between his hands, he turned the gun wildly on the walls and floor.  The glass of the upper hall cracked but held against the bullets.  I’m sure there should be a deafening clamor, but I can only make out muffled voices, sounds you’d pick up on underwater.  He turns his weapon on a colleague as the individual is shredded from the inside out, muscle and lung drench the carpet below his skin.  The panicked man shoots the mist as it evaporates.  I open my eyes and stare at the carpet.  I want to get up, but the pain in my skull refuses to relinquish its hold.  If I lay here in this doorway for too long I will be discovered, and without a doubt, killed. When I shut my eyes, I’m in a white room with the mangled pieces of a body beneath me, wet blood spilling down the drain of a shower.  The water left running swirls the black and reds into anemic pinks. My eyes snap open and I lay for the longest time gazing at the doorframe across from me, my heart beating fast.  What the fuck did that come from?  Reports, files I had read too deep into.  Too deep.  Therapy was going to seem like a vacation. I waited for the throbbing to subside to a tolerable degree, until I felt stable enough to get up on my feet.  I couldn’t afford to lose anymore time.  The sewers, filthy and diseased, the shears Trager used to tear off my fingers.  I had contracted something and it would kill me, unless I got out.  I needed X-rays, antibiotics, I needed some real sleep! Documents flashed through my mind — MKULTRA, the Hypnotic therapy, the Walrider legend, autopsies revealing tumors of lead.  I was feeling sick all over again, but I had to push on.  Take steps.  I was so close, I could feel it! There was still no way through the blockade of furniture crammed throughout the hall.  My hand ached as I recalled the chair that had fallen on it, I learned my lesson.  It was rare when that happened, but sometimes I did.  I was defeated and I admitted it, I wasn’t sure what I was admitting to, but I was done with this bullshit.  I eyed the fracture in the wall on my right, metal sheeting had been torn out of the plaster and left on the floor.  Looked like a path the patients used, due to the blockade.  I squeezed through, first spying the patient, or disciple I should say, bent over a grungy bed and praying.  His head low and hands clasped tightly in silent confession, I couldn’t make out what he was mumbling about.  His lips might’ve been damaged or he had lost his teeth… or his tongue. A shiver trailed up my spine, and I held my face as the wave of pain it brought subsided.  How long could I go on like this? Till I die. I wouldn’t die.  I refused to.  The tangible quality of my old proclamation and what it meant, hit me with such a force that it sent me stumbling back into an empty bookcase.  I froze, fearing the commotion would set the man off.  He made no note of my presence.  I recovered, consciousness whirling.  The camera was between my palms, trained on him.  The room was simple, only the bed and a nightstand, chair, desk on one side, on the other, a lamp cracked on the floor.  What more did he need? These rooms had originally been the residences of the staff before everything turned bad.  Small but cozy, employees provided with everything they would ever need, by the ‘non-profit’ Murkoff cooperation.  Now with the former occupants slaughtered and marinating the halls, the formerly suppressed rise up to take control.  How poetic.  I realize that not all of those affiliated with Murkoff deserved what happened, there had been good souls concerned for the cooperation’s victims.  They simply didn’t want to see what was happening around them.  People were like that.  It was human. The disciples legs were scarred, as were his arms, I imagine that was the least of the damage done.  I crept from the room, shutting the door softly behind me.  I still was wary of them and what intentions they could have.  Trust no one. It looked as though I went ALL the way around, from where I initially came up the stairs, just to get to this side of the hall.  I scoffed, but nothing to do about it.  Just keep my steady pace and try not to falter.  I at least had a small break, though I couldn’t recall what I had eaten ten minutes prior.  I remained famish and the humming grew worse, as though there really was a choir in this hall behind one of the doors.  I stood beneath the bright lamp and swayed.  If I kept my heart pumping, I would be fine. The hall reserved its featureless standard, the walls extending through the shadows that both welcomed and rejected me.  To my left was another lavatory, I poked in and went through the stalls, startling flies from their nest.  As I ventured from the glaring lamps, the little buggers gave up their pursuit, further reinforcement that the light remained my greater foe. One door on my left had a starved and shirtless patient, in prayer as I’d seen the two before.  The room was simple as I’d come to expected, bed, a desk, sometimes chairs.  The room down from his was much the same, aside from rain and thunder pouring through a shattered window.  I gave each room I came upon brief audience, filming the people, before I moved on to the next.   I was shocked by the number of people absorbed in this process.  Was it a mass Hallucination driven by MKULTRA?  I couldn’t tell anymore.  It was clear they had faith in Father Martin and his preaching’s, but why?  Questions buzzed through my thoughts as I tried to piece what I did understand together, but felt I was missing some vital component to the machine.  That eerie trill.  The sound I heard, a choir or was it a hymn?  It didn’t matter, maybe they were hearing it.  I was tempted to ask what it was, but I feared one might answer.  I feared someone would notice me at last, and I would be trapped, lost and confused as they brought about my bloody conclusion.   Aside from the room full of cold rain and thunder, I could see no way out of here.  Let alone, I didn’t know what I was doing here aside from ‘witnessing’ the disciples of Father Martin lost to prayer.  I revisited the rooms, in perpetual fear that the trance would break.  But I had nothing to lose as far as I could see.  One room I stumbled into with its withered disciple, holding his head high as he spoke, had a folder placed on the desk beside the door.  It was filled with pages, most held a handwriting style I was familiar with. “I am an unworthy supplicant, who can serve our lord only by feeding our lord. Please take me, Walrider. Let my shepherd’s Apostle see it and spread it with his lies for a greater truth. Your time upon the world has come. My flesh longs for your beautiful wraith. My blood is filled with you and waiting to be set free. This is my prayer. Write your gospel in my flesh.” For some reason this absolution unsettled me.  What was it he planned to do?  I feared the truth behind these walls. With no other path available, I decided to risk the harsh rain in the window.  The patient remained absorbed in his words, and as expected did not notice me as I climbed onto the soaked bed and stepped out onto the windowsill.  A flash of light cuts the sky, I shut my eyes from the sting and saw images I didn’t want to see.  Everything I wanted to forget.  I placed my hand on the jagged glass and stared down, my footing uneasy. Three stories up.  If I fell from this height I might not die all at once, but I’ll pray for death.  The lightening flashed, brightening the courtyard and thunder clashed against the stone building.  I forced my feet to move and hold my weight as I slipped along the icy wall of the Asylum.  Shapes flashed at the edges of the broken garden, I risked tucking my camera away as a precaution.  Light stretched from the windows at my backside, but there was not enough radiance to brave the merciless storm.  My heel slipped and I stared down, water trickled over my face and damaged hands.  The sky sparked and shrieked,  and below, I thought the skeletal shape of a person was there staring up, waiting for my body to fall and hit the pavement, starved to behold my guts torn loose to wash like crème down the drain.  I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting away my dreams.  I focused on the ledge, on the dark coloration of my coat.  Water splattered my pants and shoulders, but the eaves kept the torrent from soaking me to the bone.   I trembled with something beyond cold and fear when I climbed into the next window.  A lightly decorated room with one bookshelf, a portrait on the wall, and a bed with another of Father Martin’s disciples speaking to the Walrider.  I didn’t want to think of the blessings mad men asked for.  Maybe just the simple relief from living and life, maybe to think as other men do?  Or maybe for the world to be as they are. The door of the room was open wide, encouraging me along.  I kept caution close as I checked around the frame. God hates sickness Was scrawled in blood on the wall in large letters.  Candles lit below flicker calmly, despite the draft on my backside.  The wall flashed with light as another scream of fury came from the storm.   My left was blocked by stacks of metal shelving and chairs, I wiped the water from my hands as I struggled to fix my grip on the camera.  The only relief I could find was that my right hand didn’t seem to be swelling anymore, but the index finger and middle finger were stiff and painful to test.  I considered myself fortunate, despite it all.   More messages and candles awaited on my right, competing with the artificial light of the corridor that refused to diminish.  A cross was drawn on the wall, the blood peeling down appeared fresh.  A plate on the wall read simply Chapel.  That would be a House of God.  The corner bent left and I leaned over to find, yet more candles beside the wall and the message above God hates money I spun back at the door slamming shut, and the firm click of the lock splint my head.  Curious, I returned to try the handle and found that indeed, I was locked on this side.  Away from the ground floor and the elevator.  I sighed.  My luck.  It was a good thing I was never one to buy into stocks. Voices drifted from the hall, and that sharp pain returned to the back of my head causing my vision to blur.  I massaged my brow with my palm and continued, turning the corner and resumed the path now cut cleanly for me.  The soft candle flames became an almost welcome change, compared to the harsh blaze of the NV.  It made the walls and floors look soft and bearable, in spite of everything I knew that was buried in these grounds.  I pause and looked to my left, upon familiar scratching in the plaster.  I recognized the form and some of the words “Rest in peace”  “He did not kill” Father Martin’s preaching?  The camera scolded my hesitance, but I waited it out to gain a clear image.  I was nearly beyond my limit, but I could hold out.  I was good at holding out. God Annoys… I blinked. God always provides a way I looked from the wet message and the cross, to the scarred patient standing before me, blocking my path.  Head bowed and a candle clasped between his hands, he was emaciated to the point I couldn’t believe he was standing.  And the smell.  This… was the first fucker to lunge at me from a wheelchair! “Am I ready?” I stepped away from him and looked over my shoulder, to where the voices echoed from in somber reverence.  A chapel, candles lit and burning above a pristine tile floor, an entrance chamber that led directly into the cathedral.  It didn’t appear very large, with carved beams arched under a plain white ceiling, tinged yellow from age.  It was a simple structure, but ornate and charming in its own way.  I closed one eye and pressed my hand to it, the sound I couldn’t escape.  I had to keep my senses keen.  Beside either stained glass door that opened into the main wing, stood a twin, glowering on me as I gave one a look, then the other.  I straightened myself out to the best of my ability, I couldn’t appear defective to them. “You are.  We will join the Walrider in just a moment.”  That was Father Martin.  I was staring from where I stood, and I think he was nailed to a cross. Holy crap, what was I doing here?  I debated on just leaping from that window now and accept the fate meeting me beneath the rain, then I recalled the door was locked and I was trapped here with these people.  Whatever was to come, I would fight until my heart was ripped from my chest.  Which, given circumstances, could be very likely. I took a deep breath and proceeded into the chapel, directly between the twins as they tracked my slow movement with their hostile stare.  They reserved their right to freely expose themselves, though I kept my gaze forward and my camera close to my side.  My hardcore reporter instincts told me soon I would need it.  The doors gave a firm CLUNKof finality as I approached the podium, and the disciples of Father Martin.  They were disturbed but not aggressive, they, like those I had passed to reach this wing, were wholly oblivious to my presence, or had been requested not to acknowledge it.  Their attention was set on the man nailed to the wooden cross; I don’t doubt they were upset by this revelation.  They spoke and murmured, plead and mourned.  It was all together and all at once, I couldn’t make out a handful of what they were saying.   The crucified man gave a sharp gasp at my approach, the act so sudden I recoiled.  “My job.  You alone shall escape to tell them.”  Father Martin paused to gather his breath, he must have been in a good deal of pain.  “This is your penultimate act of witness.  The promise of the prophets was always the freedom from death,” he groaned.  “And here it is.”  He pulled at his arms, as though trying to relieve the pain, despite there being no escape.  My only response was to blink. The patients clustered about him, and the collection of timber at his toes.  They pray and spoke in soft sentences, some bowed and sobbed.  For the Walrider?  Or for Father Martin’s Gospel?  The accumulated resonance caused the hair to bristle on my neck. I moved to the side into the pews and sat down, making sure the camera was fixed on Martin.  The frail patient from the hall stepped around the podium, to stand near his Prophet and gazed at him with sunken eyes.  Martin whimpered, and resumed speaking, “You will watch and record my death, my resurrection.  And together we will be free.” Martin let his head drop onto his shoulder and took another tight breath.  “You are no longer in any danger.  I’ve fixed the elevator.  It will take you to freedom.  We will all of us be free.”  I had to set my head down on my arm.  That sound….. “Now, my son.” I jerked my head up when Martin’s tormented shrieks echoed off the high ceiling and walls.  The patient that was holding the candle lit the timber beneath his feet and the Priest was on fire, twisting and howling in pain as his robs burnt like dry cotton and his flesh scorched and popped.  I gawked wide eyed trying to hold my camera steady, trying to keep myself from tearing out of that seat and racing away.  My stomach knotted at the harsh sting of burning flesh, reminding me sharply of the scorched bodies burning in the cafeteria.  I clasped my free hand over mouth, it was all I could do to keep from buckling forward.  Not here, not at a time like this. His raving sobs finally died out as he succumb to smoke inhalation, or the heat cooked his brain inside his skull.  He gave an oily groan before he went limp and the flames settled into his bubbling flesh. When I shifted to reach for my notepad, I realized with a start I had bitten into my palm.  Not deep, but the edge of my teeth had cut into my stained flesh and blood seeped from the shallow tears.  I wasn’t sure what to make of that, or the fact I hadn’t noticed before I moved. “I can’t believe Father Martin one-upped Jesus Christ himself in shitty ways to die.  And I don’t believe I’m going to miss him.  A way out.  If he’s telling the truth, now I’ve got a way out.  And a story to tell.  He wants me to spread his gospel.  I’ll tell the whole fucking world.” I sat a moment watching the patients mourn for their Prophet, and weep for his sacrifice.  I didn’t know what they would do now without their Guide in this twisted world, but I didn’t want to hang around and find out.  I gathered myself up and slid out of the pew.  I took up the key gleaming gaily on the red velvet podium.   The twins stood still behind the stained glass doors.  From a safe distance I stopped and observed them.  Would they end it now, with Father Martin gone?  Was this the time they would conclude the chase?  I checked the room over, finding no other windows or doors, aside from the ones they stood behind.  If I could lure them back into this room, I could get around both of them.  If they cornered me, that was it. I walked forward trying not to look at them, I needed to get by and find my way out before I was stabbed in the back. They pulled the double doors open simultaneously to my approach, and I dithered before continuing forward.  I doubt they needed weapons to kill me. The bald one on the right clutched his head, angry or plagued by the sounds.  I stepped between them quickly and got halfway down the hall before I remembered the door was locked.  Or was it?  I passed the final messages of Father Martin only to find the door was still locked tight.  I returned to the chapel, looking to the twins for some sort of guidance but quickly gave that up when I spied the area, beyond where the wheelchair patient had been poised.  A bookshelf, among other furniture pinned in the archway of the hall, encyclopedias and other tomes spilt from the shelves, clearing enough space I could wriggle through.  But above was a vent in the ceiling, its panel off.  I could reach it, and they couldn’t follow. I stuck the camera in its hoister and grabbed the edge and kicked at the wall until I was safe inside and felt around for my path.  The piece of fabric shifted oddly in my gash, I poked around the backside of my shirt and felt only mild dampness but no excessive bleeding.  I squeezed my eyes tightly and crawled along the weak metal.  I was getting out.  Damn Priest guy said I could go, I would not stick around. But damn, I couldn’t believe Martin was gone.  In no way did I feel safer with his suicide, on contrary, it didn’t feel like anything had changed.  What had he been trying to prove?  The only fact I could take comfort in, was that I wasn’t the one nailed to that cross.  Didn’t mean I was no longer in danger, notwithstanding what he proclaimed.  I’ve heard that song and dance before.  Probably why it felt like his death was so unreal, in truth nothing had changed.  The whole event had meant nothing to me. The notion left a sort of emptiness inside me.  I don’t know how to describe it.  The next flue I had to force with my weight, as result I nearly fell through to the floor below.  I managed to clamp my arms over the metal sides, before the rest of me tumbled out in a painful heap.  I dropped and stumbled to my ass, god damnit.  I sat letting my body settle and gave where I was a scan.  The shelves and furniture I bypassed should keep Martin’s disciples from catching up to me anytime soon.  For the moment, it was safe to bide time and plan my direction.  I needed to find that lift and get the fuck out of here.  It was in the other wing of the Asylum, outside the kitchen.  I could reach it through this side, down this hall? I stepped into a patch of light from the lamps gleaming in the hall on the right, and sat down to think.  If I was to reach the elevator, I needed to go through the kitchen, but I couldn’t, that door was locked.  I needed another way around… I could really use a map.   If my sense of direction was right— I looked up as a dark shape began from the opposite end of hall.  I couldn’t make out who it was.  A twin?  How did he find me?  But as I gawked, the figure picked up speed, upon spying me huddled in the sloping light.  I knew who that was. I lunged to my feet taking the bright hall on my right, as he gave a thunderous snarl.  I could feel his steps quake through the floorboards of the Asylum.  His chains churning with his pace, gaining three steps with every one of mine.  Needed a place to hide, needed distance!  The hall was perpetual, same as those never ending roads in your dreams that extended into eternity.  I glanced at the dried blood splattered at my left, staining the upper wall and floor, the hard copper hit me as I gasped.  Above, the lamps flashed against my skull, doors lined the walls every few steps, many nailed with plywood and planks.  He snarled and huffed gaining, his ire snapping at my neck.  I couldn’t bring myself to pause and try doors, I wanted to run forever. When would the big fucker just let up!  It was obvious he wasn’t one of Martin’s followers.  All along, had he been against the Gospel of Sand?  I couldn’t know!  That was not important!  He would kill me regardless my affiliation with the Church of Walrider! The hall came to an abrupt end, reluctantly I tried a plain door on my left expecting it to be locked.  Trapped at long last, after I had succeeded at beating their game.  I barely turned the knob before I shoved the door in, grunting against the sudden lurch in my rib.  I swung the thin barrier shut after me and checked through the nightvision, but saw no worthwhile space to hide.  The room was well lit, particularly on the left side where a flat screen sat on a table.  I could crouch behind the two love seats set to view the screen, but three steps in and Chris would have me. The door cracked in the frame, I was amazed it held when the raw rage slammed into it.  I dashed across the room as the floor and walls shook, my head spinning, bits of light flittered through the cracks in the door as it absorbed another blow.  I curled up in the darkest corner behind a thick armchair and stared through the NV as the visor buzzed.  A final shattering blow and Chris plowed through, tumbling to the floor before climbing to his feet.  I shrank down behind the couch and watched as he scanned the room over, huffing through his teeth he began pacing to the left.  It was my right, the way I was facing him— “On point.” While his back was turned, I crawled towards the gaping portal.  One long step, I set my foot outside the doorframe and slipped out.  I could hear the noise of the big fucker chains as he turned, to check the side of the room I had hidden.  He’ll make the conclusion, I needed to buckle down and think.  Where was it I needed to go?  What doors were open?  I had to rattle handles. The next door I tried was on my right, it opened into a small office with a desk, and the usual dead plant mandatory to Murkoff’s memory.  I entered and listened as the big fucker reentered the hall, grumbling about the pain of living.  I shut the door gently and sat in the dark struggling to gauge his position, as his steps grew louder and heavier.  I flipped the NV off as he continued past my door, and down the hall a ways before his steps halt.  I could hear my breathing, but Chris was as silent as death. I jerked back when the thuds of wood cracking vibrated through the hall.  I braved pulling the door open a crack and let some light in, he was not far, just across the hall.  With a final swing of his fists the pitiful door snapped apart, he kicked the pieces aside as he stepped into the small room.  His backside quivers as he pants, blood leaks from deep cuts that never healed in his broken skin. As before while he’s distracted, I took the chance and slipped out of the room.  He was going to hear me, he would detect my movement, smell me, something.  He would turn around and grab me, and that would be it.  I’ll be pulled apart, my body torn out from under my head like so many of his victims.  My last moments, watching him toss my flailing torso aside. But Chris was still examining the dark cubicle of office before him, and I made it past the doorway without a creak from the floor.  Overhead, before the intersecting hall hung the large, bold red words EXIT.  This was the way.  I was nearly there! Getting away from the patients and their mass congregation had helped to high levels.  My head still throbbed but it wasn’t the twisting pain it had been an hour before.  I wouldn’t be too run down once I returned to civilization, I might be able to get medical attention before I had to start answering questions. All right man, focus.  Pat yourself on the back later, first things first.  Find the way out.  I was still so fucking lost, it was a crime.   I ducked into a doorway on my left when I picked up on Chris’ chains slithering into the hall.  Once I was on the elevator, I was home free.  Warm heater, familiar surroundings, just all around good things.  Keep thinking good, clean, healthy thoughts Miles.  Keep positive. A lavatory, very little to hide in.  Most the stalls were shut, blood on the tile and flies lapped at the sticky mess.  Their wings hummed impossibly loud against the hard walls as I disturbed their perch, I was terrified the sound would give me away.  I ducked into the stall on the far end and climbed onto the toilet.  The lamps blazed down warming the edges of my coat and neck, I didn’t need the camera.  Neither would the big fucker if he decided to roam through. Chains dragged across the tile clinking with each step.  Images of the sewer and bloated bodies became my vision, pellets scuttling through pipes.  Shadows and shapes, faces in static.  I pressed my nose into my bloodied shoulder and tried not to breath.  Stay calm.  Stay.  Calm. “Where?…fuck.”  He sounded dubious.   If he would just leave.  You’re seeing things like the rest of us.  Go look somewhere else, this place is empty. I cringed when the first stall swung open.  Damn.  The next door creaked open, and I situated myself to crouch on the bloody toilet.  One. Two. Three— Chris pulled the door open, seeming genuinely surprised to find me there.  He made a strangled snarl through his mutilated sinuses and lashed out, as I sprang at the top stall and propelled myself over the side to the far end of the bathroom.  I hit the floor and tumbled, searing white pulsed through my eyes and my concern went immediately to the camera even as I shoved my feet under me and charged out the door. “Can’t let contamination reach local town…”  I ducked down as I passed the doorway, barely missing his arm as he tried to swat me.  His wrist struck the tile near my head, dust and brick cracked under the impact. I stumbled out the door, hands clasped over my head fearful he’d knock it off next.  The broken segregation frame swept around me as I breezed through, first turning to the vent I initially dropped down before reminding myself of how bad an idea that was.  I pivoted and dashed into the dark hall.  The big fucker emerged from the lavatory, and snarled my way as we made eye contact. I brought up the NV as I felt myself tilt, I could see light at the halls end but I was having difficulty keeping my balance.  The big fucker was somewhere behind me keeping pace. End of the hall.  End of the hall.  Door.  A door that leads to the cafeteria.  I had no idea where I would wind up.  I needed another lounge, a room with space I could maneuver or hide from Chris.  It could have just been me, but it felt like he was desperate to kill me at this point.  The idea caused my throat to dry out, I gagged as I panted.  But I felt elevated, that perhaps Father Martin had been earnest and that I was now done with this place.  That I was to be free once I stepped out of those doors. Had to reach them first. When I hit the light, I took a sharp left through the last doorway entering into a room full of tables and chairs stacked everywhere, some scattered over the floor.  The cafeteria!  But I was still skidding in the direction towards the windows, my momentum out of control.  The patient that had been here staring out the muggy glass was now absent, or dead.  The rain that once furiously struck the glass had diminished to some degree, the luminous beads of water now less and thin. The door.  There was a door on the left side of the room, across from where I just blazed through.  Something strained in my knee as I twisted, and spun about as the big fucker came charging into the room after me.  Door!  Had to get to the door!  I zipped around tables or chairs, struggling to maneuver anything between us, to slow him down.  The big fucker bellowed, and ripped the obstacles away like weeds in the garden, I heard several crash into the darkest reaches, echoing under the high ceiling.  I was only thankful he hadn’t the presence of mind to throw one my way. I had plenty of distance on him by the time I reached the door.  I twisted the handle— Locked!  Door was locked!  How was I supposed to reach the elevator?! That was to be the least of my concerns.  I cued in on the heavy breath of my pursuer as he sliced through the room, and felt his dead eyes on the back of my head.  I barely whipped aside when he swung out, grazing my back, I lost consciousness for an instant as my brain sputtered out.  The chains stunned my shoulder and I tumbled to my side, my vision blurred as sensation swung back into me at full force.  All I could make of Chris was his shape looming over me snarling, his eyes blazing.  I swore, they burned like fire in the dark. “Get up!”   Fuck you!  I crawled pitifully on my hands and knees across his boots to curl up under the nearest table.  The big fucker took it in his hands and tipped it over, sending chairs crashing across the floor.  I bit the camera strap between my teeth and ripped it off my hand, and scrambled away as fast as I could while he hurried around to intercept me.  If I kept the windows in sight I could see where the table legs barred my way. He couldn’t see where I was exactly, he could only hear my panicked breath as I shuffled in the cramped dark.  In response, the fucker gripped another table and hefted it up then slammed it down over my body.  But the locks where the legs fit in didn’t snap away completely, I lay there for a moment believing I had died and the big fucker might’ve thought the same.  He was panting hard, hissing through his exposed teeth as he wandered around the set of tables seeking to find my broken body. My mind was wracked with questions, my ears buzzed and my bones tingled with that tremendous calamity.  Out?  Where was out? I reached a trembling hand up slowly and took my camera strap from my teeth, I was nearly pinned on my stomach with just enough room to squeeze out.  But the fucker would hear it in the dead silence that consumed the room.  I coughed and tasted copper, I don’t think a lung was punctured, at least I couldn’t feel it yet.  I turned my head scanning the room where the door was locked.  Damn inconsistencies.  A light shone from a square slot in the wall above, where a vent had snapped off.  There.  That was it!  He can’t follow me. The big fucker moved to the other side of the table, ones he hadn’t tipped or slammed down, and began pulling them out and scoping the floor beneath.  I slipped free of the broken table and pulled my body out from under the line of table legs.  The big fucker must’ve seen my shape when I stood, he barked out a cry as I dashed to the fallen vending machine and clambered up.  I was a little tipsy when I stood on the slick plastic cover, but managed to snag the flues edge and haul up into the tight space.  A cold pain dug into my side, but I pushed the sensation away as I paused to gather myself.  I was in one piece, mostly.   Below, Chris snarled his contempt for my success, but I knew deep in me, this would be our last encounter.  I spared him a brief glower, the closets to pity I could express for him, before I turned and crawled along the top of the vents rigged from the ceiling.  The muffled growls faded in my ears, as the familiar tingle resumed residence.  It wouldn’t last, I assured myself. I never thought I’d be so happy to be in a kitchen before.  A revisited and empty kitchen, but it was tame territory.  I carefully climbed off a cabinet and hit the floor, wincing at the pain in my ribs.  It was okay, nothing a little rest and no movement wouldn’t help.  That’s all the doctors ever said, there wasn’t much else that could be done.  I took some slow, easy breaths to acquaint myself with the pain.  I’d feel even better when I was in my jeep with the heat cranked up, and this place far-far behind me. I found the door at the other end of the kitchen and half expected the damn thing to be locked, though it was clearly open and the dark hall visible from where I stood.  Across, at only a few steps, the lift waited, with nothing in sight, no psychotic patients, just the wavering shades that haunted my memories.  I kept shuffling the worst case scenarios to the forefront of my mind, geared for the despair that I was now accustomed to.  What could possibly go wrong now?  Nothing.  Unless the computers had a massive crash in the hours I’d spent lost in this hell of an Asylum, my challenge now would be hacking the security systems. I groaned when I realized, I’d never opened the main doors.  I hadn’t even begun, damn Martin had to drag me off…. It was all behind me now.  Get to the Security room, hack the system, and say sayonara to this fuck awful place. I dithered before entering the welcoming gleam of the lift.  I had bad experiences with elevators.  Bad memories.  Once I was inside, I’d be trapped.  But I was only riding to the ground floor.  Before I could have another thought on the matter I stepped inside, and turned to the panel.  I set the key in the lock and gave the panel a firm punch and let the metal gate shield me in.   No insane doctors to interrupt me this time.  No burning cafeterias, no deformed giants with fuck started faces, shrieking specters, or cannibalistic twins.  I was out.  Done.  Gone.  Bye bye Insane Asylum! The elevator made the short but noisy descent to the ground floor and stopped.  I put the camera in its hoister and tried to pull aside the gate.  It should open, shouldn’t it?  Of course it would.  I peered through the large gaps and saw, indeed those doors were locked.  I was hyped and ready to start this, it wouldn’t be easy, but I would get it done.  Sooner I started the better. The gate should open now.  I poked at the panel and tried turning the key, maybe it unlocked it?  Or maybe I shouldn’t have done that.  The lift shifted and began descending all over again.  I looked up alarmed as the exit, my doors to freedom vanished from sight. No.  No-No-No-NO!  What was this?  The elevator was fixed, I was supposed to get out, up there!  That was my floor!  Stop!  I tried to pull the key from the slot, but it was stuck tight.  Safety precautions and such, I was locked in!  Where the fuck was I going?!  Darkness filled the tiny space I occupied.  The basement!  I could find my way out of the basement easy.  I vaguely remembered the layout, and there would be light too. But I knew I was not going to stop at the basement.  The lift continued to descend, and the air changed. I stepped back and crouched down resting as what seemed like hours passed, but in truth it was only minutes.  I had no idea where I was now and had a feeling I would never know.  It finally ground to a halt and I glanced up as the gate slid back, allowing me to exit FINALLY.  I glared beyond the doors, into a near pristine white brick corridor, above lights flashed and pulsed, a glitch in the wiring.  I shut my eyes against their irritating glare. My lip curled back over my teeth and I pushed myself up to stand, I set a hand to my side where my ribs warned not to push it.  I was hurt, I needed to get out.  What more did this place want from me? A “penultimate act of witness” as ‘Father’ Martin put it.  His last words.  I should have been more keen to pay attention to his speech, he had told me precisely that ‘my job’ was not done with his death.  Idiot!  You walked right into this!  This is all on you Miles!  Walked into Hells Kitchen, and now you’re eating what they’ve served!  If I die—NO!  No.  No.  And NO!  I am not going there!  I will get out of here because I refuse to have endured EVERYTHING these bastards fabricated, and then die at the VERY end of it!  I was getting out!  And I would make sure the world knew what I went through, what they’ve done to all these people, and what they tried to cover up!   But I still had doubt.  I stepped through the doors and gave my new surroundings an indifferent glare.  It was brisk, the air slightly fresher than the upper floors, a lot of tubes and thick cables ran along the walls.  Probably recycled air.  But…it was there.  The old decay, the stale tang of rust and death.  I was not done, not by a long shot. I stumbled and brushed against the wall as I collapsed to my knees and sat there, staring at the two doors before me.  The strobe light overhead flickered but held its illumination. I lowered my head and exhaled a coppery sigh.  Not by a long shot.  I raised my butchered hands to my face and buried my eyes in my palms, seeing only black.  The cool, enveloping black that had been my ally throughout this entire nightmare. Would there be no more shadows for me to hide in?

#outlast #outlast fanfiction #outlast novelized #miles upshure