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trenchcoatimpala · 1 month

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Don't Fade

More of the same. Read also on archive

Dean wasn’t going to admit that it was awkward. Cas had been back for three days and he hadn’t been able to say anything. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, or if he could even find the words to make sense of what was going on in his head. Cas was patient, he didn’t ask for anything, didn’t bring up that day and Dean didn’t know if he was disappointed about it or relieved.

He’d hugged Cas within an inch of his newfound life when the ritual had worked and the angel had appeared before him and Sam in the library. He may have cried but Sam wouldn’t know that and Cas knew well enough not to mention it, and why shouldn’t he cry? When a guy confesses his love to you and then dies you’re allowed to cry when he comes back.

The problem with it all was that Dean didn’t actually know how he felt about Cas. He knew he cared about him, deeply, more than he’d ever cared about anyone except for Sam, but he also knew that he didn’t love Cas like he loved Sam. He said he did. Always calling Cas brother and friend, but there was something scratching at the surface of those words, something unspoken that Dean tried to suck the air from so it withered and died and he could leave it buried.

But it was like that feeling thrived on being smothered,it was even more desperate the longer he let it simmer, suffocating under dirt and grit as worms tried to eat it, but it only grew stronger. A pull in his heart that yanked him by a chain, dragging him up and down a proverbial road, and he couldn’t shake it, couldn’t drown it, couldn’t burn it to the ground, it clung to him like a parasite, and he should admit it was a welcome one, but he couldn’t. Admitting it made it real and if it was real he could lose it. He’d already lost Cas, too many times, and each time was as unbearable as the last, as if he was the one suffocating, buried in his own grave with panic brawling in his chest as he tried to dig himself out.

And he knew what that was like. The first time Cas had touched him had been to put him back in his grave and since then Dean had been gravitating towards him, wanting that touch to consume him. He’d often found himself staring at the handprint on his shoulder in the days following Cas’ sacrifice. It was a faint outline now, weathered by time. And terror had crashed into him as he realized this time Cas being gone might be for real, and this would be the first place Castiel, Angel of the Lord had touched him, as well as the last, and the remnants of that first time were all but a few bumps on pink flesh, and the shadow of the last time was fading fast in crusted blood on a jacket he couldn’t bear to throw away.

Tears had poured hot and unsteady down his cheeks as he looked at the handprint he’d bore for the past twelve years. He didn’t have anyone left to pray to or believe in, but in that moment, staring at the reflection of what he had left of his best friend, the words came out of him, a wretched sob curled up in a plea; the sister of a prayer: “Don’t fade.”

“Please don’t fade, don’t go, you can’t leave me,” Dean begged. “Not all of you, please, this is all I have left.”

Don’t fade.

He had chanted over and over again, and yeah, okay, maybe Dean did know how he felt about Cas, and maybe that was why it was so awkward to be around him. What if Cas had changed his mind in the empty? What if he didn’t love him anymore? What if he didn’t know how? What if Dean didn’t know how to let someone in like that? What if an angel and human couldn’t even be together? Was there some kind of law against it? There probably should be. But Dean also didn’t want to care about all that because for once in his life he had a shot at something that would make him happy and shouldn’t he take it? Didn’t he deserve it? After everything he’d been through, everywhere his body had been dragged across the Earth by an Archangel, all the times his psyche had been toyed with, didn’t he deserve to let himself love?

“Dean?”

Dean looked up to see Cas in his doorway and he realized he was sitting with his hand cradling his shoulder, the shoulder that was home to Cas’ burning touch. “Oh, uh, hey,” he said awkwardly, shifting on the bed.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Dean replied, forcing a smile.

Cas sighed, long suffering and sad. “Please don’t lie to me.”

“Cas-”

“No, Dean, if this is about what I said to you before I-”

“Before you died?” Dean finished for him, standing up so he could confront the angel. “Yeah, you know what, Cas, it is about what you said. How could you say that to me?”

“I didn’t think I would see you again,” Cas said quietly, barely managing to look at Dean.

Dean turned away from him, anger burning suddenly in his veins. “Is that supposed to make it better? What, you don’t think I can handle you being in love with me, so you leave it to a deathbed confession so you don’t have to find out!?”

“I knew you didn’t feel the same way,” Cas replied defensively. “I didn’t see any point in bringing it up to you sooner.”

Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Wait, so you just decided for me how I felt?” The confusion on Cas’ face only spurred Dean on. “You’re an idiot,” he snapped. “You don’t even know- God, Cas, you drive me fucking insane!”

“I don’t understand,” Cas said, tilting his head to survey Dean.

“How I feel about you,” Dean began, trying to reign himself in, “Cas, man, there aren’t words.” He shrugged off his flannel and pushed up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the handprint, “You gave me this, before we even properly met, and it’s all I had of you, every single time I lost you, it was the only thing I had left, and every day it gets harder and harder to see and you have no idea how much that hurts me. Because it’s like watching you fade away as if you never existed, as if we never had anything between us. And when you were gone I tried to remember what you sounded like, what it felt like when you healed me, how my name sounded when you said it, and I prayed for you back. I wanted it so badly I was dizzy with it. And now you’re here, and you dare to tell me you don’t think I love you back?”

Cas was staring at him, shock emanating from his very being. “I never thought- Dean, I don’t know what to say.”

“I have a lot of issues, which you know,” Dean said as he drew closer to Cas, “and one of those issues is not being very good at saying how I feel, or letting myself want things, but I want you, Cas. I don’t know when it started but I do, and I don’t know who I am without that want.” Cas was close now, his eyes blown wide in surprise and lust. “Touch me,” Dean begged, his lips mere inches from Cas’, “touch me like it’s the first time.”

Cas surged forward, one hand coming up to cup Dean’s cheek and the other to land on his shoulder. Fire surged through the contact and Dean felt the burn of Cas’ hand imprinting on his skin, refreshing a mark that had come to be Dean’s greatest companion, and the kiss that followed was a promise shaped in the hot brand of tongues sliding against tongues and prayers finally being answered.

tag list, ask to be added or removed

@undeadcas @tearsofgrace @hellerstiel @casgetoutofmyass0907 @wantstoflyafraidtofall @gayhuckleberryinatrenchcoat @thepixelagora@thelahatiel @im-sam-fucking-winchester@piebook67 @bestiarum@theedeangirl@november5th@bixlasagna@ancient-fangirl@famouspsychicpizzabandit@you-cant-spell-subtext-without@bumbledumble1@cascigarette@addicted2demons @our-stars-graveside @fivefeetfangirl @evillittleguy

#how many times can I write the same thing over and over again?#destiel fic #destiel #spn #supernatural #deancas #dean winchester #castiel #my writing #trenchcoatimpala writes

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plushmayhem · 6 months

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do you get more money from etsy or from your own site?

Usually I'd say my personal site, but recently etsy put out the first consumer friendly change in years, which is giving sellers their own referral link and refunding them some a bit of the fees if someone buys via it. So if you go to https://plushmayhem.etsy.com using this link and then buying, I get the most returns. So I'd rank best value for my buck at: Etsy via that link My personal site Etsy without that link . . . (the earth's crust) . Etsy if you found me via one of ads they pay for on google/facebook etc (negative money lmao)

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passivenovember · 2 months

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Someone says Billy might be in there, and that's all it takes to snap Steve's resolve in two like a pathetic, gnawed-on piece of red vine.

Billy might be in there, Nancy says.

It's strange when it claws out of her, choked and desperate because they're running out of time, some. Huge, old, fuckin', annoying clock ticking away someplace, deaf to be heard. But felt. Like five knuckles to the stomach.

Nancy's got mud on her cheeks. Blood crusting brown at the corner of her nose and fear glittering like shards of mirrorball in both eyes. Blue. Steve used to obsess over that shade, until.

Billy. Who burned the rest of the world to the ground. Who changed water and sky and moonlight and lake fronts forever. For Steve. Billy--

Who might be down there.

Steve peers at the soft current of the lake, rippling with tabs of stardust. Billy's dead, Steve remembers suddenly. They told him he was dead because he couldn't see through the cloud of black-cat gun powder that night the bottom fell the fuck out. They told Steve everyone was better off, they buried what was left of his body and they moved on. Everyone.

Steve didn't cry at the funeral. Couldn't. He promised Billy that he never would, not. In front of Neil Hargrove, not in front of anyone, so.

Billy might be in there.

Steve can't blame them as the boat rocks, gentle as the tick-tick of time pressing on, when no one moves.

Steve, Nancy says.

He looks at her, taken aback by the shock on her face. What are you doing, she says. But Steve isn't listening. His shirt dangles from her fingertips, a white flag. A death shroud.

Steve doesn't remember taking it off. He opens his mouth. Shuts it.

Eddie Munson looks at him with the kind of sharp, resigned knowing that makes Steve shrug. Clear his throat. Say, If I'm not back in two minutes, jump in after me.

Steve, Nancy says. Small and afraid, You can't go in. You're--

--Billy's in there, Steve snaps. No might. Leaving no room for argument. He can feel it, like that big clock in the sky, ticking.

Billy's in there, so Steve jumps.

Somewhere, in sudden, churning darkness

his skin starts to burn.

Something hits him, right under his temple. On his cheek bone. It sticks too the tacky landing of his skin and then falls.

Not. To the ground, Steve doesn't think. To the lakebed.

Into some great, terrible void that waits to swallow him whole because it has no teeth. No edge. No suffering.

"You're starting to burn," Someone tells him.

Steve jerks awake, eyes slamming into a bright blue sky. "Sorry," He says. "I fell asleep. I thought--"

"--You're gonna catch on fire."

Trees, nodding in the warm exhale of some far-away afternoon spring from the centerfold of himself. He's getting a sunburn but there's a tube of banana boat sunscreen on the beach towel next to him, hot to the touch.

"Did you throw that at me?" He demands. Steve's naked from the waist down. Flat on the earth, suddenly. Flat on a beach towel, gritting black sand into Miss Universe, '84's shiny blue one piece. He's seen this towel, before.

"You've gotta put it on," The voice says, "You don't have much longer."

Steve sits, blinking into the sunlight.

He's at the quarry. He's been here before.

"Who are you?" He asks.

The earth seems to exhale. Far below, laughter climbs the rocky face of memory. Steve hears children, playing. His children. Dustin's voice tugs at him. His heart. His mind.

Billy's in there--

"I'm looking for someone," Steve says, but he doesn't turn from the treeline. Doesn't peer below, either. Doesn't move. "I. I think I lost him. I haven't seen him in a long time but I--"

"Don't worry about that."

"I worry," Steve reports, but it feels like a lie. He considers the banana boat sunscreen but can't reach for it, afraid of what might happen if he sinks into its release.

The children keep laughing, far below, and Steve thinks he's seen this blue before. This shade. This sky.

"I don't want you to get sunburned," The voice tells him. Closer. Near enough that the breath from its lungs stirs the hair on Steve's head. Just out of eyesight. "You always look like shit when you're burned up."

"I was wondering if you could help me."

"You're gonna turn red, pretty boy. A fuckin' lobster."

Steve gasps. His heart shudders. Stops.

Stops beating.

Steve swallows. "I'm looking for someone," He says. Not particularly inclined to tear his eyes away from the peaks and valleys of the hill that grinds, pestle, all around him. He's safe. Nestled into the end. "Please, I. I think I lost him. I've been trying to find him for a long time but he's--"

"Hiding," The voice says.

Someone sits next to him in the sand. Naked from the waist down, golden.

Sunlight. Flame. The dawn.

Steve looks at him. "Billy," He says. Or maybe he doesn't. The word comes from everywhere, like springtime rolling over the earth. Flowers blooming and withering all at once.

"You don't have much longer," Billy stretches out along the beach towel, red trunks coated in dark black sand. "You're burning up. Why don't you go back?"

Steve remembers this.

Asking if there was an extra towel, if Billy wanted this one, why Billy gave it to him in the first place--

"Because I want to be with you," Steve says. Like Billy had said, then. That day at the quarry before. This and them and everything. It had opened a whole universe for them. It had changed everything and now Steve holds his breath, wondering if it will again.

Below, the children keep laughing.

"Billy," Steve says, because it tastes good. Like lemonade and iced tea. And cotton candy at the county fair. And cigarettes at midnight. And pancakes, burned by the man he--

"Look at me," Steve says.

Billy's hair billows, golden in the breeze. "I can't."

"Why?"

"You stare at me with those fuckin' eyes and," Billy shakes all over, "I'll get selfish. Ask you to stay."

"Don't have to ask," Steve tells him, rooted to Miss Universe '84. "I'm not going back."

"Yes you are."

"I can't live without--"

"Jesus Christ, would you listen to this bullshit? We sound like a play about star crossed losers, and not a good one, either." Billy sits up straight, tucking his hair behind his ears. "It's cliche. Don't say shit like that."

Steve swallows. "It's true."

"I know, pretty boy."

"So then why can't I stay with you?"

"Because it's not your time yet," Billy says, finally, finally looking at him. Eyes blue like the sky.

Steve exhales, watching as the earth moves with him. "Now who's cliche?"

Billy laughs, and.

Steve must crumble. Must catch on fire. Must make up his mind because he breaks.

"Don't cry," Billy tells him, weakly, "Harrington--"

"--I'm not going back unless you come with me."

"It doesn't work like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm dead," Billy tells him, turning in the sand until their knees press together. Solid and warm.

Alive.

"I'm not in the lake, sweetheart. I know you want me to be, but I'm not." Steve sobs. He can't help it, can't stamp it down, it slithers out of him with its fangs bared, full of fear and poison. It must get Billy in the heart. Must kill him a second time because Billy grabs at Steve, clutching Steve's face between his hands. "Hey, none of that, now--"

"--I'm sorry, Billy. So fucking sorry--"

Billy scrubs the tears away. "It's not your fault. Sometimes," Billy says, tugging fingers through Steve's hair, "Sometimes shit just happens, and people die, and it's a normal part--"

"--Nothing's normal anymore," Steve snaps, "I don't even know what normal looks like. And. Even before everything, before that night, I just. Something happened to me," Steve commit's the feeling of Billy's thumbs, rubbing circles into his sadness, to memory. "You happened to me, Billy."

The children aren't laughing, anymore. The sun dips low in the sky.

Billy turns from him, eyes scanning the treeline, "You don't have much longer, sweetheart."

"I'm not going back."

"You have to. I'm not arguing with you. This isn't a discussion." Billy says. Horrible and empty.

Steve snaps. "What, are you going to force me back into my body? Possess me like some fucking, ghost asshole and make me swim back to the surface?"

Billy blinks at him, shocked.

"That's where I am, right? Drowning at the bottom of the goddamn lake?"

Billy's face cracks open. "I can't watch you die."

"I watched you die."

"Bullshit," Billy says, "You couldn't see through the smoke--"

"--I love you," Steve says. Because it's simple. True. "And you love me."

Billy holds him tighter. Closer. "I know, baby."

"So let me stay here," Steve says. Holding on just as tight. Just as hard. "Let me come with you, and we can--"

"You have so much life stretching out in front of you, baby. So much love just. Fuckin' waiting for you."

"I don't care."

"You're going to have a family," Billy says, voice shaking, "You're going to meet someone. They're so good to you, I can. I feel it. Like sunlight," Billy blinks, lashes clumped with tears, "No. You already know him. Just met him."

"I don't want anyone else," Steve snaps, desperate. Wishing he could peel Billy's skin from the bone and sew himself up inside. Live there forever and ever and--

"I can't love anyone else, Billy."

"Yes you can," Billy says. "You will."

"What about," Steve asks, clutching Billy closer, "What about you?"

Billy smiles sadly. "I'm not going anywhere. Your whole life, I'll be here. I'll be waiting for you."

The sun dips below the horizon. The world burns.

Steve runs out of time.

#harringrove #anyway #this came out of nowhere #and i got bored of hearing myself talk at the end #lmaooo

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jeremys-blogs · 9 months

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A brief Avatar moment I always rather liked was Toph's off-hand mention of the "Dragon of the West" during the Fire Nation's drill attack on Ba Sing Se. Obviously, she met Iroh earlier in the show, and it's entirely possible that she pieced together who he was. In the encounter she had with Zuko along with the rest of the gang, she could sense that it was Iroh who had been struck by Azula. And since her friends had likely told her that Zuko was the son of the Fire Lord, it was only a matter of time before she put two and two together.

But aside from that, it was always interesting to me that she continued to regard him highly after such a revelation. After all, as one of the upper crust (pun intended) of Earth kingdom society, she'd have likely heard all about this man. The one Fire Nation warrior who managed the seemingly impossible task of breaching the walls of their nation's capital. Few others would have been as notorious as Iroh, yet despite this, Toph continued to think positively of him. I guess it was just a testament to how much of an insight into people's natures she had 😊

#screencap #screenshot #avatar #avatar the last airbender #atla #toph #toph beifong #iroh

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punk-in-docs · 1 year

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“if you want to come you better beg” x prince paul cause i need this filth 😩👀

🥀Qualities of Mercy🥀

Prince Paul x Tsarevna // smut drabble - Bugger me sideways @usedtobecooler only the best for you babes crème de la crème - Prince Prick and some bratty behaviour culminating in angry!hate!fucking coming up. Also short? I don’t think I can write short drabble a about this man. I’m having a lot of feelings ok.

Some babes I know may want to see this @indouloureux @munsonswhore86 @heyndrix @lunatictardis @creme-bruhlee @callmeloverr @roanniom

It’s an odd relief to see the signs of war increase with each gained mile, burnt out patches of land and artillery tracks wedged into the mud. Foul air, fire, and rifle smoke; it means you’re closing in on your goal.

It means you’re that much closer to your husband.

Foul boggy mud, and nipping winds that cut to bone. You’re rumbling your way along treacherous roads, ever closer.

The terrain is dismal. There’s not even any sweetly soft birdsong chirping from the trees. There’s no kind nature. There’s only war and man, and guttural cries of the wounded. A landscape drizzled with slanted misty rain. Stubby felled larch trees and splintered bark.

The soldiers encamped, look like misshapen beasts. Blood crusted black, and the wounded wearing filthy yellowed bandages. Eyes missing, limbs turned to stumps. Squatting and huddling in clumps in the woods. Shivering under canvas with pithy licks of orange campfires staining the air with spicy woodsmoke.

They watch the carriage pass with rapt fascination. But too cold to react.

You weren’t expected.

That fact is writ plain as day all over the face of the dirt smeared soldier who trudged up to the carriage window. The soldier on watch. Who’d been pissing up against as tree when you rolled up.

His eyebrows buoy in surprise as you drop your fur lined hood.

“My Lady-“ He rasped in surprise.

“Tsarevna.” Your second maid, Maricel, leaned forward and snipped. Voice like a barking hound. Just as dogged.

She was eternally bolshy and hard edged. Hated you not being given the proper due politesse as deserving of your rank. She took great offence to those who didn’t understand the severity of your position.

“I’m here to see my husband. Kindly take me to him.”

“I’m not sure he’ll want- he’s occupied with many important matters.“ He fumbles for an excuse.

Maricel’s words come locked in impatience.

“Are you suggesting the Tsarevna of Russia is unimportant?” She tests.

“No- I.”

“He will carve out the time for his wife, you dumb prick.” She points out. Rubbing her shivering hands.

“Now, now.” You scold her.

She merely rolls her eyes. Not frightened by you whatsoever. Just pissy cause she’s cold.

The solider shuffles on his feet. Breaks eye contact. “I’m not sure I have the authority to-“

“Are you going to make me repeat myself.” You warn. Ire threaded into every word.

You stare him down with slicing diamond eyes. Tips sharpened and designed to cut.

A look you’ve thieved and mastered from Catherine’s own brand of venom. Don’t budge an inch.

It’s enough to get him to snap his mouth shut.

“No. Uh. Of course. This way, Tsarevna.”

You clambered out that boxy royal carriage. Door encrusted in a golden crest. Dainty sky blue heel sinking into earth. Hem sodden and dragged with it in no time. Maricel follows you dutifully. Your guard dog.

“Cunt.” Maricel bites out at the solider as she shuffled after you. Trudging into the muck.

“Put your forked tongue away.” You suggest.

She moodily deigns to do as you say.

You fold your gloved hands. Pretty pearl buttons march along your wrists now seeming contemptuous among all this. You rub at them to spark up some warmth in your numb fingers, as you looked around for the cluster of carmine coated generals.

Slipping and staining your skirts with slodgy mud as you followed the dismal soldier who’d take you to him. Your heels slip up, your feet get bogged. The stench of this place is curdling your lungs. Burnt larch trees and smoke and decay.

You press on. Determined.

The men swim their their groggy eyes to you. This place is used to viscera and gummy black blood, and mud crusted ash.

By comparison you look like a chunk of pure silken teal sky, fallen to earth. Precious and spotless. A drop of stunning sapphire wedged into all this dirt and death.

You squelch your way through tents and surgeon tents where men lay gouged and exposed. Rotting alive and shivering under the canvas as they cried out to the chowder thick sky. Rain melting on their eyelashes.

The smoke cleared past you, drifting. And then your overly elegant shape comes moulded out the congealing blood and smog of his hell. Pearl buttons, satin, and floral petal perfume. A wrenching juxtaposition coinciding.

You see your husband. Through the cloth mouth of one of the larger tents. No mistaking those puddle eyes for anyone else. The white scratchy wig. The cut of his powder blue coat and red royal medals slashing blood.

He’s gathered with men around a map table staked out with battle plans. This fare is all simplicity. Battle for blood and the vicinity of conquering men.

This is a land shuttered to the gaze of your sex. Your kind do not come roaming here. Not noble women anyway. The generals of mild importance probably had their favourite whores fetched in, however.

You stand and his eyes travel at last to yours. You smile lightly.

His expression altered into bitterness. Eyes lost their walnut warmth. Jaw clenched. Mood spiked sour.

He told you distinctly not to fucking come.

Yet here you stand.

You meet his burnt umber gaze and the sparky fire flecked there, scalds you.

“Tsarevich.” You greet him. Breath whipped to silver. You’re standing in the misty rain.

Waiting to see what comes spat back.

The generals clustering him, all bow in confusion and politely bob their unkempt wigged heads.

Not Paul.

His jaw clenched. Expression stiff. Posture as rigid as a Siberian Larch.

You’re fucking in for it now.

You batted at the sopping stretch of canvas. Hurling it out the way. Rain crashes down into your sprouting feathered hat and onto your shoulders.

Every squelch of your step into the oozing mud came sharp. Striking as a gut punch.

He’s following, hot on your heels, and you want to turn around and swing a punch into the angelic cherubim face you’d missed all these lonely long eight months.

His anger set off your own. Silky black gunpowder meeting roaring flame.

He’s livid.

You stand in his quarters. His tent is this huge beast of a thing. Clean and comfortable. A room with a table and maps and trunks takes up one. Green and gold tapestries make the walls slightly more habitable. More sophisticated. A cut above the desolate forest and the miseries of the wounded.

An emerald velvet curtain shields off the area where his ornate downy bed must be. He was still a Prince after all. He’ll be among his men. But he’s not sleeping in a frozen bedroll in the muck like an animal.

He storms into this space behind you and slaps the canvas closed. Words snapping out his mouth, that flimsy tent walls and steadily dripping rain will not conceal.

“This is not a place for you. You’re not supposed to be here.”

You don’t twist back to him as you angrily shed your gloves. Ripping them off like it was your own skin.

“Heaven forfend. I travel for two days in an uncomfortable carriage in the fucking driving rain to come see my husband and this is the thanks I get?”

“I told you not to come!” His words stamp out his mouth. He stabs a finger in the air. Aiming it as you.

“A lovely welcome.” You stab back.

He’s toe to toe with you. Muddy boots. Those chocolate eyes are all bitter. Not skated in love. Cold as all this terrible mud you’re bogged into.

“I don’t need you here. I have enough to deal with on my plate as it is fighting these Turks. I don’t need my wife by my side whilst I’m engaged in matters of battle.”

You steel your wilful jaw and bathe in the burnt brown shadow of his scowl.

“I am your wife. I have been left rotting at court. In misery now you’re gone. I decided to come and see you. To be here, by your side. In sickness and in health and even in battle. I don’t consider that as an action that deserves censure.”

“Yes it fucking is. I don’t need you here.” He shouts.

The burn of tears stings at your chest. Rips at your eyes. The man you’ve missed and ached after for months now and this is his choice of words levelled at you. It’s cutting.

“Lovely.” You bite out. “Well then. I won’t waste my time loitering around for you to yell at me.” You grip your gloves and turn back to him.

“Fuck you, Paul. Good day. Go back to your warring, and muddy filth.” You finish acidly. Your throat is full of clotting fire. Your rage. In situ with your wounded pride.

You shove at his coated chest, dull gold buttons. Go to move past him. Wipe your boots on his fine rug floors on the way out.

Your ruined shoes stick on the spot. He’s banded a hand around your wrist. It tugs. Burns skin.

“Let go.” You seethe. Pull your arm. You don’t look at him. Jaw grit.

He does not.

You wrench again. It brings you closer to him. You snarl. He stills your arm.

You do meet his gaze. The glint of fire - raked embers - returns to his eyes.

“No.” He decided.

Oh, now he’s in for it.

Anger spumes out of you like raining cursed hellfire. He should be terrified. You are mighty. Goddess of war backed with wrath. Angrier than Ares. These men should cower under your golden gaze. Desolation writ into you so heavily they should run for the hills.

“Thought you didn’t need me? Why would the mighty Tsarevich need his dumb bitch of a wife at his side? Run out of good whores have you?”

It was too late for niceties.

“Just be quiet.” He snaps.

Stepping very close. Close enough to touch only he doesn’t. His eyes move to your mouth. His hand seeks for your waist. Reels you in.

You don’t want too. But you clam up. You want to rear back and swing your fist to strike him. Preferably with a knife.

“I have never known a woman as disobedient. Nor as wilfully stubborn as you are. It’s infuriating.” He snipes.

His breath warms your mouth. He smells like his woody spice soap and bitter brush of smoke, and sweat. Still Paul. Underneath all things.

“Good.” You snarl with a nod. “I’m glad to have been such an inconvenience.”

“Constant dagger in my side.”

“Fuck you.” You announce passionately.

“I have had enough of your inability to listen to my orders.” He comments.

“Tough shit.” You snark.

“Elegant verbiage.” He insults.

His gaze is swimming into something steel black and lethal. You hate how much you like looking at him like this. It almost makes him look intimidating and handsome.

At this point, you’re half desire, half pure lightning hot rage.

“Get back to me when I don’t want to stick a knife in your thigh. Maybe my vocabulary will improve.” You hiss.

You’re so locked and entwined with this man. Tug his strings and it’s sure enough to jerk some distant part of you, merely by extension.

“Are you wet right now?” He asks. Head tilting His lashes shutter his eyes as he scans you. From the dirt crusted hem, sweeping upwards.

Your mouth is dry as tumbling scorched sands. Clench your teeth to dust. Heart ramming your tonsils.

He spies that twitch in your face. “Am I to take that as a yes, Tsarevna?”

If looks could kill.

“I’m going to fuck you. I know how plaint and weak it makes you when I work that delicious cunt open with my cock.” He steps you back. Hands tugged in your dress. Leading.

“I will fuck every disobedient word and thought out that head. Wife.” He sneers.

He pushes you to one of the wooden columns. Shunts a breath out of you. Hands digging through your skirts. Searching for your pussy.

You rake your nails into the nape of his neck. Hope it stings. Pray it brings blood.

“Be careful what you wish for.” You warn.

He smiles.

He’s fucking you not two minutes later.

Naturally, it didn’t take him long. You succumbed way too easy. Melted like butter, really.

He’s slithered to the gaps in your armour and snuck beneath with all the cunning adroitness of a serpent. You detest it.

He doesn’t give you what you need. Of course not. He doesn’t make this easy. His actions are all dipped in mocking taunt and brat.

He splayed you open, and rubs the fat leaking head of his cock against your trembling pussy. Eight months of nothing your your own fingers and he’s making you sit and beg like a trained lapdog.

Slapping it to your clit and smiling when you lurch. Unwilling to feed the head into you just yet.

It’s fucking agony.

You’re ready to slit his throat by the time he rewards you with sinking to the hilt in one ramming surge of his hips. The anger dissipates - a little.

You soothe the rest of it by leaning up and gnashing your teeth into his neck. Clamp down hard- force him to fuck you harder.

He cursed when sliding into you. Mumbled wisely about how conflict always made you so juicy wet for him. He pulled back and taunted you with your own greediness for his cock. The shine of your arousal coating him all glossy. A pretty sight, that.

“Hear how wet you are my love?” He lurches and slams you. A sharp stroke that wracked every vertebrae of your spine.

The sounds that come keening from you make your eyes flick back into your head. Enough to make him more smug.

“Utterly filthy. Soaking.” He huffs in gasps. “Making wet patches on my bed like a damn harlot.”

“Can’t believe you. Hmm- fucking brat. Yelling at me for coming here.” You manage to gasp. Cheeks blistering hot with this anger spurned arousal. Nails clawed into the carved headboard.

A hiccup snags the back of your throat as he knees closer.

Pushes your legs almost crushed up to your tits. Your stays almost strangling you. You cry loud because of this new angle. Makes him punch a spot inside that almost aches.

“I think this cunt is more pleased to see me than you are.” He smirks. Hands with dirty nails digging into your thighs. Ten half moons socketed into your quivering flesh.

“Fucking hell.” Spews out your mouth. Unguarded. He’s severing every strong steel thread of your resolve.

“I’ll take that as yes.” He says. Hair falls choppy in front of his wild eyes. Tiger eyes. Frightful fierce. Hands clamped to your thighs. He spreads you and sits up to stuff himself deeper. Harder. Faster.

The noises he’s getting out of you are just growing and growing. Rising in pitch and volume. So much so you’re swirling your hips to him to get feedback off that friction. That burgeoning pleasure begins to slice mean into your belly.

“How you moan for me when I give you my cock. Never gets old.” He grins.

“Never too late to punish my disobedient-“ he huffs and fucks hard inbetween his words. “Petulant. Stubborn. Wife.” He insists with a playful leer.

He can tell by the wails how close you are. Enough to taste it now. That eye rolling pressure ready to snap.

His cock stretched you just right. Stabbed into the gaping cup of your womb. You’re so treacherously close to that blissful peak you go rigid trying to chase it down and let the sensation ruin you.

It was mind meltingly good. Close and looming closer. Heat wrapping your limbs and warping your mind to bend to him. Every atom of you trained for this pleasure to come-

He yanks his cock out of you so fast, you want to shriek.

That coal hot glow of orgasm withers and curls to ash. He’s back to slipping his fat head around your cit again. Smearing your cunt in a sticky taste he’ll find and devour later.

“You fucking-“ you glare up at him all blissed and edged. Cunt clenching on nothing but air. He smooths both his thumbs over your pretty and dripping pussy lips. Making you throb.

“If you want to cum, you better beg.” He insists.

“I could kill you.” You seethe. Words dressed in a growl.

He tilts his head. Teasing. “Yes?”

You yelp when his cock slams into you once more. Puff for breath. God fucking dammit.

“How about now?” He checks as he folds you in half, yet again. Cock rooted deep.

The start of a long night, to be sure.

Hours later, darkness wraps you up. Comforting tenebrous blanket. Candles are lit. Dozy gold and matte dark pours into the tent.

He has you food brought in as an apology.

Someone ducks in the tent with a tray of it. He pulls on his boots to go fetch it. Leaves you boneless on his goose feather plumped bed.

There’s a bottle of wine with dinner too. Not the best but you’re not complaining. Dry hard biscuits and a salty wedge of goats cheese was your lot in the carriage ride here.

There’s a thick milky porridge with creamy oats and nutmeg and warming spices. A slab of pink roasted meat glistening with fat and golden globs of plain boiled potatoes barely salted. Sided with some hunk of brown hardy bread smeared in greasy butter.

This food is hot and warm and fills your belly well. He feeds it to you.

It’s how he soothes. But it’s not the only way he wants to offer you comfort.

He gets naked and climbs under the covers. Always bathed you in limitless comforts and luxuries after a rough fuck. The calm sweetness after a raging storm of passion and stinging claws and slamming hate. When the blood has dried to rust, along with the nasty words.

He slips between your legs under the sheets to tongue at your cunt like it’s a juicy honeycomb treat that drips honey.

It’s dripping him.

He eats it out of you. You sigh all dreamy and elongate your neck back to pillows that smell like his shaving soap, to moan his name.

Slipping your nails over the short brown thorns of hair. Rake over his scalp.

You gasp his name and you know the soldiers will have heard the sound sneak out the tent flaps. You don’t care.

His tongue slithers and laps through your puffy sex. Fully nursing your clit with the curl of his tongue. Brushes through the tactile scratch of your curls there. He loves burying his nose in them.

When he’s done he slinks up from under his furs and sheets. Wiping his mouth in the back of his hand. Still a little bit of both of you combined is smeared wetly across one cheek.

It catches in the flickering murky light. Candles are spinning red gold in the dim. Rain is a steady pat on the tent roof.

You look down at him. His gaze is all warmth and tenderness again. A knowing smile slopes the corner of his mouth.

“Did you really travel all this way just so I could fuck you?” He asks all smug.

You smirk. “Got what I wanted, now didn’t I.” You dismiss archly.

But you both know it seats a little deeper than that. There’s definite skin both of you have sunk into this game. It might even be the gummy beating walls of your hearts involved.

“You do know you’re a walking fucking nightmare.” He tells you.

Slotting himself between your hips. Seeking to hold your hands as he rolls into you. Makes your cunt clench.

Your hand slips from stroking his hair, downwards. Vicing your cruel hand around his soft throat. His eyes blaze again.

“Don’t you dare fucking forget it.” You sneer.

He sends you home sore - five days after your arrival.

#punkwrites #prince paul fanfiction #prince paul catherine the great #prince paul imagine #prince paul fanfic #prince paul x you #prince paul smut #prince paul x oc #prince paul x reader #prince paul #i would die for this man #such a brat #he’s such a filthy ho #such a hottie #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn

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litnerdwrites · 15 days

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It's interesting how Nesta had to apologise for something she wasn't even in the wrong of doing while Rhys, who overreacted by threatening to kill her (for a mistake he made) and chasing her out of the city, did not have to. Especially, after it was canonically established by Feyre herself that he did not have the right to do that..

And for someone who claims to write about badass female mcs who crush patriarchy and choose the course of their own lives, shouldn't an apology scene for something in which a female's right to information on her own body was undermined be a fundamental part of the book?

I mean, she could add a bonus chapter about the characters in question fucking to make babies but had to keep the apology off-page? Weird.

The only somewhat sufferable part of the book was the scenes with the Valkyries and the smut (if you ignore the poor timing).

I don't know if it's my eldest daughter syndrome acting up but I feel strongly about this.

I agree completely. I won't deny that Nesta has some things to apologies for, but so does Rhysand, and Feyre and Mor. I'd even argue that the things the IC put her through negate the need for her to apologies, or at least makes it a little less urgent/important than the apologies she's owed. This is mostly due to the fact that Nesta's so-called crimes amount to a bad attitude (most on page examples of which are pretty understandable to me), and issues she had with Feyre in childhood. Meanwhile, the IC's actions are immature and ignorant at best, and extremely abusive at worst.

Honestly, I don't think any of them, much less Rhysand, see what they did as a mistake. If any of them did, they wouldn't have made her walk through those woods. Feyre would've demanded Nesta be brought back otherwise, but she didn't.

As for Rhysand, honestly the part where he hugged Nesta gave me ick. Especially when Nesta said he'd been acting like a brother the whole time because he hadn't. He abused her. He broke her down. He only showed any semblance of decency (even then it wasn't much) when she did something to benefit him.

Offering pity jobs for somebody else's sake without taking into account Nesta's strengths or passions into account isn't what a brother, or anybody who cares for her, would do. Staring at her like a circus attraction when she enters the room isn't something a brother would do. Forcing her to social events just to ignore her isn't something a brother would do. Financially abusing her, refusing to give her a salary for her work during the war, along with her inheritance, is not something a brother would do. Not caring for her wellbeing beyond how her sister feel's is not something a brother could do. I could go on.

I think, at the end of the day, this amounts to a simple fact. SJM clearly doesn't see anything wrong with the things she writes and narrative she creates. No matter how you argue that ACOSF is a healing story, not a redemption story, it doesn't matter. Through analysing the sext, the author clearly shows how she feels about Nesta. Looking at what she says about the book, the author clearly has little understanding of mental health, and hasn't done enough research on it to be able to write a healing arc that isn't straight up abuse/torture (seriously, the bar is in the crust of the earth).

ACOSF could've been the best book in the series. All of the material, the concepts, the potential was there. Nesta's story was set up in ACOFS, and perhaps I wouldn't have minded the actions of the IC as much (from a literary perspective anyway) if they had been acknowledged as wrong and the IC apologised. I don't think anyone would've minded the locked in the HOW plot either, if, at some point, the characters acknowledge how abusive it was. If the narrative itself acknowledged how messed up it was, and did something about it.

If Cassian apologised for abandoning her after the war, Cassian especially. If Feyre apologised for not trying to reach out in a way that Nesta was comfortable with. If Elain apologised for not being there for Nesta the way Nesta was for her. If Mor apologised for, intentionally or not, isolating Nesta from the rest of the court. If Amren apologised for her comments. If Rhys apologised for sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

Rhys apologising for the hike, or threatening to kill her would mean nothing because both he and the narrative don't see anything wrong with his treatment of her. If he did, then the forced training/library/stuck in the how part would've ended half way through the book.

The part that infuriates me the most, however, is that they don't see their wrong doings at all. They still think they're doing the right thing and that they know everything. It's messed up.

#anti acosf #anti ic #anti inner circle #nesta deserves better #anti amren #anti mor #anti rhysand #pro nesta archeron #pro nesta

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ancientastarwis · 6 months

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NOVEMBER PICK ONE IMAGE

Welcome to November! 🌟 The unique Pick One Image that I've prepared this month has the theme of forest animals, mainly because two options were intuitively clear before even choosing a theme. Choose the animal(s) you feel guided and let me know your option(s) below. Each option contains guidance for November through tarot and/or oracle, as I'm intuitively guided.

There's something special about this month, because I was guided to pull from two! oracles. Each image contains one card from one oracle and two cards from a different oracle. The first is Work Your Light by @rebeccacampbell_author and the other cards are pulled from the Earth Magic by Steven D. Farmer.

Feel free to book a personal reading or session with me, covering any area you might need guidance with, through the tools that you trust the most.

Leave a like and reblog this post if you loved it. Your support means a lot to me.

Have a beautiful day♥️

@ancientastarwis

Open for Results 🦉🐇🦌

Option 1: Owl 🦉

MINTAKAN. Longing for home. Belonging. The original Lightworkers. Mintakans are a soul group who originated on a planet in the constellation Orion. They were the first star beings to travel to Earth, and believed to be the original Lightworkers. The Mintakans’ home planet is thought to have been a water world with water so pure that you could see through it for miles. For this reason, Mintakans feel most at peace and at home when in or around crystal-clear water. They are here to teach us to see the potential in everything and the light in all beings. Many Mintakans have an odd longing for ‘home,’ and struggle with feeling like they don’t belong. It is thought that this is due to their home planet no longer being in existence. If you pulled this card, it could mean that you are a Mintakan or are longing for a sense of belonging and Root Chakra healing is necessary for you to feel secure and safe. Perhaps you feel this longing to find home without knowing where that is, or you’ve been moving around a lot and yearn for a place on Earth to call your own. If so, you are being called to connect with Mother Earth and create it for yourself now. To choose where you feel most at home and create it, rather than waiting for the feeling of belonging to come. Repeat: I allow myself to be truly here and at home on this planet. I release any grief around not belonging or feeling held and call in the perfect home.'

SPRING EQUINOX: Rebirth. You thought this passage you have been through would never end. Trust as certain that the light of the world fades every few months, it makes its return, and the Earth rejoices. The fresh breath of spring sweeps away the cobwebs acquired from the absence of the light. The light is now obviously increasing as Nature begins to emerge in all her many forms, shapes, and colors that remind ns of the continual cycles of Earth Mother. This cycle of rebirth you are experiencing follows a considerably challenging time. Any tears you may have shed have cleared the way for what has been gesturing, which is now ripe and ready to emerge. That which no longer serves you needs to be put to rest so that a freshness and newness of spirit can make itself known to you. Sometimes birth can be pain fid, particularly in that passage just before delivery, yet what emerges can be fresh and beautiful. Be with the emergence of this next cycle with faith and grace.

CRYSTALS: Focus. The nature of quartz crystals, the second most common element in the Earth's crust, is that they help focus the power of our life force, or Spirit. Where attention goes, power flows—and crystals magnify this power tenfold. Our intention influences where our attention goes. When we're consciously aware of our intention, it facilitates the focus of that spiritual power and supports the manifestation in material reality of that intention. It is time to bring your complete focus to the subject of your inquiry. Eliminate all distractions, and give this your undivided attention. Whether this is a project, relationship, or simply a relaxing time spent walking in Nature, be fully present to the situation. This sharpening of focus will expand your awareness and allow your inner guidance to penetrate your consciousness, which can then be parlayed into appropriate action By being focused with crystal clarity, you are in the flow of your life force and, in fact, have become one with it. It is not a hypervigilant or tension-filled state, but one of relaxed attention. Keep your eyes, ears, and heart focused on that which you need to pay attention to, and miracles can be created. To paraphrase a fictional elder, "Use the Force," and use it in life-enhancing ways.

Option 2: Rabbit 🐇

LEAP. You go first. The Universe will catch you. Life bends for the courageous. The Universe wants to support you, but first you need to leap. To throw your life up in the air. Perhaps you know what you are being called to leap toward (or away from) but are scared to make the move. Or maybe perhaps you are waiting for a big fat sign, or instruction manual, or permission to do so first. If this is you, then this card is your sign and permission slip to take a deep breath, and leap into the unknown. It’s scary to let go of all that we know in hope for something new. And it’s normal to feel anxious at the thought of letting go of what we know for sure. But this is the unavoidable process of rising. And right now, this is how you are being called to live. Nature is constantly showing us how to live with courage. Fall comes every year and encourages the trees to loosen their grip. To allow what once was so full of life, to fall away, leaf by leaf. For a moment, it feels like nothing will grow again. The branches are left bare without the comfort of what once was. But in the morn of spring, new shoots begin to appear and something new is born that is even more glorious than before.

STONE PEOPLE: Vigilance. Remain vigilant at this time, but not out of fear. "Vigilant" simply means opening up your mind and senses to information as it is presented to you: through your eyes, ears, physical sensations, and detached thoughts. It is especially true in two main areas. First, follow any gut feelings that tell you to be wary about someone or something; second, pay close attention to an important opportunity that presents itself one that may enhance your life and the lives of others. Maintain your vigilance of the clues around you and inside of you. Assess what is emanating from your body, and then sort out any conditioned responses from what is purely instinctual. Examine the situation with heart, intuition, and mind in harmony; for this is how vigilance serves you. Detach, take a breath, and stand tall in your stature.

WOLF: Instinct. You have lost touch with your instinctual sensitivities. It is the result of cultural and/or religious proscriptions dictating that anything wild and instinctual is threatening and, therefore, has to be controlled or eliminated. Now is the time to overcome this limited mind set and tune in to these instinctual cues. Let the Spirit of Wolf be your teacher, and call upon this benevolent being for help identifying what those specific cues are saying. Shed some of your inhibitions with the only guideline being to "do no harm.” Experiment by getting out of the straitjacket of familiar societal norms and listening to those sensations in your gut that are trying to give you a message. It may be a warning or an urging to take action of some sort. Take some deep breaths, and simply notice what your bodily sensations are telling you. Your mind will be the receiver of that information, and your body and mind can learn to work more closely with each other once again.

Option 3: Deer 🦌

DON’T DIM TO FIT IN. How are you dimming your light in order to fit in? Don't dim your light to accommodate someone else's smallness. We are all born to shine big and bright. The Universe is expanding and you are part of the Universe, so expanding is part of your nature. If someone makes you want to retract, notice, and slowly back away; they are not for you and you are not forthem. Better yet, find it within yourself to expand and shine your light anyway. Flowers don’t open and close according to who is walking by. They open and show their beauty regardless. If others don’t want to be around you, or you make them uncomfortable, it’s because you are shining light on the fact that they are dimming to fit in. By choosing to shine bright you may just inspire them to turn on their light too. Or not. Keep your light on anyway. All relationships are essentially an energetic agreement. The moment one person decides to start rising up and allowing their light to shine, it changes the energetic agreement and can create some waves. That's completely normal. The relationships that are meant to last will adapt to the change in energy. Others won’t because they were likely born under the proviso of'I love you, as long as you don’t shine brighter than me.' That’s OK, not all people are meant to be in your life forever. But the lessons they teach us can still live on.

STAR MOTHER. How can you Mother yourself? You are more held than you could possibly imagine. Loved and cherished so dearly that, if you knew, you would not spend one second of your life in separation, worry or fear. Let the Mother carry your burdens; let Her rock away your fears. Lay all of your worries, regrets, shame and guilt on Her altar. Please, please sweet child, do not fear. You are love in motion. If you see it, you are already healed, Let Her remind you of your goodness. Let Her love away your fears. Your capacity to love and hold others is limited to your capacity to love and hold yourself. Be compassionate with your sweet body, mind, and soul. Treat yourself like the beautiful spirit that you truly are. Remind yourself that you are doing your best and try not to carry it all on your own. You have got this and the Mother has got you. Let Her broad arms take away your burdens; let Her lift the weight of the world off your shoulders. Forgive yourself, my dear sweet child of the Earth.

MILKY WAY: Perspective. You have lost your perspective, so it is time to step back, breathe, and allow yourself to detach in order to gather information from your senses and regain your perspective about the situation. Detachment does not mean that you no longer care—it simply indicates that you are looking at things from a different point of view. It is an outlook that is not clouded by emotions, judgment, or attachment to outcome, but instead maintains a nonreactive awareness of these things. The Witness, that internal aspect of yourself that simply observes everything in your life, offers his or her eyes here. Through these lenses of pure awareness, you can examine all aspects of your experiences—physical, emotional, and mental—without denying anything. By doing so, you will come to understand a greater perspective than is typically justified by the ego, which allows you to see what is before you with clear vision and an open mind.

#pick a pile #tarot reading #tarotblr #pick an image #pick a pile reading #pick a picture #pick a photo #pick a card #tarot guidance #free tarot readings

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loganlermanstanaccount · 7 months

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my joints are sore from all this walking.

fabled creature, spanning the mountain ranges and valleys;

i have been looking for signs of your existence.

a creaking in the crust of the earth,

a slight shudder in the trees on a still night.

i know you by the love you leave for others:

a family, alone on their travels like me,

speak of the way you shifted the seas to get them home.

The woods tell of moss laid down for weary nomads;

and crystalline rivers thawed for a lost faun.

i untangle myself from the roots you've left behind.

put me in the palm of your hand;

in that crest, that dip, between a rock and a

half-hearted cliff face.

that is to say, a place where something as stubborn as sandstone

has given way to the sea.

it will take me a lifetime to map the earth your light has touched;

and another lifetime until I am sun-sick.

#I want to love #and i want to be loved #vent post #poetry #sorry if this is clogging up the dash I just haven't been able to write anything in a while

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stinkysam · 7 months

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Deke Shaw - Patience is a man's best virtue.

Warning : none

Genre : fluff

Synopsis : "How about Deke and the reader getting closer in Season 5 after they all return to modern time, mostly because the reader is patient with him unlike the rest and entertains all his questions about Earth understanding of his circumstances :) And somewhere along the way Deke develops feelings lol" - @intrepid-captain

Reader : male (you/yours)

It took him some time to realize his feelings for you, for someone so in tune with his feelings and emotions, he didn't see it coming, at all. You won him over slowly.

He didn't think he'd move on from Daisy. She had it all. Beauty, personality, strength… maybe except patience.

You, on the other hand, seemed full of it. Not that you didn't have the rest as well but patience was really what struck him down in the long run. And doing things for the long run is what he prefers.

You would answer his questions about food, music, movies without judging him for not knowing about it.

"Hey, man can you do me a favor ?"

"Hit me."

"What the hell is this ?" He says, shoving a can of chicken pot pie into your hands.

"The- it's- it's supposed to be a pie, but the companies sell it that way so you can eat the filling or shove it in… in a crust ?"

Deke blinks at you, mouth open as he grabs back the can.

"So it's not soup ?"

"Depends on what a soup is to you."

He stares at you and tilts his head in a way that means to not make it harder for him. You snort and continue. "Nope. Pie. Chicken pie. Maybe we have some frozen crust laying around ?" You say, but you know he's not listening by the end of your sentence.

Or you hear a knock at 3am on your door. You think about ignoring it but it sounded urgent so you get up, your blanket wrapped around you and you open your door to see Deke, also wrapped in his blanket, somewhat panicked.

"Hey, [Name], huh… about what you told me today about gun rights. Awesome. Love it. But like… everyone, everyone ?" He says quietly.

"As long as you're 18 or 21, yeah."

"Yeah, yeah but like…" He looks at you, eyes wide as he waves his hands. "Everyone ?"

You sigh and open your door, inviting him in.

You ended the night with the both of you sitting on your bed, wrapped in blankets and talking about gun rights and the American government.

Since you were one of the few SHIELD agents not wanted, you could often go outside and buy snacks for the team during the occasional quiet times. And Deke would always come with you.

It's like he could smell it in the air when you were about to step outside.

"Why are you following me ?"

"Coulson asked you to pick tonight's dinner, right ?" He asked, smiling.

"Yeah. You want to come ?" As if you needed to ask.

You looked over your shoulder, watching Deke follow you, quickening his pace to be next to you. You already knew what was coming next.

"Yeah ! Duh, obviously." To then add more shyly… "Can I ?"

"Go grab the bags and let's go."

"Right away, sir." And with these words, Deke darted away with a smile, only to come back a few minutes later with them. "Come on, let's go, I'm waiting !"

"Yeah, yeah." You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile as you walked outside with him by your side.

You entered your car and gave Deke your phone, he was already navigating it like it was his. He quickly opened spotify and put some music on. He liked it, your playlist allowing him to discover artists like Racoon Tour, Sleep Token, Ado, Jhariah, or even musicals such as Something Rotten!, Beetlejuice, The Newsies or Rent.

You walked next to him in the store because you knew if you left him alone, you'd end up buying way more than planned.

"Do you really do the lemon thing here ?" He suddenly asks.

"The what ?"

He shakes his head, debating whether he should explain it once more or not.

"You know, saving tokens to buy some lemons and putting them on your… crush's bed so they know someone's into them ?" He says quietly, afraid someone might overhear something potentially ridiculous.

You stare at him and frown with a smile.

"No. But we have anonymous love letters ?"

"What ?" He says, almost offended. "But Coulson and Mack told me…" He grimaces. "These liars."

"Yeah, no. We don't do that here." You say as you pat his back and he huffs, clearly upset.

Then it hit you.

"Oh so that was you ? I heard whispers saying Daisy found a bunch of lemons on her bed." You looked at him and a blush began to crept on his cheeks.

"Yeah- no- that's… yeah… that was me." He admitted, defeated.

"Aw, that's cute. Bit weird out of context but cute. That explains all the lemons in the pantry." You said, patting his back once more, this time more gently.

He stared at you, surprised. He expected you to laugh at him and mock him but instead you found it… cute ? He smiled, sheepish.

"Yeah… I guess…"

After buying all that was necessary you'd make a stop at a bar to get a drink. Or a snack.

"I don't understand."

"What." You ask, bringing your beverage to your lips, taking a sip.

"Beer. It tastes so bad. I lived all my life thinking it was the drink. You know ? You forget your problems because it's so good." He looked at you, expecting an answer. "Why does it taste so bad ?"

"I don't know. Alcohol ?" You shrugged with a grimace.

"But I love Zima."

"That you do." You say with a light chuckle.

"What ?"

"Just remembering your first day here where you ended up drunk and in jail."

"Hey, not cool, man, plus I wasn't drunk."

"Right." You laughed gently, taking another sip of your drink. He smiled at you as he did the same.

Sometimes, during the most boring days you'd stop in town and let him buy what he wanted. Or more accurately, you'd buy him something, whatever that caught his eyes.

Sometimes it'd be maps and postal cards of random places, newspapers, magazines, VHS, DVDs, vinyls… or pastries. They'd all end up preciously stacked in his room, except the food.

It's moments like these that made his heart flutter. Your patience and kindness. He didn't think he'd move on from Daisy, nor did he think he'd be happy about it.

It's as he stares at you for longer than usual as you work on the computers, talking with the others that he realizes his feelings. Yeah, he's got it bad.

#male reader #m!reader #deke shaw #deke shaw imagine #deke shaw x male reader #agents of shield #agents of shield imagine #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#agents of shield x male reader

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chaneajoyyy · 2 years

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Sending a very happy birthday to this guy! He’s really doing IT out here!🎊💜.

#let’s chat #sip tea #talk fine men!#talk yahya abdul-mateen ii #yahya abdul-mateen ii #godiva daddy #daddy long legs #a tree i’d like to climb #why is he so fine!#lemme find out #put me into the earth's crust!!!#black actors #happy birthday!!!#photos #that damn smile #dem dimples #i know cancer men can be a menace but happy birthday to him!#a star was born on this day!!!#fine talented stylish and funny

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unicyclehippo · 1 year

Note

wn prompt blood

for @possibilistfanfiction , joan of arc themed fic for you!

most of the time, you don't remember your dreams. they're hazy, forgettable for the most part. sometimes, a couple of bright details will linger, like that time you didn't put sunscreen under the straps of your swimsuit and went red there on either side. the next morning, the sunburn had been warm and itchy and you'd scratched at it all the next day. your dreams are like that. (your curiosity is like that, just on the edge of painful.)

sometimes, you dream of beatrice. it doesn't happen often and usually it isn't that exciting. once, she's a seagull, and dream-you had looked at it and went, oh there she is. once, she's a face in a crowd. once, she's a big old church. that had made you laugh, even in your dream, because like. yeah. thanks subconscious, you get it, she's a nun. when you wake up, you tell beatrice, breathless, as she makes you run and run and run. you were a seagull. you were walking down the street. you were a church. sometimes you save it for your recovery water-break, because you want to see the way embarrassment breaks across her face, hot and pink, when you say i dreamed about you last night.

what was i this time? she asked, once. a frog?

no, don't you get it? whatever you look like, you're beatrice. you're always beatrice.

tonight, you dream of beatrice and she's an angel. she's beatrice and she isn't. it's her face. it's her pyjamas, her legs lean and long, her hair loose around her shoulders, her stride as she walks toward you. but it's not her.

she stops in front of you.

you're in a dark room. it's super-dense and burning hot, like what you imagine being at the core of the earth would feel like - crust, mantle, outer core like the heaviest weighted blankets ever. beatrice is standing in front of you, so fucking pretty, and then she reaches out for you and you know, you know it's not her, because beatrice doesn't touch you when she wants to. and there's nothing here to teach you, nothing to learn, so she never would. she sits two inches from you on the couch, she sleeps with a pillow between you in the bed, she doesn't touch you when she slips past you to get to the fridge when you're washing dishes in the sink. she doesn't touch you because she wants to and you know this even though you've never spoken about it, never brought it up, because you're intimately familiar with not touching the things you want and while you don't understand what is stopping beatrice, exactly, you think it has something to do with hunger. you're hungry all the time; you want to eat the world, would, if you could. but she's a nun, and they don't get to want things, they take vows of chastity and poverty or whatever, and you don't know if there's a vow specifically about hunger but you wouldn't be surprised. eve and her apple, jesus and his fig tree. the day you came to life, you ate strawberries, a lot of them, as fast as you could. juice spilling down your chin. the day beatrice swore to protect you and took off her habit, her veil, she hadn't eaten anything at all.

you're in a dark room. it's super-dense and burning hot and beatrice reaches out her hands and you take them, even though it isn't beatrice (it looks like her, you want it to be her) and she pulls herself toward you and your heart is beating so fast fluttering at the base of your throat like you swallowed a bird (a swallow, ha!) and it's struggling, beating frantically to escape, and you don't know what to do. beatrice is a nun. beatrice is touching you. her hands are so warm. you've felt them before, burning against your skin when she takes you down (take me apart please, sister beatrice) onto the practice mat day after day after day. her hands are burning hot. her hands are gentle but they don't move normally, they move up your arms and the heat follows, like you're pushing your hands into liquid flame. up your arms. over your shoulders.

she brings you in for a hug.

an embrace. the thought is a little shaky, a little embarrassed even in your own mind. you've never been embraced before.

your faces are so close.

beatrice, you think.

she doesn't smile, doesn't blink. she stares into your eyes, warm and thoughtful and deeply sad, and that is beatrice, but you can't tell where she ends and where whatever this is begins. it's not beatrice. it's just wearing her face.

the swallow in your throat didn't escape in time. it stabs its beak into you and you're numb from the neck down, you're dead from the neck down. there's blood in your throat, hot and holy; you don't want it to be either of those things, you don't want it at all, you don't want to be bleeding, it's in your mouth and you're burning hot but you're frozen in her arms. you can't move.

'beatrice,' you whimper.

she leans in and in and in and you didn't want the blood but if she kisses you it might be fucking worth it. her lips don't touch you; she leans sideways, going in for the hug? she's so close, the heat of her stings. your cheek, your ear. she pauses. you're burning up. she leans in. her lips touch the skin behind your ear. you burn.

the apartment is small. two single beds squashed against opposite walls. you wake up with blood on your lips, with a scream on your lips, with the smell of something burning high up in your nose. pressing your hand to your mouth so you don't throw up. you're sweating. the window by your bed groans when you shove it open, careful to press on the wood because if you shove at it, if you shove at the glass it'll break under your trembling, too-strong fingers, it'll shatter and cut and you don't want to hurt, you don't want to bleed, you just want to shove your head out the window and breathe.

elbows on the windowsill, head hanging over the edge, you do. you breathe. choke on feathers. cough once around the feeling. every bit of you hurts like it's been stretched out. like a growth spurt, the pain of growing into yourself; like the rack, like someone did this to you, pulled you to pieces and put you back together with nothing but the hurt to say it was done at all.

it's barely dawn. here, in the valley, pre-dawn is grey and green, all caves and growing things. it's startlingly beautiful, like everything else you've seen. you love being here. knee-high grass, apple trees, history. there are parts of town that you avoid; there's a red shimmer to them that you thought might be wraiths but over time, you figured out that it was history, blood on blood on blood, and there's something to the echo of it, the layering, that is terrifying. there's something to the rebuilding of it that is daunting, lovely, humbling. could you do that? see your house burn down, see your family struck down, and build on the same place? what about your broken back? what about your death, your resurrection? was that the same?

this morning, you hear church bells in the distance. turn toward the spire, the bells, the road that cuts up and out of the valley. you are going to leave this place. not today but soon.

beatrice is asleep still. you pull back from the window, shuffle to the end of your tiny bed and lean over, patting around for the socks that you kicked off sometime during the night. the floorboards are freezing, even in the balmy summer.

stepping into the bathroom, you close the door before turning on the light so it doesn't wake beatrice.

you don't lock the door, ever.

the first time you showered here, you'd slipped getting out of the tub. the side of it was slick with soap and you were still clumsy - are still clumsy - still figuring out how high to lift your leg to step over things. beatrice is accustomed to it, your imperfect depth perception, the way you stumble when walking down the street, over your feet, over the uneven pavement; she's not accustomed to hearing the thump of your dumb ass falling out of the bathtub and knocking yourself out when your skull slams into the bathroom counter. you got a concussion, a headache, and a new rule. don't lock the door anymore, beatrice had said when you crawled to the door and unlocked it for her, to stop her from trying to break it down. (don't scare me like that again, she hadn't said but you'd heard her, loud and clear.)

you lock it this morning. it clicks shut. the sound shakes down your spine. when you stretch, you can hear it in your ears, the click.

the mirror is brilliantly clear in the cool morning. you press up close enough to it that your breath puffs out, fogs the glass. it shows you a girl, long hair blonde at the ends, in the curls where the sun has burned it. she's scared, eyes wide. little curls of hair are plastered to her forehead, her neck, where it's sweat-damp.

'you're okay,' you tell her, whisper it. touch the mirror clumsily, touch her cheek. leaning your forehead to the cold glass, you kiss her. when you pull back, the imprint of your lips remains like a fingerprint on the glass. when you pull back, you see that she doesn't believe you.

that makes sense. the dream stings when you think about it. your skin stings. it should be pink all over, burned bright. your neck - your neck. you haven't let yourself think about it. you look at the girl in the mirror and she looks back and nods.

'it's not real,' the girl in the mirror says, and you don't believe her.

lifting a hand, you touch your cheek, drag your fingers back to your ear, press your hair back as you turn. there, behind your ear, your skin is a burning bright red. a circle, a kiss of flame, like the press of pursed lips. the pain eases. you watch as it heals; it doesn't fade, not entirely, but the red goes from flame to blood to scab to sting. you could pass it off as a scar from the car accident, you could pass it off as a birthmark. you could do these things, if beatrice hadn't dressed you in a habit, hadn't collected up your hair and tucked it away into a nun's wimple - veil? whatever. if she hadn't had her hands on you, directing you, training you. if she hadn't helped you brush your hair and gather it up in a very neat ponytail. if she hadn't hugged you, fingers on the back of your neck. if she didn't watch you like she was trying to memorise you, mostly because it's her job.

you let your hair fall back into place. it covers the mark, mostly, when it's loose like this and it doesn't hurt anymore. if anything, it tickles; the skin feels sensitive and warm, feels more alive than the rest of you. that feeling fades too.

you flush the toilet. you wash your hands. you climb back into bed.

from the other side of the room, beatrice says, 'time?' sleepy, sad.

you laugh. it had been the best day of your life, finding out that beatrice liked sleep more than prayer, more than breakfast, more than anything. when she's curled into bed, blankets bundled around her, pillow pressing lines into her skin, you don't see a nun, you don't see god's weapon; you see a girl, sleepy and warm, you see someone who is dozingly selfish, who allows herself the small comfort of the snooze button. fondness light on your tongue, you look over at her, at the grumpy misery of rousing, and tell her, 'you can sleep more, bea. i just had to pee.'

'thank god,' she mutters and shoves her face into her pillow.

the thing in your dream had not been beatrice. it looked like her, it walked like her, it had seemed like her, a little beyond skin deep. you think of being mad but you're not. it makes sense. you can't think of a single thing it might have looked like except her.

an angel came to you in your dreams, and it looked like beatrice.

days pass. everything carries on the same way it has for the last few weeks. you work your shifts at the tiny cafe, bad at making coffee but good at making people smile. also, surprisingly good at math. you get to use a lot of puns, get to flirt with a lot of the customers. after work, you meet beatrice for training, running up and down stairs until your lungs burn. then sparring. you're improving, fast.

the news plays stories of a crisis, a virus. boils. hospitals filled with pain and hurt. the news shows images of him. you see men on their knees, you see people stretching out their hands to touch the hem of his white robes, you see the little army falling into step behind him and you ask beatrice to teach you how to use the sword.

'i'm ready.'

'you're angry. you can't afford to be angry.'

'the halo is powered by my emotions, right? i promise you, the anger helps.'

beatrice holds onto the sword. there's a sliver of blue where she's pulled it from the sheathe, just a little. divinium has never felt like anything before and you don't feel anything now when blue light washes through the room but you hear, behind your ear, a sigh.

'we must control our emotions, ava, or they will control us. anger is not what will win this war. remember what sister melanie wrote, remember what the rest of the warrior nuns wrote. you must move past these feelings.'

'fine. teach me how to do it, then. but i will need the sword too. isn't that what we're doing? isn't that why we're hiding? so i can train? that's the only thing that can hurt him, bea. i need to know.'

she teaches you. of course she does. but she watches you like she can see through you, like your skin is glass and she can see through to the scared girl with her skin on fire, with a bellyful of fire.

it happens like this.

three days after the dream, you are walking home smelling of coffee grounds, sneakers gritty with them. there's a sting on the inside of your wrists where you caught the steam wand because you were distracted, too busy making a joke at the pretty boy waiting for his drink, and the halo healed it instantly to a glossy red but it itches. you scratch at it.

across the street, there's a couple. a girl and a guy. they're walking together. his arm hangs around her shoulders. a wraith hangs around his. there's a kiss behind your ear, there's a voice and the voice is the kiss and it's also the light glinting off the knife as he adjusts it in the pocket of his jacket and it's the knowledge that cracks between your shoulder blades like a glowstick that he will hurt her, that she'll be found in this alley tomorrow by police, that she'll bleed out overnight.

your feet stick to the pavement.

beatrice likes this town. you like this town. you don't want to leave.

what happens, you ask the angel, if i do nothing?

the angel doesn't answer. it knows what you know. you can't do nothing.

you follow them. you follow them because there's a voice searing into your head that tells you to, because there's heat in your spine like a molten rod keeping you upright, keeping you walking. but mostly, you follow them because coming back to life has been a fucking joy—the beach, the sun, the sand, running, becoming, fucking, eating, drinking, dancing, singing, laughing—and that stops, it stops when someone stabs you. it stops when adriel presses you back against rock and sinks his hand into you, tries to kill you. you follow them because there's a girl who is about to be killed and it doesn't have to happen.

beatrice will be mad. she will forgive you.

the alley opens into a little square space between the buildings. there's one of those big dumpsters and a cluster of wooden pallets. there's a couple leaning up against the wall; they look like lovers and for a second you wonder if you were wrong, seeing the way he has her pressed up against the bricks, the way her head tilts back, the length of her neck arched, eager, her hands on his shoulders, fingernails biting into the leather of his jacket. but then you hear it—'no!'—and see it—light, the glint of it, the knife—and you race forward. grab him by the back of his jacket and wrench him away.

he crashes into the dumpster, unmoving.

'oh my god, oh my god,' the girl says. 'oh my god, he has a knife,'

which you should really take off him, but she's shaking and you feel strong, vibrant, brave, lovely. you feel like a knight, in your coffee-stained sneakers and your ugly little polo shirt that beatrice picked out of the thrift store for you. you feel like a knight, saving her life.

'i know. can you walk?'

'i - yeah, i - oh my god, he was going to kill me,' she says, and sags against the bricks, and you catch her before she falls.

'can you run? he won't stay down forever.'

'i think you knocked him out.' then, her eyes catch on something over your shoulder and go wide, terrified. 'his eyes are black, why are his eyes black?'

she shrieks when he lurches toward you both; you push her behind you and kick him in the nuts, staggering him for a split second, and walk the both of you back to the alley, telling her to go, to run away.

'why are his eyes black? what the fuck do you want, luc! what is wrong with you?'

'luc? that's his name? it's a long story but basically he's possessed.' ooh beatrice is going to kill you for this. 'i'll fix it. it's not his fault, i'll fix it.'

'possessed? what do we - do i call the cops?' she shrieks again, wraps her arms around you as you duck and pick up a two by four, jab it at him in a poor imitation of the sword fighting beatrice has been drilling into you.

'just run, just go. i'll fix it,' you tell her again, and you must sound confident because she turns and runs.

this isn't like the first time. you are not newly alive, you are not weak, you are not confused. you are afraid, still. the wraith throws himself at you; you twist free - thank you, bea - and punch him in the face. knuckles crack against his cheekbone, an awful sound. the two by four breaks across his shoulders. you hit him until there's red spilling out of him; only then do you stop, because you've done it, the wraith is seeping out, but you don't have a divinium knife, you don't have anything that can help.

the angel kissed you in your dream, it told you everything you needed to know in that moment and every moment folded into one; the angel is the kiss, is the sky and the sun rising over the valley, is the centuries of blood in the dirt, is the wine and the tang and the knife and the light. it didn't say anything at all. it told you everything.

burn.

he stands, wrathful, wraithful. drives his shoulder into your stomach and pins you against the wall; the corner of the brickwork slams along the full length of your spine. you are held there; you cannot move. in another life, you are pinned to a wooden post. ropes itch around your wrists. in another life, he kills you there.

burn, the angel told you.

the halo ignites. the alley fills with light.

when you get home, it is with red knuckles and a tear in your ugly polo shirt. beatrice is waiting for you in her training clothes.

'i used the halo,' you tell her. 'i'm sorry.'

she was ready for this, because she's ready for almost anything, but she's not happy. the apartment is packed up quickly. you shove all your clothes into one bag—your shirts with hers, your pants with hers, your underwear with hers—and finally the guilt catches up with you because yes, it would have fucking killed you to walk away from the alley without helping but now you have to run and you are dragging beatrice with you.

there are church bells in the distance and know this is the day you were thinking of. looking out the window over your bed, you see the church and its spire, the road that cuts up and out of the valley. behind you, the phone rings. beatrice snatches it up and holds it to her cheek.

'we have to leave,' she tells someone on the other end of the line. mother superion, probably. 'ava used the halo.'

they have questions for you.

you used the halo? yes.

there was a fight? yes. a wraith. a girl was going to die.

did it get away? no. you destroyed it.

how? without divinium? the halo burned it up.

how? i don't know.

why?

'why, ava?' beatrice asks, bitterly frustrated.

you are done with packing. drop the bag onto the floor at the end of the bed and sink down onto it. it creaks under your weight. you stare down at your hands; they are healing, slowly. your stomach aches where he slammed into you, and inside too, guts churning unhappily under beatrice's disappointed stare. your shoulder blades burn as the halo works.

your back doesn't hurt; the halo healed that first, like it knew that you would fall apart, like it knew you wouldn't be able to make it home if your back hurt like that.

beatrice is waiting for you to say something like, i saw the wraith and i had to do something. something like, i've had enough of running. something like that. you could tell her that. it's true, mostly, but she squints at you, suspicious and unnerved, and you know it isn't true enough.

'i had a dream.' the words come out rough and untidy. you had shoved them deep down and now you are flailing to find them again, one at a time. 'three nights ago. an angel. it came to me, i guess, i think. and today i heard it again. or, today was what it had been talking about.'

beatrice frowned. she was standing across the room, in the corner, because she had tucked herself away there with all her anger neatly packed away and hadn't moved since.

'an angel came to you. spoke to you?'

'sort of.'

'sort of,' she repeated. the words would have been sharply spoken, if beatrice weren't so careful about their placement. the sharp edges didn't come anywhere near you but you knew they were there. 'what does that mean? why didn't you mention this before? you know i am trying to help.'

'i know, i know that. but i don't believe in angels, i don't believe in god. so, yeah, i didn't fucking mention it because it's insane and i'm freaking out a bit.'

'ava.' beatrice says your name so softly, so kindly. you suspect she's forgotten that she's holding the phone to her cheek, that her mother superion can hear her. 'it was just a dream.'

words can deceive. when you talk, you translate, and it has to be a little bit of a lie every single time because nothing that is said is ever what it is. the space between those two things are filled with faith, a certain amount of trust, that strains when the distance between what is said and what is (could be) grows greater. i am ava, you say to anyone in the world, and they will believe you, little faith required. i spoke with an angel, an angel spoke to me, an angel wore your face and came to me in the night and pressed its holy lips against my skin. how much faith would be required to accept that?

words are not enough.

so you take her by the hand and lift it to your cheek. something flickers in her eyes—you wonder, briefly, if she had the same dream, if she had been in your dream worn by an angel, or if she's just had this thought all by herself, unholy, human—and slide her fingers to the spot behind your ear. beatrice's eyes go wide, then narrow. she pulls you forward. twists your head to the side and lifts your hair out of the way.

'you've been wearing your hair down,' she says, steel on her tongue; arrow, fire-starter. you burn. 'you've been hiding this from me.'

you drive away.

well, beatrice drives away. she rents a car with an ID you've never seen her use—secrets upon secrets upon good intentions—and you leave. past the church, up the road out of the valley. you shiver as the town disappears behind you, feel ghostly fingers against your spine.

she drives to a little town a few hours away.

you buy new clothes, leave the car where the rental agency will pick it up again.

beatrice takes you to the station and buys tickets for the next train. this town, this afternoon, is wet and blue. beatrice drags you into the bathroom and the dull light drips through a small window up near the roof and you are reminded of when you dropped the sword into the river and it had sunk to the bed. the light spilled out when you reached for it, like the sword was cutting a hole between worlds, and divinity spilled out cold and blue into the water. you need to look different, both you, just in case. you paste bleach into her dark hair to lighten it. she cuts your hair as neatly as she can within the confines of a time limit and a cramped bathroom. when she's done, your hair falls just beneath your ears. curls a little.

beatrice stares at you like she's seen a ghost.

'what? did you fuck it up?'

she frowns, because you swore, because she doesn't fuck anything up. 'no.'

'bea.'

'we don't know much about joan of arc.' beatrice reaches out a hand toward you, a little helpless, a lot awed; she flinches back before she touches you. 'most historical documents agree that she was a great speaker. either she had a lovely voice or that she was compelling.' her eyes trace the line of your hair, the line she had drawn. your eyes trace the line between you, the one she doesn't cross. 'she had dark hair cut short. and a mark behind her ear.'

'she died.'

beatrice nods. 'burned at the stake. for heresy.'

you don't want to die. ever since the dream, you've been tasting blood. you haven't told beatrice that and you won't. something is coming and you're scared.

'heresy, huh?' you grin at her. 'sounds like my kind of girl.'

beatrice washes the bleach out of her hair. you help her, sink your fingers into her hair—the line between you is diminished, beatrice allows you to cross it sometimes, when you need to. she still doesn't touch you—and wash her clean. it's the same sink where she cut your hair, changed you. does it feel like a baptism for her? you don't believe in that sort of thing but she does and when she lifts her head out of the sink, you know that something has changed.

you're sitting on the floor of the bathroom, back against the cool tiles, and watching her dry her hair, her ears, with one of the tea-towels you'd randomly shoved into the bag while you were packing. your hair is short and it tickles your neck. you scratch at the mark behind your ear and blurt out, finally,

'it looked like you. the angel, i mean.'

beatrice stares down at you.

'oh. angels are Asian?'

you burst out laughing. 'maybe? but i mean it literally looked like you. like you. like,' you wave a hand at her. 'it was you, i mean.' you feel hot all over. nothing to do with an angel.

'oh,' she says again.

beatrice drags her fingers through her hair. you watch carefully. you've seen her plenty of times now without her veil (wimple?), seen her after a shower, rubbing the wet out of her hair with a big, fluffy towel. you have always looked away. now, she's using a teatowel that you hate—it never seems to dry the dishes, just moves the water around, and you'll be glad to chuck it out now that a little of the bleach has stained the corner of it—and you can't look away from her careful hands, the way she gently squeezes the towel around her hair, working down to the tips.

'i'm sorry for not telling you.'

'i understand why you didn't.'

'do you?'

'you thought i wouldn't believe you. that an angel spoke to you.'

she says it so carefully but wonder spills out from the words anyway. she believes, she has faith. it fills the space between the words, bright and blue and lovely.

'no. after - after him,' you say, because beatrice has asked you never to speak his name in public, 'i think we're all a little more open minded about things like that existing.'

'then why?'

the tiles are cool when you rest your head back against the wall. you stare at her—gentle hands, the slope of her neck exposed, all her hair gathered to the other side, the way she holds herself, more relaxed now that you have a plan but set, prepared to leap into action if the door slams open, if they find you here. the black sweatpants she found here in town, the comfy slouch of her sweater. travelling clothes, new clothes. when she squeezes water out of her hair, a droplet falls to the cuff of her new sweater; you wonder if the bleach has all washed away, or if the sweater will stain. there's a chain around her neck; the OCS cross hangs heavy at the end of it, hidden beneath her clothes. the only thing you can see that reminds you of sister beatrice.

'mostly, i wasn't sure how you'd take it. if i said, i dreamed about you last night.' you've said those exact words to her before. you have never said them like this. she doesn't need to ask what she was—seagull, frog, face in the crowd, church—she was herself, she was more than what she lets you see of herself. beatrice's cheeks pink. you smile at her, a bit wobbly. 'and i didn't want to listen. i don't want to listen. to it. to an angel. when has that ever been a good thing for the person listening? when has it ever ended well? i just - i want to be normal.' the last time you said that, mary kicked you off a cliff. you broke so many bones that you couldn't move for a long time, and your vision stayed fuzzy well into the next day. you brace for a lecture—not everything is about you—or worse, another kick, a knife to the back, unworthy, but beatrice only looks at you. 'i don't want to die.'

the towel hits the floor with a wet slap.

beatrice kneels. she lowers herself to the floor, to her knees, to your side. she clasps your wrist. her fingers are cold, slippery with water. you shiver, twist, so that you are holding her hand. so that she is holding yours.

'i won't let that happen.' her mouth goes flat, eyes determined, and with her other hand she touches your cheek, turns your head. moves your hair away from the mark; for a long time, she stares at the mark. you wonder if she knows what you haven't said. you kissed me. you pressed your lips to my skin and i burned and burned and burn. she must, she must. she presses her thumb to your skin—cold thumb, hot brand—and you jerk toward her, a broken, hot sound in the back of your throat. you cannot stop yourself; you didn't know until it happened that you were capable of such a noise.

beatrice's eyes go wide. she doesn't take her hand away. she presses again and this time you are prepared. cheeks hot, you look away—stare resolutely at the pipes beneath the sink, the curve of the metal, the ugly break in the wall where the pipes disappear. beatrice swipes her thumb over the mark and then takes her hand away. it is heresy, you think, when she says,

'i don't want you to die either.'

#omg this took so long jude im so sorry but here it is!!#warrior nun #tagging my stories #prompt fill #avatrice

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