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piracytheorist · 3 years

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A Kiss for Good Luck (9/15)

Summary: So this is the story of one born lucky, and one born unlucky. Fate will keep making them cross paths, but is it to bring them together, or to test them? Captain Swan AU.

Rating: T (make sure you’re okay with the warnings on AO3)

Word count for this chapter: 3.1k (48k in total) AO3

Read from the beginning: Tumblr | AO3

Chapter 9: Emma Swan, October 19th 2015 – May 19th 2016

The kiss doesn't get deep, but Emma's insides are melting; damn it, it feels so good and he feels so sweet. She breaks the kiss, fearing she's already gone too red and hoping the cold lights around them won't show it.

He's looking at her, and she feels she'll have to run or she'll turn into a pool of goo right at his feet.

Thankfully, his eye catches something and he turns his head to the side. Emma turns as well, only to see a woman a few yards away, about their age, looking at him with a scorned expression.

Killian just shrugs at her, and the woman seems to scoff and turn her back at them.

He turns back to Emma. “Don't worry,” he says. "Wanna add me on Facebook? It's Killian Jones, if, if you're interested... we can share favourite songs."

Emma snorts. "Like we're in high school?"

He laughs, a bit awkwardly so. "I won't stalk you if you don't add me, just saying."

Emma smirks at him, then reaches into her belt bag and takes out her phone, which immediately slips from her fingers.

"Shit," she says, picking it up and gasping when she sees that the screen cracked a little. "Shit!"

"Oh." Killian bites his lip. "I feel as if I've caused that."

Emma shakes her head. "It's replaceable. Don't worry. Killian Jones, you said?"

He looks to be debating himself. But Emma quickly opens the app, finds him and adds him. "Friend request sent," she says. "So we can chat about hot, new releases," she says, only half joking.

"Hey," Ingrid calls at her. Emma turns to see Ingrid's eyes go from her to Killian.

"Coming," Emma says. "So, we'll keep in touch," she tells him, pointing at him with her phone.

For the first time in so long she finds herself hoping that this near stranger will actually respond.

“Who was that?” Ingrid says as they start walking to their rented car.

“He's Killian,” Emma says with an innocent smile.

“You know him?”

“No, actually. We just met.”

Ingrid's brows shoot up. “You were just kissing a guy you just met?”

Her tone isn't accusative, just curious. So Emma's smile widens and she says, “Yeah. Yeah, I-”

She's cut off by her own gasp when her ankle bends unexpectedly and she falls down. For one long second she feels cold sweat at the back of her neck; first her broken phone screen, now tripping on flat ground?

“Emma?” Ingrid is kneeling next to her, face full of worry.

“I'm okay,” Emma says, collecting herself.

“Sweetheart, did he give you something?”

Emma laughs, trying to break the tension despite that small but insistent piece of her mind that's still worried. “If you're referring to butterflies in my stomach, yes.”

“I'm serious.”

“I'm alright. I just... didn't step right. And I'm a bit tired, to be honest.”

Ingrid's face relaxes a bit. “You did dance a lot tonight. Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yes, Ingrid. We were just talking and then... kissing felt right.”

“In any case, perhaps you should let me drive.”

Emma's jeans got a bit dirty and she scraped her palm after falling, but they're too small to rival the amazing birthday night she just had.

She wakes up with a bit of a headache, ringing ears, and a sore throat. But that day it's the goodbye to Ingrid that takes priority.

Ingrid promises to do her best to come to Boston for Christmas. Emma holds back her tears, hugs Ingrid, then waves her goodbye as Ingrid boards her plane.

Emma sits back. And waits. And waits.

Her flight was supposed to have left only twenty minutes after Ingrid's – she had considered herself very lucky to have found two cheap flights so close to each other – but now it's been delayed for more than two hours, the waiting chairs full of exasperated passengers and too many tired toddlers.

The food isn't great, the air conditioning hits her a bit too much and she doesn't get much rest. The lines at passport control are long, and she's happy she decided to take just a cabin trolley and not have to wait at the baggage carousel. She's already too tired, her body stiff, and she regrets not asking Ruby to come pick her up as she waits for a taxi while it's raining and a little too cold outside.

The next morning she scrolls through the line of notifications from Ruby asking her again and again to wake up and tell her everything, and it's only then she sees that Killian has accepted her friend request.

And he's active now. She checks the time – it's afternoon there and a Sunday.

She gives herself ten minutes. Her hair is not cooperating and she smudges the eye pencil on her lower eyelid.

She just shakes her head. Maybe the connection will be bad enough that he won't be able to see that much detail.

She settles herself on her bed and takes five deep breaths before calling Killian on video.

It takes a bit too long for him to answer. Maybe she should have asked first?

Eventually, his face fills her screen, and her stomach is all in happy knots again.

“Good morning,” he says. “Or afternoon? Have you gone back yet?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, noticing her wide grin on her preview, “I arrived last night.”

“How was your trip?”

“A bit more tiring than I'm used to. But safe.”

“Than you're used to? You do it often?”

Maybe she's not ready to go fully into her history with Ingrid, but he seems to catch up with what little she shares. They talk more than just their favourite music. For now, it's food, and how they'll spend their Sunday, then Halloween and Christmas...

She doesn't realize a whole hour went by until Killian, seeming a bit conflicted, says he has to go eat. He's staying with his family, and his parents are 'already experiencing retirement by eating early'.

Emma laughs, swallowing her own bitterness. She keeps it at bay until the call ends, then she sighs, looking at her cracked, black phone screen.

He's with family. He doesn't have to move countries and choose whether to celebrate holidays with them or with friends.

“Ugh,” she tells herself. She doesn't actually know much. For all she knows, he's had it as bad as her.

Work isn't going well. There are enough cases to go by, but they wear her out every day. Ruby is busy with work and her new girlfriend, and David's mother has gotten sick and the Nolans don't have the time to invite Emma every Sunday anymore.

At least, she manages to talk to Killian twice a week. She knows she'd like to talk more often to him, but she's still a bit insecure. Not just about whether she's annoying him, but because she feels like an old pessimist again, and caring for this will only end up breaking her heart.

She can't help it, however, especially when half the time it's him calling her, staying up late because it's already evening when she finishes work, then they spend the next at least two hours equally listening and talking.

She still gets to see Ruby and the Nolans occasionally, and she still gets enough to go by. But her one constant these days is Killian.

Ingrid tells Emma that she can't issue a visa in time and she won't be there for Christmas. Emma knows her bank balance isn't enough to afford a last-time trip to Norway; the Nolans will spend the holiday with David's mother in a small town in Maine, and Ruby is taking Mulan to New York City. Bless their hearts, though, they offered. It was only the white lie that she found super cheap tickets to Norway that convince both Ruby and the Nolans to not cancel their plans.

She gets a gift from Ingrid – a hand-sewn sweater that apparently got coffee spilled on it during shipping and she has to wash it. It shrinks and the coffee stain hasn't left. She doesn't dare use the word 'luckily' to describe the fact that her other gifts weren't ruined. Killian sends her a collection of seashells, with a note telling her that he gathered them himself.

She spends the little money she kept aside on a grand meal and many boxes of pop-tarts for Christmas. She calls Killian as she eats one of them, teasing him about eating her favourite “sugar-coated sugar,” as he called them once.

It's still late for Killian, but he talks to her even longer this time.

“What about your family?” she asks.

“It's four in the morning, Swan. If anyone's awake they're probably sneaking around the kitchen for a 'very-late-night' snack.”

She's the one falling asleep to him talking to her that night.

Just five years ago, Emma would watch the ads on TV and everywhere else talk about “family time”, or a “time to share the love”, and they would wash over her like everything else did in her life. She was the one everyone else counted on to not take the days off during holidays. But since reconnecting with Ingrid and making new friends in Ruby and the Nolans, Emma got slowly used to being part of something. A family, a company, where she learned to appreciate that time again. A time when she would go shopping for someone other than herself, when it wouldn't be a given that she would work on a holiday, when she would expect it just for the extra time and coziness she would live with someone else.

Now the commercials hit as hard as they did when she was seventeen and homeless; eighteen and in prison; nineteen and alone.

Being loved and thought of has really spoiled her, hasn't it?

She barely has the heart to call Ingrid when it's the latter's time to change the year. They wish each other a happy new year, and she feels glad that there's a lot of celebration going on where Ingrid is, so Ingrid doesn't get the time to truly see how difficult it is for Emma, to see what she's missing and all for a stupid lack of money.

At eleven in her own time, Emma breaks down crying in her bed.

She feels so alone. The past few years of reconnection with Ingrid and having new friends seem to weigh nothing over the emptiness she feels now. She didn't even have the heart to decorate her house this year.

She lies curled up in bed, hoping she can fall asleep before she surely hears the neighbors start the countdown, but, of course, no such luck.

Instead, four minutes before midnight, she gets an sms from Killian. An sms?

Turn wifi on, he tells her.

Breathing shakily, her throat thick with sobs, she turns it on but is still surprised to immediately receive a video call from him.

She checks the time, and tiredly tries to do the math. It's four minutes to five in the morning there. What is he doing?

She accepts the call, and her first glimpse of Killian is his tired but smug face. As he gets a good look at her, though, his face falls.

“Oh, Swan...”

She bursts into sobs again. He doesn't speak, but from the few glances she gets of him until she calms down, she knows he's waiting patiently.

She wishes she could reach her arms into the screen. She knows that his would hold her back.

She knows.

She gets her breathing under control and she looks at him, wiping away her tears.

“Thank you,” she says, and he smiles softly.

Damn it, that smile. She almost starts crying again, but he takes pity on her and looks somewhere away.

“It's thirty seconds now. Do you want me to count with you?”

“Yes, please.”

He smiles again, still softly but a bit more cheerfully now.

The connection lags two seconds, according to her neighbors' countdown. But the two seconds between the cheers across the wall and Killian popping a confetti cannon in front of the camera are theirs and theirs alone.

“Happy New Year!” he says.

His smile is so bright. Her tear-stained face in the preview looks so out of place, it feels wrong.

“You stayed up,” she says, voice harsh from crying.

“I... woke up. I mean, I went to sleep a bit early, and even I would say two is early for New Year's, so I snuck in a few hours of sleep before the alarm went off.”

He did it for her.

How wrong is it to wish she could kiss him now?

Her words will have to do.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“I wouldn't forgive myself if I let you change the year alone. Especially after you told me what you didn't tell your friends. Losing a bit of sleep is nothing.”

Her friends. He says it as if he's not one of them.

Well, he's not in that group of friends, but he belongs in that category.

Only that, though? Just a friend?

Once again, he stays up with her. He's properly prepared – snacks and music and lights and, well, soda, considering how late it is there – and she just feels stupid all she has is the sugar-coated sugar.

“Perhaps I chose the wrong flavor,” he says. “If I visit Boston one day you'll get me your favorites and I'll taste them all.”

Her heart flutters at the idea of him visiting. She's tempted to correct his 'if' with a 'when'. Because she wants him there. She wants it to be certain.

But she decides to keep it low for tonight. He already gave her the best surprise she could have had.

Perhaps she loves him.

But she's known better than to hang onto hope.

The last thing she remembers seeing is the view from his window, at the tiny show of the sky getting brighter.

The last thing she remembers hearing is him singing Auld Lang Syne.

None of them ask, and none of them organizes anything more, but their video calls become daily. Depending on Killian's schedule, of course, they talk from ten minutes to three hours at a time. Even on very busy days, they manage to sneak in at least five minutes of talking, even if it's just voice chat.

Gerda is having health issues, forcing Ingrid to not visit at all nor call often, and Emma's work is still hectic. She manages to meet Ruby for drinks or the Nolans for dinner, but it's not on a constant basis like it used to be.

The only constant in her life is coming back tired from work and talk to Killian, who will stay up and chat no matter how late it is for him.

And he once told her he's an early bird.

It feels silly, but Emma can't help thinking of it as a compromise he's making to himself for her sake.

Killian tells her about his childhood; about his mother dying, his father leaving, and then nearly losing himself after losing his brother as well. How getting adopted saved him.

Emma tells him about Ingrid saving her. How she took a disillusioned kid with no family and gave her love and a home.

She tells him about being alone at seventeen and leaning on the wrong person. But her admitting that she has done time comes differently.

He tells her about losing his first love and resorting to things he is not proud of, including getting himself into a relationship that he knew would hurt him.

“I've done some stupid things myself,” she tells him.

“Well,” he replies, “I have a criminal record.”

She shrugs. “So do I.”

He actually raises his eyebrow. “Well, you can say we're equal in that.”

“Mm. I've done time.”

“Oh. Okay. You win.” He seems super casual about it.

“You don't mind? That I've been in jail?”

“Well, did you kill or otherwise harm someone innocent?”

“No.”

“Then, if you've moved on, who am I to judge?”

“What did you do?”

“Hacking, breaking and entering...”

She was a thief herself, but she didn't expect to find such a kindred spirit in him in that way – as well. “What? What for?”

His brows furrow. “Nothing too dangerous, and I was too stupid to think rationally, and it was a very difficult time.” He pauses for a while, then looks at her seriously. “I was an alcoholic. I've been totally clean for about six months now. It had only lead me to make more stupid decisions.”

“Well, you're working through it, right?”

He smiles at her, that smile that always threatens to rip her to pieces. “Aye. I never believed it at first, but it gets easier.”

It's always easier when one is not soul-crushingly alone, she thinks.

She had underestimated him and how much he understood what being alone can do to someone. Conversation flows easier the more they talk, and in early May, he surprises her by telling her he's thinking about visiting her.

Emma immediately offers to let him stay with her.

She fakes a broken connection to recover from the smile he gives her. Jesus. How will she handle it when they're face-to-face?

They come to a mutual understanding; neither thought light of their first kiss, but both knowing of each other's pasts, they decide to take things especially slow.

She hasn't been so excited to count the days for something good since the first time Ingrid visited.

She drives her Bug to pick him up from the airport, but it breaks down midway there. A long string of curses and many calls to a service center later, she manages to send Killian a text letting him know she'll be late.

After a tow truck takes her car away for service, she takes a cab for the rest of the way to the airport, only to find that her message to Killian hasn't been received, and that his flight has just landed, nearly an hour late.

However, he looks fresh and cheerful when he exits arrivals. Even from afar, she can already feel his smile turning her knees into jelly. She steels herself to at least walk normally to him.

They embrace and it's as if a weight is lifted off her shoulders. And if she judged by his face, it looks the same for him.

His eyes trail to her lips, and she gives him a quick peck.

#Emma Swan #Captain Swan #captain swan ff #cs ff #ouat ff #akfgl #captain swan movie marathon #see this chapter doesn't have any warnings!#wow I managed that #still a bit of angst tho #you know how it goes #piracytheorist writes

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ilguna · 4 years

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Ethereal - Chapter Five (f.o)

Summary: Five years of watching your trainees die, you’re sick of it. She will prevail, she will win.

Word Count; 1.6k

Warnings; swearing, DEATH MENTION

NOTES: i give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

Annie stands on a little stage as Beth, Cleo and Leo circle her. Making small adjustments to the dress as they see fit. They’ve already sewed up the leg slit, since you had pointed out that you had it before her. Laurel saw the copy-cat move, had it sewn and instead they threw some sort of poofy material over the silk. So now, the top of the dress is the only part still showing the silk.

It’s a V-neck, except it goes to the wrap at the middle of the dress–which starts at the end of her boobs and ends like three inches below. It’s a tank-top sort of thing. The fabric is manipulated to look like grooves. As if it’s made out of shell, also their goal. You were blue, the representation of water. And Annie will be the representation of shells.

Laurel has been waiting for you to let her use the idea. You told her no so many times, because you knew that it wasn’t a winning year. But goddamn, you have a career with an eight! Your tributes are golden, theirs are rotten. There’s only one way for this to end, so you allowed Laurel to use the idea. Because Annie or Paslee is going to win.

You would say both, but you don’t put that possibility in your head. Both of your tributes would have to survive for at least two or three weeks. You believe they can do it, but the careers will hunt them down. The year you were in the arena, was a walk in the park. They slacked, got attacked too many times. Your friends don’t allow them to do that anymore.

Or rather the academy that they train in. They teach them that the first thing that they do after securing the middle is to establish a watch of it. And send the rest out to eliminate as many people as they can get. Get the obvious hiders out of the way, so that there isn't’t an unnecessary number of people still alive. Then, they wait it out with the rest.

Sooner or later the people will get desperate. Maybe one of the unlucky ones will accidentally get too close when scoping out the cornucopia. Or maybe they’ll run out and try to take something while someone is taking watch in there. So many endless possibilities. Especially when they know that there is a month’s supply of food in the cornucopia.

During your games, they had so much food. You guys just kept it packed away in the back, and instead kept it on fresh food. Sometimes you guys would dig into the dried fruits to go along with the fish, but it was hardly. Special occasions, a new kill or something. You wouldn’t doubt it if Lennox and Trink had eaten some food in celebration to you getting beaten badly.

Only for you not to die and later kill them.

Anyway, all you’re going to be focusing on is taking at least one of them home. You’ll try to treat them fairly, but you won’t lie when you say that you’ll favor the most healthy. If Annie is bleeding to death, you’ll send her the bandages, but Paslee will get everything else he needs to kill people in the arena. If Paslee contracts a deadly disease, but Annie has got it down, then you’ll go to Annie.

Of course, if one of them dies in there, you’d favor the only alive one. That’s an obvious thing though. If they’re both healthy, nothing wrong, then you’ll transition off and on with the resources. Paslee may have gotten the ten, but Annie has that edge in her eye. Like she’s always waiting to snap at the wrong person.

It’s always so funny with the tributes. One looks like they’re going to fight harder than the other. But then the weaker looking one always prevails. Paslee acts tough, he was a shithead the first couple of days here, and now look at them. Annie has something boiling inside of her. The pep talk probably revealed it, and inside the arena, it’ll unleash.

She’ll be fearless.

“Smile a lot.” Elysia tells her, “And compliment him at every chance.”

“As well as the Capitol in general.” you tell her, swinging your legs a little bit, since you’re sitting on a stool. Annie looks to you, and you smile at her, “The people will be very interested in what you have to say. A career, but also because you’re the eighth one going up.”

“It’s an advantage thing.” Laurel says, pinning some of Annie’s hair out of her face, “They get more bored as time goes on. Be very thankful that you’re not in any district past six.”

Unfortunately, it’s true. They sit there for over an hour–twenty-four tributes, each three minutes long, comes out to an hour and twelve minutes–and they get bored. Personalities repeat, and that’s when they start to lose interest. It makes you sick, those are people’s kids.

They don’t care.

The tv next to you suddenly begins the anthem, Annie jumps at the sound, and turns to look at it with wide eyes, “Shit, already?”

“Of course.” You say, moving over to the door, peeking your head out, watching as district one comes down the hall.

“We’re up.” Cashmere tells you, as if you don’t know.

“Break a leg.” you look over her tributes, laughing when you see that the tributes don’t know if you mean it or not, and then shut your door when you come back inside.

The seashell theme was smart. The cream dress goes with the color of Annie’s hair perfect. When Annie steps off the stage, it’s the shape of a bell at the bottom of it. She moves around in circles, trying to get a feel for it. It’s floor-length, so she has to be careful not to step on it.

The first three minutes is up faster than you think. The girl comes off the stage, the boy is introduced. You can hear the cheers from where you stand.

You push open the door, watching Enobaria, Brutus, and the victors from three escort their own tributes. Annie lifts her dress so it’s not dragging across the floor. You stop her behind the boy from three, and then you move to find out where Paslee is.

It’s a quick walk, he finds you, “I’m ready.”

“Good, where’s Finnick?” you ask, he shrugs.

“He told me how to keep a conversation going and how to keep it interesting and all that, and then he said that he would be right back.” Paslee pauses for a moment, and then adds, “He said he’d be back before I went on stage.”

That’s fine, at least Finnick did his job.

“You two will be fantastic–”

“What’s with you always giving them pep talks?” Cashmere asks, leaning against the wall, she tilts her head, “It’s almost like you’re afraid that they’re going to do bad.”

You sputter out a short laugh, before turning back to Annie and Paslee, “Let me rephrase that then. You two are going to have more personality than the dog shit that had come before you.” you pat their shoulders, they snicker a little, “And while you’re at it, make sure to actually make friends with Caesar and not use him like a prop in a ploy to get more sponsors.”

“Can do!” Annie laughs, you turn to look at Cashmere.

“Is that better?”

“You’re a bitch.” she spits at you.

“What can I say, it’s like you bring it out.” you sneer, listening as another three minutes is up.

You stand outside, waiting for Finnick to show, and making sure that Cashmere won’t say or do anything to Annie and Paslee. Enobaria and Gloss eventually show up without Brutus. In all the years that Brutus has been coming around, he never goes to the interviews.

Laurel, Pleurisy and the prep teams say goodbye as they head off to their seats, late as usual. You wave them goodbye, and right on time, Finnick shows up out of nowhere.

Right on time as Annie steps on stage. Your so-called victor friends slither away. You tell Paslee to keep his chin high before disappearing into the prep room where Annie was. Here, you and Finnick pull up a couple of stools to watch her on the tv.

She’s very smart with her compliments, and she’s constantly smiling. Every now and then Caesar will find something to talk about, and she’ll skyrocket off of that. Before you know it, she’s got the entire crowd loving her, and then her time is up. Caesar gives her hand a kiss, and then he lets her walk off to her seat in the back of the place.

Then Paslee is up, and he’s keeping the conversation interesting. He jokes around with Caesar, and they find plenty of things to talk about. It turns serious for him, and Paslee says that he or Annie are going to be the two to win this year. Then he very confidently tells the sponsors to switch to district four before they’re locked in.

You admire the confidence, you just hope that he’ll be able to fall through on it. But as you’ve been saying, there’s a spark about them. Annie just seems to be the brighter flame, but Paslee is making sure that it doesn’t sink.

Paslee and Annie look at each other pleasantly when they’ve sat down next to each other.

You and Finnick let out a breath of relief.

“We’re almost done (Y/n),” Finnick says, you laugh.

Because he’s right. Tomorrow they get sent into the arena. Tomorrow, they choose if they win or lose.

#ilguna #finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair oneshot #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair ethereal #ethereal

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realdirtfacts · 5 years

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Its fashion baby!

You've heard of seashells glued to shit... now get ready for seashells sewn to shit! Its a shirt btw Found at a st Vinnies in Victoria Australia. Enjoy

#fashion #seashellssewntoshit #submission #thrifting

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gyromitra-esculenta · 4 years

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Because I’d been kind of goaded into it, Sabbath scene for The Bureau, mostly unedited - this happens long long after cornfields and nephilim.

Warnings: violence, character death (widowmaker), gore (with a bit of rituallistic cannibalism)

A restless murmur - a hushed whisper of dissent - spreads among the witches. It is the night of the Sabbath yet no moon shines on Château Guillard, the sky empty of its presence, and the stars are the eyes of the avaricious angels clawing at the reality in their hunger. Under the ruined archway, Queen of Spiders sits on her throne of the broken altar. Once, it had been the chapel of Saint Adelaide - the headless statue a shadow behind her - its hands sculpted stretched forward in a gesture of reverent supplication.

The witches part for there is an intruder between them they would not suffer any other night but this, the moonless one: a man. The witchcraft has always been a woman's domain, an no man had ever been a witch, such things were impossible and unheard of.

No such sentiment hinders Jack's step, his skin smeared with blue pigment in the patterns of clawed handprints and horned crown of warm bone on his head, his left hand buried in the fur of a great white wolf that had carried him here.

In her, he hears the discordant melodies of the void and the singing whispers, and she in turn sees the Herald of the Lost speaking in the voice of the angels.

"You had failed us, Herald," Queen of Spiders speaks from her perch. "Yours was a stillbirth."

A wrong choice that had made a right, his own words marking it as such, the last fragment passed from hand to hand, and an angel born dead to the world from a kiss.

"I have devoured the Moon. It is my right to challenge your rule, and no right of yours to refuse me."

"You, a man, dare to challenge me for my rule?" She snarls rising to her feet, tall and indignant, and Jack turns, not to her, but to the witches in attendance, the wolf circling him with a warning growl from the maw kept low to the ground as it casts around the glare of its eye.

“I come to you with the moon in my belly. I come to you with my brow adorned by the Lord of the Hunt and the blessings of Herne on my thighs. I come to you bedded by the Seven Year King."

He looks back to her over his shoulder, offering her a humorless smile full of teeth.

"What have you to show for yourself, Queen of Spiders, but a crown forged with the still hearts of your dead lovers?”

She throws the purple swath of fabric off her shoulders, fingers enveloping the hilt under the bejeweled hand guard, and points the tip of the rapier at him.

"So be it then, Herald, I'll bear your insolence no more."

Jack brings to his lips his own blade: forged with bog iron as is her crown, tempered in the heart of dwarven fires, cooled with Morgaine's tears, sharpened on a single hair of Freyja's, and bathed in the gaze of Hecate.

They circle each other, vipers with venomous fangs poised to strike, bare feet on the slippery stone cautious - Queen of Spiders rigid and cold, him flowing and warmed with the moonlight.

A moth's wings flutter in the air and they clash, the rapier grinding on the knife.

The dance is an intricate one, not a pause between the ebb and flow the Moon dictates, breaths curling in wisps of condensation as neither of the them gains the advantage - until the rapier pierces his side and Jack snarls, snatching her wrist and pulling her close. The blade runs him through but the knife is on her neck and his lips at her ear, the fight finished in his favor.

"I want you to know," Jack whispers, "that even when he was yours, and the mask was unbroken, he still came to me when I was ten and out there, in the cornfields."

He pushes the knife in, slowly, with satisfaction trickling down his spine and warmth unfolding in his belly.

Queen of Spider meets the end of her rule with sneering dignity, hand growing lax and slipping from the rapier as she falls to the stones as the blood pools under her.

He rips the blade out of his stomach, turning in silence, his gaze sliding over the transfixed witches; Ana in the back giving him a small nod of approval, both ravens sitting atop her shoulders, and Gabriel by her side, his face contorted in a mixture of worry and bewilderment.

The rapier, thrown to the ground, clatters in the quiet.

Jack reaches deep into himself and extends his arm towards the sky putting the moon back in its rightful place. Lost angels close their hungering eyes and the sweet cadence of the whispering void under his skin subsides.

"You all bear witness to my right to rule, as it has been witnessed by the Moon. Is here any witch that would challenge it?" Unrest and disquiet, yet not one of them steps forward. "Let it be known then there is no challenger, and only the Moon will judge me."

He kneels by the body, the bloodied knife held fast in his hands, and stabs its breast - the bones crack under the repeated onslaught, still hot red splatters on his face, and only after he is sure the work is done, he pries open the ribs, fingers grasping at the heart inside.

The crown of the witch is wrought with bog iron, and the heart of the witch turns into bog iron, her power and her weakness. Witches guard their hearts, hide them under the mountains or in the skies - but to rule the witch needs her heart, even if that heart is a heart no more.

Jack bites into it, chews through the muscle as blood trickles down his chin, and, with his throat seizing, swallows.

The successor always carries a part of their predecessor with them, and with it, all of those that came before. It had been a young witch that cut Hecate's heart out and put it in the sky - and, in turn, it had been the young witch's heart that became the first crown.

Jack approaches the broken altar and places the heart into the waiting hands of the headless statue of the saint.

He takes the stone-cold throne under its shadow, the wolf at his right laying down with its eye turned on the crowd and teeth bared for all to see and know. The light of the moon spills inside through the collapsed roof illuminating the altar, moths dancing in the shine.

The statue shifts without sound - moves as if made of flesh and blood, still a crumbling stone - fingers gently lowering the wreath of thorns to rest on Jack's head betwixt the horns of Herne's crown before it becomes immobile yet again.

"By the law of the first witch, Hecate, Queen of Night, I am your king," Jack speaks, his voice carrying in the hall. "Henceforth, all debts owed to Queen of Night are paid in full. The war of hers is over, and no witch will side with singing whispers. Those are my decrees."

Cold slowly seeps into his hands and feet, the kind that hurts to the bone unlike the pain that numbs his side, blood oozing from the wound and gathering between his crossed legs. His stomach turns with disgust.

"Walpurgisnacht is ending, you can swear your allegiance to me."

The first is witch of the woods, all three of them, with small seashells sewn into their hair clinking melodiously. The girl giggles when she kisses his knee, the crone lowers herself leaning on her cane.

"Lead us into new as you are wont to do," the mother whispers.

A procession of witches follows, some offering him their words - the most keeping to themselves - until the moon is gone from the night sky and only Gabriel and Ana remain.

The wolf snarls at them approaching Jack. Neither of them pays it any attention.

"I think my aunt kissed your knee," Gabriel, holding bundled fur, speaks at the same time as Jack lets go of his focus, shaking violently with his eyes open wide, frantic words leaving his lips.

"I'm going to hurl."

True to his words, he turns left, sliding off the altar, sticky clumpy blood between his thighs - god, the feeling is horrendous - finds blindly purchase with his palms, and retches. It still doesn't come out. It won't. The knowledge only makes him gag and heave more. Between the bouts he barely notices being wrapped in the fur and shifted, something's propping his forehead - leather, glove.

Slowly, he regains the control of his breathing, the awkward position borderline uncomfortable but now Jack cannot imagine anything better. His feet are smushed between Gabriel's thighs, palms pressed to his chest, pinned by his arm, the heat painful but it's the good kind of pain chasing away the ache in his bones.

"Fuck, you're cold."

"No shit," Jack murmurs. "She told me, one king will fall..."

"...in his place another will rise," Gabriel finishes. "I think I liked it more when I thought I made her up."

"You've got, you know... paint, face."

Gabriel laughs in relief.

"Shower's been out of the question."

"Brought the guns."

"Excalibur and Caliburn would help if..."

"I'd either be mad or dead on the floor," Jack cuts him off, coughing in the middle of the sentence and wincing as he finishes.

"But you did it. We have to get you patched up."

"We did it." Jack closes his eyes, letting the weariness overtake him for a moment. "Banshee's next."

#sometimes I write #bureau-verse #r76 #reaper76 #a big mish-mash of mythos #too much story in the story

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yourdeadbffsurl · 6 years

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walking home last night in the fog i was like “nice rendering of ‘town’” outloud to no god in particular & the electrical currents of everything around me sounded like a symphony to seashell ears & i couldn’t stop thinking about the loops that needed closing & the broad strokes & the layers to social interaction that are imperceptible or that happen so fast they go unnoticed & about slowing down time & about zooming out & about everything becoming everything so that everything is also nothing & infinity pool canvases of dogs where the mouths are black holes & what happens to cliché when multiplied into forever & then during the half-moon i met a shirtless harmonica man by a fountain & remembered how my mom had sewn all her hallelujahs into our underwear & told us to always wear them clean because sometimes death comes for you unexpected

***

i think when i’m an old old man & i’m ready to go i want my kids to fill a hot air balloon basket with jell-o mix & drug me up & lay me in the mix maybe nude maybe semi-nude depending on their comfort level & then send me up in the cold cold air so that the jell-o is able to do its work overnight while i sleep a hallucinatory sleep & dream a blooper reel dream until gently suffocating into a berry blue eternity

***

closeup of adult you & you look so comfy & then we zoom back & see you’re cradled in a pair of hands & we zoom further back & see that those hands are in an amniotic sac & then we zoom further & further back to see that those hands are god’s hands & then we zoom further back still & see that god is on their bluetooth & they’re on hold with customer support & we listen in & hear that a song is playing & that song is an elevator music version of the theme from jurassic park

***

a guy whose father has just died and he isn’t grieving but reluctantly has to do the whole calling hours/wake thing and he badmouths its merits beforehand but also gets a bunch of anxiety because he has to shit and there’s a long line of awkward hugs to give so finally he just goes to dump it out and it takes him a long time and he’s so stressed about it because there is no lock on the door and people keep walking in on him but soon those apologies become therapeutic and he’s able to grieve while on the funeral home can

***

a cool thing happened yesterday whereby i had eaten some weed sugar at brunch & later painted my face like braveheart & then at night while watching tv found myself sobbing loudly singing along to a song i forgot existed & that i used to play a lot for an autistic adult i worked with when i was a residential counselor & who always reacted so purely to music in a beautiful to experience way & i was also sort of hugging a pint of ben & jerry’s phish food when remembering & it really would’ve made a nice scene in a rom-com except it’s just my life & not like a breakup montage or anything it’s literally just how i spend my free time & then i took a picture of myself with most of the braveheart makeup all cried off & it’s going to be the cover of my solo album & here is the tracklist: 1.) reality is just the illusion of an objective third party 2.) we have oceans in our bodies being pulled by the moon 3.) we have buttons in our brains being pushed by chemicals 4.) there is an infinity of perspective depending on the position of the light & its relation to the eye 5.) music is a collective of external vibration we hear with our ears & feel in communion with the internal vibration of our bodies 6.) the best sex i’ve had lately is when you went to work on me with your shell bracelet & then after a while made that wind noise with your mouth

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shutupxdance-blog · 6 years

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WE’LL FIX THAT IN POST.

WE’LL FIX THAT IN POST. 『♬♬♬』

youtube

The sound of the sea is what gets your attention — the gentle sound of waves lapping softly against the beach like a smitten lover caressing a nymph’s cheek. You can see the water, but not feel it; it comes up to your ankles, shimmering in the summer heat, leaving all the visual cues of water but feeling like a particularly cool breeze. Even so, the trail of seashells that begin to surface from the floor are a pretty clear indicator, and following them leads you to the beach’s sound stage, where Cíoroc stands waiting in front of a massive array of LCD monitors, striking a pose the instant he sights the contestants incoming. The cameramen are wearing Hawaiian shirts and beach shorts, and their lips are still sewn shut, the stitching done with silver thread, their eyes haunted and mournful.

“Welcome once again, viewers at home, to 『MOTIVE MADNESS』, the hit segment from our show where we raise the stakes and see how far our contestants can be pushed before they snap! And today we’re going for a tried and tested favourite! That’s right, our producers know what the viewers at home want, and we’re going to deliver it to you! Dark secrets! Revelations! Juicy gossip! That’s right, for every day nobody commits a murder, we’ll be revealing one of your deeply held secrets to the public, on broadcast television!” The screens behind him flicker over to a stylized image of someone putting their fingers over their lips. “After all, we want angst! We want pain! And most of all, the network says we need to get some of this character development out of the way as soon as possible! This show runs on a schedule! And without further ado, our first secret is...”

But before he can finish, something goes wrong. The sky fizzles and bursts with static, the scanline patterns making their way from horizon to horizon with startling speed, the LCD screens showing nothing but white noise. Cíoroc sighs melodramatically. “Do we really have to do this, Cáen?” he shouts down through his earpiece, adjusting it furiously before gesturing to Augusta, who clears her throat.

“Off air! We’re off air, everybody!” she announces, as with a flash of light, the world around the stage warps and twists to produce a rift of dark and alien colours, out of which steps… what looks like a twelve-year-old in stature, who immediately speaks up in a voice befitting of his appearance, echoing throughout the beach, while Cíoroc puts his face in his palm and shakes his head in exasperation.

"These are the network's orders? I reject them. It's about time we break from traditional secrets motives. Look — these weaklings have already poured their bleeding hearts out to one another." He gestures at Horang with disgust. "I've had enough! Instead you'll slaughter each other for a good night's rest."

Cáen snaps his fingers and the world shimmers, the air becoming heavier, the breeze coming to a stop. The summer heat feels oppressive. You hear the sea rushing in your ears.

"Enjoy Ondine's Curse. Should you fail to kill, you'll stay at risk of suffocation in your sleep. This show I run is my masterpiece, my work of art — and I'll see to it that we match the current theme properly."

Cíoroc smiles widely and furiously at the contestants. “Well! You heard him! He’s running the show, after all! Guess that’s what it is! Make sure you don’t doze off, or the consequences might be deadly! Feel free to be on your way now.”

The tone of his voice leaves no room for misinterpretation. The contestants hurriedly make their way back to the villa, but the sound of Cíoroc and Cáen arguing carries all the way down the beach, chasing you down like a loyal dog bringing you a ball.

“You can’t just go off-script like that! We have a format for a reason! For fuck’s sake, Cáen, we’ve been doing things like this for thirty-six seasons because it fucking works! People want to find out these secrets, you can’t— you can’t just throw these things out the window!”

"Who the fuck says I can't? It's my show!" Cáen’s childish voice makes it sound more like a temper tantrum than anything, but Cíoroc is clearly taking it deadly seriously.

“Do you want to bring the network down on our heads? Is that what you want? You want some fucking bozo from production to come down here, snap his fingers, and turn us into fucking boojums?”

"Management?!” The word drips with contempt. “If they don't want this shit to blow up, they won't fucking dare come for me."

The pair’s argument continues, but the sound of is washed away by the gentle sea breeze and synthesized bassline that thrum in the summer air. It feels like today’s going to be a long day.

#EPISODE TWO #PLOTLINE #MOTIVE MADNESS

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