#we were walking around and it was humid and oppressively hot and no wind | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yourdeepestfathoms · 3 years

Text

we poured mud through their veins (part one)

the first installment of an au i am in love with

in which a new member joins the Deetz-Maitland family!

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

The sky was the color of the ocean- dark, wild, and swallowing everything in its wake. The only thing that could possibly rival its impenetrable wall of thick black-blue were the occasional cracks of blazing lightning that split the roiling clouds like a hot knife. The storm would be cut in half at the flash of its searing glory, then sewed itself back together like a monstrous, watery wound. The wind was so fierce that it seemed to be sent by an enraged being (in which Delia would helpfully say it was “God” or “angels playing bowling”) to punish Winter River for some unruly sin. Water rushed down the streets like baby rivers, threatening to drag anything and anyone in its way down the asphalt with it. Raindrops battered windows and walls and doors, knocking so viciously like an unwanted guest.

An unwanted guest. That was what this damn storm was. And Lydia was at her wit’s end with this elemental stranger.

Her computer crashed for the third time and she finally slammed the lid close, letting out a miserable groan that was soon challenged by a deep rumble of thunder. She cringed, curling her shoulders in, and then sighed.

“Fuck this storm,” She growled.

“Language,” Barbara said from the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Lydia muttered. “Screw this storm.”

Barbara chuckled lovingly. “Better.” She peered over at the closed laptop. “Everything okay?”

“It keeps crashing,” Lydia said miserably. “And I’m finally not procrastinating on doing my essay!”

“You had an essay due?” Adam looked at Lydia sharply, yanking his head out from the spice cabinet.

Lydia smiled innocently. “Maaaybe,” She said. She noticed the stern expression on Adam’s face. “Hey, I’m doing it! So don’t worry!”

“Hmm,” Adam squinted at her suspiciously. “Seems like you planned this.”

“What? Me? Never!” Lydia said.

Barbara laughed again and then turned back to the pot she was stirring. “What’s your essay on?”

“Well, my English class needed to write something that had to do with society or the ecosystem,” Lydia explained. “So I chose to do mine on why the eighth amendment should be abolished!”

Barbara and Adam blinked at her proud expression.

“Reason?” Adam asked.

“If we don’t have the eighth amendment, then we can torture rapists,” Lydia said confidently.

Barbara and Adam then nodded in agreement.

It had been nine months since the whole incident with the ghosts, and it was honestly some of the best months of Lydia’s entire life. Not only did the Maitlands officially become part of the family, but Beetlejuice stuck around, too, becoming Lydia’s chaotic best friend and older brother figure, at least after being properly “housebroken” as her father would describe it. Waking up each morning always greeted her with new mayhem from one of the otherworldly tenants and more things she could learn about them. It was incredible.

They were a family.

“It’s really coming down out there.”

Lydia looked over her shoulder to see Delia standing at the back door, sipping a steaming cup of her weird herbal tea (which tasted disgusting, by the way).

“It’s what you would call ‘Noah’s Arc’,” Barbara said knowingly. Except her ‘knowledgeable’ comment got a weird look from Lydia and a laugh from Adam and Delia.

“Noah’s Arc was the, well, arc, honey,” Adam said. “Not the storm. But nice try.”

“It’s so foggy,” Delia commented. “The river may flood at this rate.”

Foggy.

Fog.

That word always sparked a memory in Lydia’s mind.

The Netherworld.

Lydia remembered the Netherworld clearly.

The air there had been wet and heavy, like she was breathing in a thick fog that stuck to her throat like tar. There was a certain sticky humidity in that dark place, pressing down on her in heavy waves, as if the very atmosphere itself was trying to crush her skull, punishing her for even plucking up the courage to step foot in the place where the Living didn’t belong. It was cold, yet uncomfortably warm at the same time, with no wind blowing to ease the mild heat that had settled its oppressive, sultry murk over the Dead’s civilization. It spilled into every street, every alleyway, every house that dared to open the window, thinking that it would help with the clamminess that fogged their home, but to no avail.

This, of course, had brought upon complete and utter dreariness that coated every Dead making their rounds through their daily lives. And, in reaction to her presence, the gloom tried to wrap its dark protections of the underworld around her in layers that pressed deeply into her skin, trying to become a part of her. It adorned her until she was nearly suffocated in the thick, moist air.

She did not belong there.

The Netherworld had been filled with enough freaks to make a whole circus- a suicidal beauty pageant queen with slashed open wrists, a failed skydiver in a shredded jumpsuit, a lady swathed in a smoldering towel and had hair crackling hair that hugged a toaster to her chest, a charred man who breathed smoke like a great fire dragon, a very confused football player, a man with a huge cleaver lodged in his skull as a sign of his infidelity, a gravely-injured jockey that spit blood when she talked, some kind of hunter with a shrunken head, and a very excitable victim of explosion, among many more that Lydia hadn’t seen. Not that she was surprised at the amount of strange characters in the underworld.

Aside from the beauty pageant queen, the jockey was the Dead that Lydia got to know the most. Even for the short amount of time she was down in the Netherworld , the jockey seemed to grow attached to her, talking to her animatedly as if they had been friends for years and hanging onto her arm like a baby koala would to its mother. She learned that her name was Presley.

And Lydia had to leave Presley behind.

It wasn’t because she wanted to- she had to! Presley said it herself: the living didn’t belong in the Netherworld. But still, it kinda hurt to leave her new friend behind.

But she got over it. And she moved on. And she got a new family that made her completely forget about the undead horse rider.

Lydia’s memories were then interrupted by a terrible crash of thunder that seemed to rip the entire town in half. The sound rang in all of their ears, even causing Lydia to snap her hands up to cover her own, much to her embarrassment, and making Adam phase straight into the drywall of the kitchen in reaction to the shock, and the sonic boom that followed rocked the house from side-to-side.

As the rumble faded and the lights overhead flickered, there was a heavy thud from upstairs.

From Lydia’s room.

Lydia groaned. “That’ll probably be Beej,” She said. “Messing with my stuff. Again. Probably thought the thunder could cover up the sound of him setting some kind of prank.” She turned her head to yell up the staircase as she stood up. “But not this time!”

She heard Barbara, Adam, and Delia laugh as she walked upstairs.

As quietly as possible, Lydia snuck up the stairs and to her bedroom. Inside, she could hear shuffling and a muttering voice.

Someone was in there.

Wanting to scare Beetlejuice for trying to prank her again, she grasped the doorknob, slowly pushed open the door, and peeked in at the demon in her bedroom.

The light from the lamp that she had left on fed into his white and red suit, soaking into the filthy fabric. He kept looking this way and that, the helmet he was wearing shifting against his head, and-- that was not Beetlejuice.

But Lydia did know this person.

White-and-red checkered shirt, white pants, gloves, black riding boots, a helmet with a crack straight down the middle, a crop holstered to narrow hips, old blood and hoofprints all over…

“Presley?!” Lydia yelped out loud, then quickly shut her mouth. She stepped fully into her room and closed the door behind her. A moment later, the undead jockey was in her arms, clinging to her in a way that felt more like how a drowning woman to cling to the side of a boat than a normal hug between reuniting friends.

Except she didn’t feel undead. She felt warm, solid, real…living.

She was living.

But…that shouldn’t have been possible.

“Presley…” Lydia said slowly. “How are you here?”

Presley looked up at her, the rim of her helmet sliding into her eyes slightly, then glanced all around. When she turned her head back up to Lydia, she seemed equally as confused. There was a stream of dried blood trickling down between her eyes and on one side of her nose. There was another scoring her right temple.

“I don’t-- I don’t know,” Presley whispered, and her voice was hoarse and weak. She then sucked in a sharp breath and coughed. Lydia realized this must have been the first time she had breathed in a long while.

“Well, that’s…confusing…” Lydia said. She batted Presley backwards so she would be away from the door. Presley clung onto her arm with one hand like it was her lifeline. “I thought you were dead? Like, really dead?”

“Yeah…” Presley shifted. “I would know.”

Lydia laughed slightly. “What happened? How did this happen?”

Presley shrugged helplessly. “Your guess is as good as mine. I was just sitting in my room, crying, as I usually am, and then I fell asleep and now I’m here!” She looked around. “Nice room, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Lydia said. She glanced at her door. “Okay, well…” She ran a hand through her hair. “This…will cause some issues.”

“Oh.”

Presley took a shuffling step backwards and unholstered her crop, which she began to fidget with nervously. Lydia thought it was strange- wasn’t that the thing that basically caused her untimely demise? How could she be comfortable with even having it on her person after that?

“Sorry…”

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Lydia assured her. “How were you supposed to know that you were going to…come back to life?”

“Heh. Yeah.” Presley smiled slightly at her, which then turned into a grimace of pain. “May I sit down?”

“Yeah, of course,” Lydia said, and Presley instantly dropped down to her knees. Her breathing came out strained and ragged. “Are you alright?”

Presley gave her a weak smile, and there was blood in her teeth and blood on her lips and blood on her tongue. “Yeah, yeah… I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Lydia prodded, crouching down in front of her. “You don’t look so good.”

“Well, you know how I died,” Presley said, sitting up from her hunched position. She pressed a hand against the left side of her ribs, wincing. “Wasn’t exactly very, ahh, pretty…” She swallowed.

“Your wounds didn’t heal after you came back to life?” Lydia said. “I guess that’s what we’re calling this. But you didn’t get a fresh new start?”

Presley shook her head. She unbuttoned her jockey uniform and opened up one flap, the cloth making a disgusting peeling sound as it detached from her skin, to reveal the dark black abyss that was her trampled chest. Looking at it, even in the lamp’s golden glow, Lydia couldn’t tell where one wound ended and another wound began. They were all- the bruises and the lacerations and the welts and the hoofprints- melted into one big blemish of agony upon the young jockey’s torso. For a moment, Lydia didn’t even see that she had a sports bra on because the fabric (it had been grey, once upon a time) was completely soaked in blood and blending in with the rest of the mess.

“Unfortunately, no,” Presley closed her shirt. “I suppose it’s a fair trade. Being brought back for a second chance at life, but I have to live with the effects of how I died in the first one. Actually, that isn’t as fair as I thought. My internal organs had definitely been ruptured when--” She stopped talking and looked down at her stomach grimly.

“Well, that…sucks,” Lydia said. She glanced at her door again. How was she going to explain this to her family?

“Lydia!”

And speaking of the devils…

Lydia turned back to Presley. “Ready to meet my family?”

Presley perked up. “Really?”

“You don’t exactly have anywhere else to go,” Lydia said. “And you’re here, aren’t you? One more supernatural being living in our house won’t hurt!”

Presley tilted her head, and her helmet slumped over on her skull with the movement. “There are others?”

Lydia grinned. “Yep,” She said. “I got pretty much the coolest family.”

“Lydia!”

“Coming!” Lydia called back to the voice yelling for her. She looked back at Presley. “I’m going to go talk to them first. I’ll call down for you once they’re ready. Just be cool, okay? They’ll like you.”

At least, she hoped they would. Presley didn’t have anywhere else to go if they didn’t.

Delia, Barbara, Adam, and Charles, who had emerged from his office, were all assembled downstairs, preparing for dinner. Barbara smiled at Lydia when she came down.

“Did you find BJ?” Barbara asked.

“How long did it take to dismantle the prank?” Adam asked, sounding amused.

“What prank?” Beetlejuice materialized beside Charles, nearly making him drop the bowl of spaghetti he had been carrying to the table. He looked at him. “Sorry, Chuck.” He looked back at Lydia. “Now, what about a prank?”

All eyes turned to Lydia, and Lydia couldn’t help but feel like she was being interrogated, which was weird because she hadn’t done anything wrong. The ghost of a jockey who got killed during a race appearing in her bedroom as a living person wasn’t her fault! That was nobody’s fault!

“It turns out there was no prank,” Lydia said.

“Then what fell?” Delia asked.

“Yeah, about that…” Lydia glanced up the staircase. She faintly saw Presley hovering in the hallway. “Remember that one time we went to the Netherworld?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “It was the worst place ever.”

“Oh god,” Beetlejuice said. “Is this another lecture? I already said I’m sorry!”

“No, no, this isn’t about that,” Lydia said quickly. “While I was there, I met this girl. We kinda became friends, but, you know, I had to come back here so I haven’t seen her since.”

“Where is this going?” Adam asked, looking curious and slightly concerned.

“What if I told you guys that my friend came back to life somehow and appeared in my bedroom for no real rhyme or reason but now she’s here and has nowhere else to go?”

The house went quiet. Thunder rumbled outside, as if the very universe itself were laughing about the situation.

And then--

“WHAT?” Adam yelped.

“That can happen?” Delia said at the same time, looking at Beetlejuice.

“I guess!” Beetlejuice yelled.

“Wait, so there’s someone in our house right now?” Charles asked.

“Surprise!” Lydia said weakly. She looked up the staircase. “You can come down now.”

There was shuffling from upstairs; Presley emerged into the light of the open stairwell and staggered her way down the stairs, each step she took being punctuated by a wince. There were several gasps, mainly from Barbara, Delia, and Adam, as she stopped next to Lydia- not that Lydia blamed her family for their reactions.

Presley looked much, much worse in full lightning. Her skin was no longer pale pink like it had been in the Netherworld, rather just pale, as if all the blood was drained from her body and leaving her as an empty shell. Even her lips were completely leached of color. It was impossible to tell if the dark rings around her eyes were from sleep deprivation or were just shiners caused by her death. Her jockey uniform was slathered in a thick caking of mud--and then Lydia realized most of that was just dried blood. Black hoofprints were stamped up and down her chest, stomach, and legs, and some areas of the fabric were ripped, revealing grimy, bruised, and bloodied flesh underneath. The streams of blood down her face and side of her head were completely dried now, crusted over and flaking off. She was squeezing her crop nervously, bright hazel eyes darting everywhere around the house, but she quickly latched onto Lydia’s arm with one of her hands, holding on tightly, similarly to how she did down in the Netherworld when they first met.

“Everyone…” Lydia said to her gaping family. “Meet Presley!”

#i dont know what this au is gonna be called yet #but it's definitely something!#beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice the broadway musical #beetlejuice au #beetlejuice fanfiction #beetlejuice fic #beetlejuice fluff #beetlejuice #lydia deetz #barbara maitland #adam maitland #delia deetz #charles deetz #the jockey #we poured mud through their veins

25 notes · View notes

bonesofapoet · 4 years

Text

Aphrodite’s Kiss

[matt murdock x you]

author’s note: back on my vigilante bullshit for the foreseeable future, I guess!! one of those ‘oh no, my significant other is daredevil and now we get to Work That Out’ things that everyone is trash for. blood/injury mention, explicit language

word count: 1362

ao3: here

It was a warm day in June.

{thursday, 11:12 am. from: Karen Page

Good morning! I thought we could grab lunch at that corner diner we always go to? Haven’t heard from you in a couple of days, just want to check in.}

The sun was shining with reckless abandon, it spared absolutely no one from it’s merciless rays of ultraviolet fire. There was a shimmer that hovered above the cement if you looked close enough, looked hard enough, or just simply spaced out with your eyes staring into the grayscale void.

{thursday, 2:47 pm. from: Karen Page

Fine. I’m coming over.}

Your only saving grace was a cool breeze that blew through the wide open windows of your apartment, curtains whipping and snapping during the sudden, aggressive gusts of wind. It almost made you forget the sun was scorching and relentless, this ebb and flow of balance.

It was your excuse, nonetheless. Why you hadn’t left your apartment in two days. Or answered your messages. Or acknowledged that your phone existed in any manor, really.

You had finished a book though, cover to cover. A mediocre three star piece of prose that left you feeling worse than you had when you started it, which, in hindsight, was a spectacular accomplishment in and of itself. Maybe you should have given it four stars instead. The book in question had just found a home on your bookshelf when a knock at your front door stopped you mid-reach, heartbeat picking up speed each second faster than the one before.

For fuck’s sake.

“Because of the heat,” said Karen Page, shoulder propped against your creaking door frame. Her tone was accusing, expression disbelieving with a twinkle in her eye that screamed she knew just what kind of shit you were full of. The ghost of a smile pulled at the corners of her lips. “Right.”

A sigh escaped from deep within your chest, and you invited her in. Both of you chose to ignore the comfort food of the day spread upon your coffee table mingling with dirty dishes – and, honestly, they weren’t even all real dishes – and most definitely pretended not to notice the take out containers you haven’t gotten around to throwing away.

At least you were eating. At least you weren’t watching Pride & Prejudice on repeat to cope.

Not yet, anyway.

“It’s known to make people less active than normal, you know.” you replied, voice carrying on the innocent tone you chose to wield. You knew Karen saw through your cover – she was without a doubt using her incessant journalist tactics on you, but you were committed to run just a little while longer.

It was bittersweet, the avoidance. Easy.

“And less likely to pick up the phone?”

“That involves activity, you see.”

A laugh escaped her, filled the quiet room with the first real breath of life you’ve seen in days. Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “You could at least let him know you’re okay, if you won’t speak to anyone else.”

It struck you as odd, why you should let Matt Murdock, of all people, know how you were doing – whatever the hell that meant – when the last time you saw him. . .

That was the thing.

Silence filled the air, took refuge in your home, your lungs, stole your breath and all the ones you planned to take. You looked away from her to an open window, watched people live their lives as they passed by your building. Blissful in their ignorance.

“I’m fine. He should understand if I need time to myself to – whatever this is I’m allowed to do. Not talk to him. Sort through – things.”

“To sulk, you mean,” Karen corrected. Her eyes had lost their glint of suspect, her features had softened, opened, relaxed.

You huffed a breath. Refused to lie to her.

“He left me, Karen.” you made a vague gesture to the world beyond your windows, your living room, the old t-shirt you lived in when you needed something familiar and kind close to you. “Am I supposed to be doing anything else?”

Broken fragments whispered behind your eyes when you closed them, even just to blink. That night muted in monotones of slate grays, deep navy, midnight black. The cold, damp rain that soaked through your shoes, your clothes, pierced your skin and clung to bone. Thin, icy fingers wrapped around your heart to squeeze, squeeze, squeeze as Matt Murdock – no, Daredevil – stood in front of you, bloody and dripping and wearing fucking devil horns and crimson, armored leather -

She didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree. He’s not okay either, she told you. Just go see him.

So you did.

It was still stifling hot when the moon rose.

The stars whispered to be careful, watch your step. He’s broken glass, they told you, all sharp edges and red stained hands.

The change of scenery hadn’t made it much better, the hallways were still stuffy with oppressive, stagnant air. Humidity still peeled away cream-colored paint, bubbled the cheap carpet and made your clothes cling to your skin like the words he whispered to you when-

The chipped wooden door to his apartment opened before your courage slithered back to nurse your wounded pride.

Be careful, the shadows whispered. You stepped over the threshold, bathed almost immediately in soft pastel pink and washed out blues. It was the afterglow of comfort you had begun to associate with your nights in Hell’s Kitchen. Before you were, unceremoniously, left in the rain. It made your chest tighten, your fingers fidget with the fabric of your clothes. You could still feel those ice-cold fingers around your heart. Still felt the rain cling to your skin in desperation.

Matt said your name with care, like he was dancing around a wounded, wild animal that had been cornered into a cage.

You turned to face him, both of you cut open and bleeding your hearts all over the floor, voices raw as they slipped and slid in the thickness, the heartache, the fears and confessions that littered the very ground you stood on.

He’s cosmic fury; danger: do not cross, the soft breeze trilled in your ear. It followed the path down, down, down your jaw, down your neck as Matt crept closer and trailed his fingers in it’s wake.

You shivered, the chills all over your body screamed at you to walk away – this was uncharted territory, and you had no more room for surprises.

Matt Murdock, the brilliant lawyer you had fallen for, was, apparently, Daredevil. Had been this whole time. You discovered the hard way. The inconvenient way. The dangerous way. Matt Murdock did not want to ruin you, but that was not his choice to make.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, hands falling away from you. You wondered if he meant it, but everything about him said he was.

“I know,” you answered, voice quiet in the dark. Your fingers trailed their own path along the line of his jaw, his shoulder, held his hand when he, too, shivered under your electric touch.

Neither of you particularly liked where the chips had fallen, crushing both of you under their impossible weight. In that moment, both of you wished for an easier life. A better life. One without constant bloodshed and paranoia and extra precautions for walking down the street. Wished for a future when you didn’t have to memorize contingency plans for if This then That.

But that’s all it could be for now. A wish.

A soft cascade of rain began to soak the city beyond the windows, the soft pattering against glowing windowpanes the soundtrack to a night that felt like home, felt like the beginning of something else. New. Exciting. Questionable.

You hadn’t forgiven him, but you were not going to be pushed away. He agreed in-between hard won kisses that left your lips swollen and your stomach giddy with butterflies that chased away the fear threatening to nestle in your heart.

The stars whispered to be careful, watch your step just before dawn broke; Matt curled warm around you in the mess of sheets and blankets. He’s got the devil in him, sinister and tainted and vile.

Good, you whispered back. I can take him.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock imagine #daredevil imagine #daredevil oneshot #matt murdock oneshot #matt murdock #daredevil #marvel imagine #marvel one shot #kas writes

177 notes · View notes

bffsoobin · 4 years

Text

Windflower

01|02|03|04|05|06

↳ after a heartbreak you find yourself in a small town looking for purpose. you find employment with Choi Soobin and his impressive ancestral home. when you start to fall in love again, there’s no way for you to predict what you find in the depths of the home and Soobin’s mind.

➤ hanahaki au, fluff, angst

Word Count:3,945

Warnings: swearing, mentions of an injury (nothing serious), I didn’t proof read (surprise!)

A/N: here’s the long awaited (by some) part 4 of Windflower! I’m getting really excited about this as we’re reaching somewhat of a turning point. I cannot wait to see your reactions to the twists in the coming chapters hehe. Anyway I hope you enjoy & leave feedback if you want to!

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•

If you had thought the humidity the day you arrived in town was bad, you definitely were not ready for the sweltering heat that permeated the air today. You had awoken surprisingly early and found that the sun was shining in vibrant rays into your room. In your drowsy state you had enjoyed the heat, even curling deeper under your covers as your body surfaced back into reality. If you listened close enough, you could hear birds chirping outside through the closed windows and you briefly wondered if you should spend the whole day cuddled up with your pillow. The silk sheets could only shield you from the radiating heat for so long, though. Soon enough, the gentle heat that had caressed you awake settled into your skin and made you feel suffocated. Flinging your sheets off only gave you a bit of relief as you realized that there was almost no cool air in your room. Upon peeking outside, you noticed no evidence of the gentle summer breeze you had come to love. Every single plant in the yard stood still as the sun beat down on them. Sweat was beading on your forehead and the back of your neck in uncomfortable patches as you headed for the bathroom. Thankfully, the tiles were cold under your feet, and the small relief washed through your entire body.

You started the water for a cold shower, hoping to drive away the heat that the day had already provided as early as 8am. As small droplets of water splashed onto your skin, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was the kind of weather you should come to expect from the tiny town. You decided you’d have to ask Soobin once he got up.

After the shower expelled the sweat off of your skin, you dressed and bounded down the steps toward the kitchen. At this point, you had been living and working with Soobin for several weeks. The two of you had a comfortable routine that included a healthy mix of time spent both together and alone. You rose before him almost every morning and took it upon yourself to make him an omelet after watering all of the houseplants littered around the living spaces. Many times he had insisted that there was no reason for you to make him breakfast; and this morning was no exception. Just as you finished watering an impressively sized aloe plant, Soobin had begun his grumbling.

“Y/N! How many times do I have to tell you that you have no obligation to make me breakfast every day?” His voice was still thick with sleep and upon examining him you noticed he still had some gunk in the corner of his eyes. The corners of your mouth twitched upwards at his helplessly soft nature.

“You can tell me every day, Soobin. I don’t care,” you pulled a bottle of orange juice from the fridge and poured both of you a glass, “it’s the least I can do. Plus, I know you love breakfast but you’d burn it all if you tried to do it yourself.” He grumbled at that through a mouthful of food but didn’t protest as he knew you were right. As Soobin sipped at his drink, he hummed thoughtfully as if he suddenly remembered something.

“I think we need to water the flowers today. We aren’t supposed to get rain for a long time and it’s getting to be really hot. I don’t want any of them to die.” For some reason, the thought of manually caring for Soobin’s beloved garden put fear in your stomach. Of course you had done some work on the garden but nothing more than adding some mulch and chasing away the occasional bunny looking for a place to burrow. But caring for the house and garden was why you were here to begin with, so you nodded in agreement.

Soobin stood to his full height, stretching his arms above his body to work out all of the aches from his sleep. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from the strip of smooth skin that became exposed in the process. You hoped he hadn’t noticed your staring or the light pink dusting on your cheeks as he passed by you to drop his dishes into the sink. With your mind whirling, you desperately tried to steer your thoughts away from the way they were running with the imagine of Soobin’s exposed stomach.

“I’m going to go,” you coughed awkwardly when Soobin whirled around with his plate still in hand to make eye contact with you, “upstairs to change and then we can go out to work on the garden.” You took his moment of comprehension to haul yourself up the creaking maplewood staircase and into the safety of your room as your palms began to sweat.

----

As soon as the two of you stepped onto the back porch you felt like you had walked into a brick wall. The heat was so oppressive that you felt physical weight on your shoulders as you groaned. Soobin bounded ahead of you as if he hadn’t even registered the unmovable force of heat encasing your whole being. You audibly gagged, earning a snorted laugh from Soobin as he made his way toward the sea of flowers. Their colors seemed to shine even brighter underneath the intense sunlight and you swore you could almost see some of them sparkling with an otherworldly quality. Upon further inspection you noticed just how dry the soil was and felt concern digging at your heart. Soobin seemed similarly worried as he stooped over a section of jasmine plants, cooing over a weed he had found in the ground alongside them. You shook your head at his antics and caught wind of him apologizing to the plant as you retrieved the hose coiled up alongside the house.

For a while the two of you worked in a comfortable harmony. Soobin had put himself in charge of weeding while you were responsible for making sure the soil was thoroughly wet to avoid any damage to the coveted flowers. As far as jobs go, this one wasn’t half bad. Despite the massive area of the garden, the hose reached as far as you ever would need it to. After you finished watering a rather large patch of roses you could no longer resist the urge to stick your entire head underneath the hose. With all of the sun beating down you began to understand how Soobin had achieved his impeccable tan so early into the summer.

“Soobin,” you whined his name to tear his attention away from the pesky weeds that had rooted themselves within his beloved garden.

“Yeah?” his answer was punctuated by a grunt of exertion that you could only assume was his attempt at yanking out the weed. You grimaced at the knowledge that he wasn’t wearing any gardening gloves and worried for the sensitive skin of his palms.

“I’m too hot. It’s disgusting out here,” you pulled the fabric of your shirt away from your stomach before waving it back and forth to prove just how sweaty the combination of heat and manual labor had made you. Soobin said nothing for a second but you could hear the sound of roots ripping out of the ground before he finally replied.

“I forget that you’re not from here,” he laughed as if the oppressive heat was something you should have expected the day you rode in on the winding road with your whole life packed in the back seat. “Why don’t you just go inside for a bit? I’ll be fine dealing with this alone for a while. Plus, I can’t afford to take you to the hospital if you pass out. And imagine how much damage you’d do to the flowers!” He gasped as if absolutely scandalized at the idea of your body crashing into the delicate fauna.

You grumbled under your breath, making sure to turn away so there was no chance he could see the quirking corners of your mouth. “Fine,” you sighed, equally as dramatic as he had just been, “I’ll stay inside and watch you from the living room like a widow.”

Upon entering the house, you knew something was off. Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you stood just inside of the closed doorway. Why the fuck was it just as hot inside as it was outside? Heat still crawled over every inch of your body, making strands of hair stick disgustingly to the back of your neck. You wandered through the living room, kitchen and library in the hope that the heat you felt upon entering was just due to your location. Unfortunately, every section of the grand home was equally as steamy as the direct sunshine outside. The dream of taking a break in the wonderful air conditioning was crushed.

Stomping like a toddler, you made your way back down to the garden. Soobin had taken over your watering job and he seemed shocked to see you back so early. His shirt showed small hints of sweat building on his lower back and around the collar, but it was nothing compared to the absolute mess you had become. If it wasn’t for how much you liked him, you would have been annoyed at his tolerance.

“Back already? Did you miss me that much, bub?” Your heart stuttered at the use of your occasional nickname.

“No. You give yourself too much credit. The AC is broken,” the steady stream of water sprouting from the hose ceased as Soobin loosened his grip on the handle.

“The house AC?” He asked dumbly, blinking at you in disbelief. His lips were parted wide as you rolled your eyes.

“No, the AC for the shower. Yes, the house AC!” Knowing you had no easy escape from the heat made your nerves fray even more.

“Oh. Well,” he turns the hose back on, “I can call the mechanic.” You stared at him blankly for a while before he felt your burning gaze.

“What?” Rounded eyes opened even wider than you thought were possible as he stared you down.

“It’s Sunday. What are we going to do until the mechanic gets here tomorrow?” The point makes his eyebrows scrunch together as the hose clicks off again. It hangs loosely in his hand for a few moments before he springs back into action.

“Okay, you’re right. I’ll go into town and see if I can find one of those portable ones? That way we can at least keep one room cooler.” He nodded to himself as if he were speaking to his reflection and handed you the hose. Cold water dripped from his fingertips onto your arm and you shivered at the feeling. You chose to believe the water was the only reason for your reaction. Soobin ran into the house, lean body disappearing for a few seconds before he reemerged with his car keys. He said his goodbyes and left to find a solution for your personal hell.

For a bit, you went back to watering the flowers. And then you turned the hose on yourself and let the frigid water run down your back. Although it was a shock to your system, you knew it was the only way you could keep yourself from actually melting into a gummy pile before Soobin got back. The idea of simply staying outside until he came back bounced around your mind until an even better one cropped up. Maybe you could fix the AC on your own! That way you wouldn’t have to deal with the hassle of waiting for a mechanic. You were sure that you could locate the unit and find a tutorial to fix the thing. Maybe a special switch just needed flipped. With renewed vigor you shuffled back into the house, making a strategic pit stop at the kitchen to fill a metal water bottle with ice cold water. Your clothing dripped loudly against the wooden floors but you ignored it. You figured it was so hot that the water would probably evaporate immediately.

Although you had a clear mission in mind you had to admit that you were totally unsure of where the AC unit would be. Soobin had never pointed it out to you and the stately home boasted so many doors that you weren’t sure you would have remembered if he showed you anyway. You wandered into the laundry room, wondering if you had missed something on the walls. When you had no success there, you moved on to opening almost every dark wooded sleek door you could find. By some kind of miracle, your body had finally adjusted to the pressing heat as you searched. Despite that, you could still feel sweat beading on your forehead as you rooted through a storage room in the hopes of finding something that you assumed would be the AC.

Eventually, you had exhausted the entire first floor. Every heavy door only lead you to disappointment and some mild confusion over why the old home had so many unused rooms. Perhaps the house got much more use in the old days when the large family painted on the canvas just to the left of Soobin’s room was still alive. The thought of the haunting oil painting encouraged you to make the walk up the steps. Your legs felt heavy from the exhaustion that heat and your search had made settle into your bones.

A heavy sigh left your parted lips as you finally rounded the corner of the staircase and were faced with the familiar upper landing. You skipped past yours and Soobin’s room immediately. The AC unit was obviously not residing in your room, and while you had never fully been inside of Soobin’s room, you doubted that the house was designed that oddly. Three more identical doors stood further down the hallway. Weeks ago when you had taken your initial tour of the home, Soobin had glossed right over them in favor of showing off your new home for the summer.

Something about his easy dismissal of the rooms unsettled you. You trusted Soobin, but there was no way to ignore the disparity between the way he had so eagerly toured you through the house against the way he barely even acknowledged these doors. You’re being ridiculous, you thought. What could Soobin possibly be hiding behind these three non descript doors? Shaking off the unsettling knot in your stomach you pushed the door closest to your room open. It creaked loudly from disuse and you cringed as you felt along the wall for a lightswitch. When you finally found one, a light crackled on in the center of the room and shone a brilliant vibrance all around. It was so intense that you had to squint your eyes until they no longer hurt. The room was oddly clean compared to the rooms you scoured downstairs. There was no layer of dust that you would have expected and a faint scent of lemon cleaner permeated the air. Innocuous dressers and bookshelves were pushed up against all of the walls. None of them quite matched but you recalled in the back of your mind that Soobin’s cousin was an interior designer; which would explain the disconnection of styles. This must have been the place he stored old projects and pieces he shuffled through the home.

Feeling a bit more at ease, you continued to look around for any hint of the unit you were hunting for. Circling the round table serving as a centerpiece of the room changed your perspective and you caught a glimpse of something peaking out from behind what seemed to be a bunch of heavy furniture. The edge you could see looked promisingly similar to the AC unit that had been within your home growing up. With renewed vigor you began to push at a small dresser that felt much heavier than it looked. A grunt of exertion slipped from your lips as you finally pushed the furniture over far enough to get to the table located behind it. While it was much easier to move, it was also much louder than the dresser had been. The legs screeched against the floors and you shrieked in concern at the idea of the probably original hardwood being scratched in the midst of your desperation for cool air. As you crouched down to examine the floor, you heard stomping footsteps enter the room behind you.

Reflexively you jumped back at the sound and subsequently bounced your head off of the underside of the table.

“Ouch, fuck!” you clutched at the back of your head as you bit into your tongue to try and manage the throbbing pain. Your vision was blurry but you could vaguely make out Soobin’s figure and his distinct scent as he crouched down beside you. Gentle hands grasped at you, one cupping your head and the other resting firmly on your forearm as he ushered you out from under the table. Your head was still spinning; the combination of heat and pain making you feel sick to your stomach as Soobin guided you all the way out of the room.

“What were you doing?” Soobin’s voice was assertive and laced with a concern you hadn’t quite expected.

“I was-” you cut yourself off with a whine as a flash of pain shot behind your eyes and felt large hands grab at you once again. The next time you opened your eyes was when you felt the silky texture of your bedsheets underneath your knees. While Soobin rushed away from the bed, you fought to open your eyes as you grasped at the flesh of your knees to ground yourself. Although your vision was less shaky, there was no denying the extreme headache that originated from the back of your head.

“Here,” you saw Soobin’s form coming your way before he pushed a cold washcloth onto your forehead. Although that wasn’t the origin of your pain, the cool sensation helped the throbbing in your mind calm down. Soobin shuffled nervously between his feet as he waited for some kind of sign that you were alright. Eventually, you were able to actually focus on the way his eyes were crinkled with concern, lips downturned in a serious frown that you hadn’t even seen him wear when he found he was overwatering his ivy plant. The persistent sunlight of the summer day shone in through your windows and casted him in a glow that made him look as if he had just descended from Heaven to check on you. Golden strips of light casted over his t-shirt in such a way that you were almost envious of the way the rays were able to wrap around his body.

And then you remembered it was the same damn sun that got you into this mess.

“I was trying to find the AC unit,” your voice was gravely and quiet but Soobin still heard you.

“What were you thinking? You can’t just wander around the house like that! You could’ve-” he waved his hands toward where you pressed the washcloth to your forehead, “well you did! You got hurt! There’s a reason I didn’t bother to tell you what was in that room. There’s no reason for you to be poking around like that in a house that isn’t yours!”

The corners of your eyes burned with unshed tears as you registered the raw emotion in his tone. Although some of his words made you feel like a child being berated, you understood where he was coming from. You could easily recognize the genuine concern for your wellbeing.

“I’m sorry, Soobin,” he plopped down on the bed next to you, “you’re right. This isn’t my house. It’s my fault that I got hurt, really. I was just trying to help with the AC issue and I couldn’t find the unit anywhere else so I started looking in rooms I’d never been in before,” you stole a quick glance his way only to see his intense gaze locked onto your form. “Please don’t feel bad about me getting hurt. And I’m sorry about the room, I can help you move all the furniture back!” Something deep inside of you felt the need to do as much as you can to make up for the hurt you seem to have caused Soobin. He grinned at you softly before reaching up and encircling your wrist with his slender fingers. The feeling of his fingertips grazing the soft skin of your wrist made your insides ignite in a nervous fire. Gently, he coaxed your hand away from your forehead and you instinctively dropped the now room temperature washcloth into your lap. It landed with a wet plop but you didn’t have time to pay it any mind as Soobin slowly laced his fingers right between yours.

He gave you all the time in the world to pull away from his touch but instead you just stared dumbly at your hand while he finally latched onto you fully. Your breath hitched violently in your throat at the warm contact and you were sure Soobin had heard it. For a second you worried that he would pull away or make fun of you for your reactions but he simply gave your hand a short squeeze.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about the room,” his voice was so smooth and quiet that you could almost fall asleep right there. An instinct you didn’t know you had caused you to lean closer into his side. “Just don’t go in there again, okay? I mean it. There’s nothing worth looking at in there,” his voice hardened unexpectedly and you couldn’t help but laugh at him a bit.

“Okay, okay! I’ll stay away, but you do know that I just bumped into the table, right? It didn’t hurt me on purpose.” The teasing seemed to lift a small weight from his shoulders as he visibly brightened. There was no way you could miss the firm weight of his hand pressing further into yours as he leaned into your side the same way you were on him. Using his free hand, he tentatively cupped the back of your head where you had originally hurt yourself. The pain had begun to subside, but a new type of anxiety ran through your body as you noticed just how close your faces had become. You could nearly count every single eyelash framing his rich brown eyes.

“Please,” his warm breath fanned over your already clammy skin, “don’t ever go in that room again. I’m already beside myself that you got hurt and it’s not even a bad injury. If you do anything for me, at least do this.”

“Of course, Soobin.” You finally mustered the courage to return one of his reassuring squeezes; causing his dimples pop out from the smooth plains of his cheeks. Your heart stuttered in your chest before a dull, persistent pain permeated through it. You swallowed it down, successfully tricking Soobin into thinking you were fine as he rattled on about the fans and portable AC units he managed to buy at the local hardware store.

The inside of your mouth went dry. You hoped that you were horribly off base, but you knew that ache. You’d felt it before. A part of you wanted to ignore the obvious and pretend that you were simply overreacting to a pulled muscle. Unfortunately, a larger, more rational part of you knew exactly what the feeling was. You were growing flowers. Again.

111 notes · View notes

storiesbykiki · 3 years

Text

Drowning Lessons

Growing up in Maryland, right next to the Blue Ridge and Appalachian mountains, hiking was a common pastime for a lot of people. We were city folk, but we still managed to get up in the hills every now and then. Today was one of those times.

We were walking the Catoctin mountains, off trail, following the creek up to the summit. We usually went to the Billy Goat trail further west, but we had been to that one many times, and already knew most of it.

As we were walking, one of my siblings took a fall and sprained their ankle. He and my mother went back to the visitor center to get some ice and to rest, leaving us to continue hiking.

Summer was in high heat, the sun blazing through the gaps in the leaves. The heat brought out the cottonwood and dog wood pollen into the air, casting a slight golden haze across the sky, leaving the air heavy with it.

Because of the heat, water was consumed often. Sometimes stopping in a cleaner part of the stream to cool our feet in the rushing water as it tumbled over the small cliffs in a roaring cloud.

“How far do you want to keep going?” My father asked me.

“Probably a few more minutes at least.” I wanted to find whatever lake or spring supplied the waterfalls and creeks of the ridge. We ate a small meal and continued on.

After a quarter hour, I needed to relieve myself, and headed away into the trees to do so. I found myself next to a tall gum tree, looking down into a slight depression in the ground. Probably as good a place as any to do my business.

The blanket of pollen weighed down constantly, making me rub at my eyes with a wetted sleeve just so I could see a little easier.

As I was just about finished, the gleam of something in the depression caught my eye. Walking down to it, the source revealed itself to be an old flashlight, the glass fogged up with condensation, and the triangulations of the metal handle felt as cold as ice in my hands.

“How’d you end up here?” I murmured to it. I gave it an experimentory click to see if it still worked.

The dim glow of the bulb flickered to life before going out. Maybe the light wasn’t that old after all.

A wind caused the canopy to sway above me, like an undulating tapestry of greens and gold, it lifted the oppressing mass of pollen from the air.

As the wind settled, I noticed the angle of the sun had changed. What time was it? I checked my phone, but it was dead. Checking my wristwatch, it was dead too.

The woods around me were silent, not even the sound of the brook could be heard over the quiet. I just needed to get back to my family.

As i turned around, the flashlight lit up. I thought nothing of it until I noticed how bright it was shining. I thought it was dead.

I turned it towards me, the bulb dimming fast, flicking on wherever I turned it to where it had been pointing.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I walked off into the woods. The dead leaves and tough Southern grass crackled and hissed under my shoes. The woods were silent aside from my breathing and the noise of the grass.

I wasn’t sure how long I had walked, no one ever goes out here this far, so there was no trail, or even litter, to gauge myself by. The hot, humid air kept me to my thoughts as it felt too difficult to pull breath into my lungs.

Eventually, the sound of the stream broke through the haze, and I made for it, thinking I had finally found where I had left my dad.

The stream bubbled around a large, mostly flat rock in the middle, making a deep pit in front of it. I could see what looked like a building a few yards away. What the hell was someone doing living out here?

After I hopped across the stream, barely landing on the rock to steady myself, I approached the cabin. Upon closer inspection, I saw the windows turned black and warped with years and the sun-bleached door falling off its hinges, the siding just as bleached and splintering in some spaces, giving the whole place a ragged, desperate edge. Whoever had been living here had hopefully been long gone.

The silence around me pressed in, feeling almost violently watchful in its intent. But for a forest to stay this quiet for this long…… I ducked into the house, seeking shelter.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw how dilapidated it was. The one side room it had was empty,the rest of the house looking almost normal. Cobwebs and flies crowded the fireplace, and a stained, rotting bed crouched in the corner next to a broken window. A thin layer of dust had settled over the remaining objects in the room. Everything in the house looked like it had been placed there, and then forgotten. Like whoever had been here had simply . . . left. The silence held such gravity, I couldn’t even hear the stream, despite it being so close.

The sense of wrongness that I had been having only grew as I went further into the house, finding nothing to explain its existence in the mountains. Surely there was something here.

I gave up after fifteen minutes, giving in to reason. I needed to find where my family was.

I tried to get back over the creek the same way I had originally crossed, hopping on the rock and then to the bank. I only realized that the bank was that the bank was too far away to jump to from this direction.

Still, the silence pressed in. The small eddies and waterfalls next to me remained quiet. The heat peacefully invaded my mind. I need to take a rest, I thought, sitting on the flat rock.

It was cooler here, the rough surface of the rock was cool against my legs and under my hands. I could feel the small grains of dirt gently staining my pants. The trees leaned over me like a blanket, protecting me from the sun’s rays and the noise of the world. Maybe I could rest here a while, I’d been missing for some time, and a few extra minutes couldn’t hurt, right?

I found myself drifting off among the deafening stillness of the forest. My senses called out to me, as if from a distance, and I watched myself dip my hand into the creek, my reflection stared back and blinked.

I blinked back.

The sun glared down into my haven of silence, beating down on my neck as beads of sweat began to form. It was so hot, maybe I could cool off in the creek.

I stretched out my hands to the water, watching as the reflection’s hands reaching up to meet me, their fingertips breaking the surface.

EVerything fell into place at once and the noise of the world came crashing down on my ears.

A head followed the arms, the skin grey and taught over the bones of the creature. The skin of it’s lips had been sewn together and then torn, showing the teeth all the way up to the gums. A horrible, constant shrieking sound issued from its mouth, making my blood run cold and the water begin to freeze around it.

I jumped to the bank, falling in the river and i felt its hands close around my ankle. I kicked out, trying to free myself from the clammy hands.

My shoe came off and I ran blindly away into the woods, praying to whatever gods would listen that I was going in the right direction.

I could barely hear the sound of my own ragged breathing over the wailing that followed me, barely a yard behind me.

I burst into the clearing by the main stream that me and my father had been following, colliding with a man I didn’t recognize.

* * *

The man was someone searching for me. I had been gone for a week without realizing it. The EMT’s had looked me over, given me drug tests. They all came back negative.

After the incident, my family was much… tighter. Didn’t want to lose me again, I guess. I showed them the scars on my ankle that had been left by that thing in the woods. I just told people that it was from getting stuck in some rocks.

* * *

I never look out the windows when I can’t sleep. I always see the face, fell and twisted, staring at me.

Waiting. Waiting for me to go back into the woods.

None of this keeps me up for too long. The thing that does, though, is the face of the monster. I can barely use the bathroom mirror without seeing it.

After all, we share the same face.

#poets on tumblr #art #writing #creepy story #horror stories #short stories #horror writing

5 notes · View notes

agerefandom · 4 years

Text

Safety In Numbers

Fandom: Be More Chill (the musical)

Characters: Rich & Jeremy-centric, with Michael, Christine, and Jake.

Words: 2,100

Summary: The kids from Be More Chill become friends, slowly but surely. Jeremy starts getting closer to Rich and finds out that he regresses.

Warnings: Bit of an angsty fic! With a happy ending, of course. Mentions of bad parents and unsafe households. Nightmares and stress-regression. One cuss word. Typed baby-talk.

Note: The prompt asked for cg!Jeremy with regressor!Rich and Jake. I only filled about half of the prompt because I’ve never written for BMC before and needed to do some world-building, so please remind me to write a part two when I open requests again! I’ve got a bit of a to-do list so I’m only writing this stand-alone for the moment, but I hope you enjoy, and I look forward to writing the rest!

After everything that happened, it was only natural for the five of them to become friends.

Jeremy shared a room with Rich and Jake in the hospital, and both Michael and Christine came to visit them regularly. At first, Michael came to sit with Jeremy, but eventually he would come and pull up a chair between the beds, chatting with all of them and pulling out his phone to show them all the latest hot meme.

Eventually, they returned to school to finish the year. No one really knew what had happened, but most people seemed to blame Jeremy. With Rich on the outs after the fire, and Jake unable to play football during his recovery period, the five of them formed an alliance of convenience, protecting each other from the alternating teasing and cold shoulders. They ate lunch together, walked to classes together, and kept an eye out for each other after school.

Slowly, what began as a survival strategy became a genuine friendship.

They all liked video games, as it turned out, although their tastes were drastically different. Soon their lunchtimes were consumed by arguments about console and PC games, arcade favourites and foreign imported games. Michael would get so worked up he would stand on his chair, and the others would pull him back down, laughing. Christine would gesture so wildly that she hit Jeremy in the face and get completely derailed by apologizing. Jeremy was hesitant at first, but eventually he was as loud as any of them, coming to the defense of Michael’s obsession with 8-bit games and arguing for the artistic integrity of the vintage aesthetic as Christine and Rich both scoffed at him.

It all worked in a way that Jeremy had never expected. He found himself hardly noticing the stares in the hallway, or the self-deprecating whispers in his head, when he was walking hand-in-hand with Christine, or Michael, or any of their friends. They had formed a closed circle together, with the rest of the world locked out, and that felt fine. It felt safe.

Jeremy felt like he knew everything about Michael, but he was still learning more every day. He got to know the other three from week to week, piecing together their childhood stories and comments about school into a patchwork picture of who they were.

Jake was living with his aunt now, Jeremy learned. With his parents expected to face serious jail-time, the courts had given Jake the choice between emancipation or a family member willing to house Jake until his 18th birthday. Jake got along fine with his aunt, but she wasn’t exactly a mother figure. She had never planned to have kids, and treated Jake more like a younger brother. Her house was small, so they rarely spent time at Jake’s house, and Jeremy had only met his aunt once.

Jeremy had never been over to Rich’s house. Jake told them that Rich’s father was a real asshole, and Rich said that things had gotten worse since the fire. Jeremy inferred that his SQUIP had been helping to defuse things at home as well as at school, and things weren’t going as well without it. Rich was always staying over at other people’s houses, beaming when he was invited to sleep on the couch. Jeremy tried to offer as much as possible; the couch in his basement folded out into a futon, and his dad was sympathetic once Jeremy explained Rich’s home situation.

Christine’s house was by far the largest of the five, full of decorative platters and parents who kept bringing them bowls of fruit. She had an entire couch in her bedroom, and once Jake’s legs healed, they found out that all five of them could squish onto it to watch movies on a laptop. The only downside was that her dad was a light sleeper and forced them all to go home at nine pm sharp, so they more often spent time in Jeremy’s basement. Michael’s basement was fine but always dirty, and his TV wasn’t half the size of Jeremy’s.

The rest of Jeremy’s Junior year passed in a blur of homework, movie nights, ‘Game Over’ screens, and cuddle piles. He learned about each of his friends, and in learning about them he came to love them.

When classes ended and summer came, as humid and oppressive as ever, Rich started staying at other people’s houses more. Jeremy’s house was the safest bet because his dad never said no, and the futon was pretty comfortable. So Jeremy got used to finding Rich on his doorstep in the evening, with a hopeful grin and his backpack slung over one shoulder.

Jeremy tried to talk to him about it, but Rich always switched the subject. He wanted to play video games, or watch terrible 70s horror movies and laugh at them, or argue about comic books. Jeremy obliged, letting Rich set the rules and the pace from night to night. Rich was manic with energy some nights, whooping and cheering at the screen with every successful kill. Other nights, he slumped against Jeremy’s side with blank eyes and fell asleep as soon as the movie title came on-screen.

Some nights, Jeremy would turn off the TV and quietly wedge a pillow under Rich’s head before sneaking up to his own bed. Other nights, when the futon was already set up, Jeremy would watch the movie with Rich’s head resting on his shoulder, and fall asleep with the credits scrolling.

Often, Jeremy would wake up in the middle of the night because Rich was a pretty active sleeper, and then he would tiptoe off to his own bed to give Rich his privacy.

One night, though, Jeremy wasn’t woken up by Rich kicking his legs or rolling on top of him. He was woken up by the sound of muffled whimpers beside him, a strained sound of fear.

Disoriented, Jeremy squinted into the darkness. It took him a moment to remember that he was on the futon in the basement with Rich, and from there he knew that Rich must be having some kind of nightmare.

“Rich?” Jeremy sat up and felt blindly for his friend. “Rich, wake up.” His hand made contact with Rich’s chest and he found Rich’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “Rich, come on. Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

After a few long seconds of that pained whimpering, Jeremy heard Rich gasp in a deep breath and then go quiet.

“Rich?” he asked the darkness softly. “Are you awake?”

There was no response, but with the hand Jeremy still had on Rich’s shoulder, he could feel that the other boy was shaking.

“Are you okay?” Jeremy started to panic a little bit, looking around for the light switch. What if Rich was having a seizure or something, and Jeremy couldn’t see because it was dark? “Rich, are you okay?”

“Sorry,” Rich whispered. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” He kept muttering the same word quietly, his body trembling like a leaf in the wind. His voice was tired and wavering and almost unfamiliar in its tone.

“It’s okay,” Jeremy told him, and stroked his arm with a thumb in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “You don’t need to be sorry. Do you want me to go?”

Jeremy felt Rich shake his head energetically.

“Cool, I’ll stay. Do you want a hug?” Jeremy had barely finished the question when Rich was in his arms, thrown forwards at full force. Jeremy heard himself make an ‘oof’ sound but he wrapped his arms around Rich, holding him tightly in the darkness. With Rich so close, Jeremy could finally hear that he was crying, his breaths catching in quiet sobs as he clung to Jeremy.

“M’sorry,” he muttered again into Jeremy’s neck. “M’sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jeremy said. “Really, it’s okay. We all get nightmares.” He ran a hand up and down Rich’s spine, hoping to stop the shaking.

Time stretched on inside of the hug, all of Jeremy’s focus consumed by moving in a way that would calm Rich down. He didn’t know if they had been there for a minute or an hour. He rubbed circles into Rich’s back, ran his fingers through Rich’s hair, gently massaged the back of Rich’s neck. Slowly, Rich stopped shaking quite so much, and eventually the tears subsided. Jeremy’s shirt was cold and wet where Rich had been crying into his shoulder, but he tried not to shiver for fear of setting Rich off again.

Once Jeremy felt Rich’s breathing settle back to normal, he slowly loosened his arms from around Rich and sat back on the makeshift bed.

“Are you okay?” he asked again. It felt like a feeble question, but he waited for the answer.

“I- I dunno.” Rich’s voice was still high with confusion. “I dunno.”

“That’s okay.” Jeremy nodded into the darkness, even though Rich couldn’t see him. “It’s okay to be not okay, okay?” He really needed to stop saying the word ‘okay,’ it was starting to lose its meaning. “Do you want to go and get a snack, or go back to sleep?”

“Scared,” Rich whispered, his lisp heavy on the word. “Don’t wanna sleep.”

“Okay.” Again, Jeremy needed to stop saying that word, but he didn’t know what else to say. “We’ve got some ice cream in the fridge, if you want to wake up properly.”

“What kinda ice cream?” Rich’s voice sounded brighter, but it hadn’t lost that slurred, high-pitched tone.

“Same as earlier tonight, Rocky road and mint chocolate chip.”

“I like Rocky Road!” Rich said excitedly, and then Jeremy felt him curl up. “M’sorry,” he said, and then he was back to muttering the same word over and over “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Jeremy said soothingly. “It’s no trouble. Do you want me to bring the ice cream down here?” He reached out again to rub one of Rich’s shoulders, and the other boy leaned into the touch. Jeremy obediently scooted closer and wrapped an arm around Rich, squeezing him steadily. Rich melted against him, with a quiet sob.

“M’not s’pposed to be like this,” Rich whispered.

“Like what?” Jeremy asked, resting his cheek against the top of Rich’s head. Rich made a wordless sound of distress at the question and folded in on himself, hiding his head in his arms. It sounded like he was trying to talk, but only kept starting words and then giving up on them.

“It’s okay,” Jeremy said again. “I’m not mad. You’re my friend and I love you.” Those words had become easier over the months, although they still felt like a huge step every time he said them. In the darkness here, it didn’t feel as much like a risk.

“Nnn,” said Rich into his knees where he was curled up. “M’sorry.��

“You don’t need to be sorry.” Jeremy hoped that he wasn’t being annoying by saying the same thing over and over again, but it was all that he could think of to say. “I’m here.”

“Sorry,” Rich whispered.

“What are you sorry for?” Jeremy finally asked, trying to keep his voice gentle.

“Bein’ all dumb and small,” Rich said, sniffling a bit. “Can’t think, m’too small.” At first, Jeremy thought he was apologizing for his height, which was ridiculous. But then he started putting the pieces together. Rich’s voice, the slurred words and the confused questions. The tears, which he had never seen from Rich before. Could he mean ‘small’ in the sense of feeling like a kid?

“That’s okay,” Jeremy assured Rich, tugging him a little closer into the cuddle. “You don’t need to think, I can get us ice cream and we can put something dumb on the TV until we feel tired.”

“Don’t leave, m’sorry,” Rich said, holding on tight to Jeremy’s sleeve.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jeremy promised, pushing his nose against Rich’s temple in an affectionate nuzzle. “I can just stay with you if you want me here.”

“Tank you,” Rich said, still holding onto to Jeremy’s sleeve as if he were going to pull away. Jeremy was relieved to hear thanks instead of apologies, this time.

“Of course,” Jeremy said, and ran a hand through Rich’s hair as the other boy slowly relaxed against him. “I love you. Of course, I’ll stay.”

“Love you too,” whispered Rich, and the two of them sat in the darkness until sleep came back for them both.

#bmc agere #sfw agere #agere fanfiction #agere fic #agere writing #agere fics #be more chill #bmc #sfw age regression

20 notes · View notes

thinkofduty · 4 years

Text

soror diu amissa

The sun is high and bright and warm and fooling absolutely no one.

Twice today has it rained already. The first time was just before dawn, the sound of heavy droplets waking Halgyth and refusing to let her go back to sleep. The stone roof was enough to shelter her from the worst of it, but it was still loud enough to keep her up until she had no choice but to rise. The dust had turned to mud in its wake and the people of Ala Gannha had woken with sour moods. This close to the river, the humidity is bad enough that no one wants it to rain, even in the midst of summer.

The second time had been just over a bell ago. Halgyth had been sat cross-legged with a circle of children sat around her, and the clouds had come on and fled so quickly that the patches of earth they sat on are still light in colour.

Determined not to let something so insignificant as rain ruin her day, she'd tried to continue the lesson, but she'd slipped in the mud and gone painfully to one knee when trying to rise. A simple spell fixed the worst of it, but she aches nonetheless, and her ego is bruised as bad as her flesh.

It might be miserable in fits and starts, but she still sits outside now. Being cooped up when the whole world is there is dreary, even when the wind is moist and the sun oppressively hot, and in the late afternoon of her life now she has zero desire to be indoors more than necessary.

What few children remain in the village are happy to let her teach them from time to time, but none of them show any particular love for the healing arts beyond the basics. Were there any young adults remaining she would try to find amongst them an inclination instead, but asides from the infirm and unsound, they have long since disappeared to serve the Empire or the Resistance. Two different names for the same kind of death, thinks Halgyth, and contents herself with the next generation instead. They still must needs learn.

Sometimes the days grow so long and uniform that even the elders come to sit by and listen, but they are as useless as their grandchildren to her, if not worse. They might as well be carved from the marble they'd once mined for how stuck in their ways they are: having known a few Peaksmen in her time, Halgyth wonders if it is a natural affliction of the land itself. They already know how to dress wounds and care for the ill; what need have they for a wandering shamanka?

Prone to forgetting details if not written down, she no longer recalls how long it's been since the Resistance swept through the state and threw off the heavy shackles of oppression. Not that it matters. Very little has changed for those who live off the land, asides from the colour of flags that now flutter from the village gates. Oh, to be sure, there are less beatings and less rapes, less men uncomfortable in steel wandering where they please with accents unfamiliar to her... but less is not none. Beneath the blanket of other, the Garleans are not all that different from her countrymen, something she is quick to remind those that lust for the good old days. At least Garlemald does not hunt shadows and string up the innocent in the name of justice, unlike other recent history she could name.

But that bears thinking about not at all: both of those pasts are firmly behind them now, and she must live in the present, as she always has done. And as for right now, the clouds are beginning to edge once more into view as though seeing how long they can get before being discovered, like children playing at Sly Fox or Sneaky Bear or whatever the newest name for the game is.

"I'm not moving," she tells them firmly, and someone laughs.

"You tell 'em, gramma."

In her sixties, Halgyth considers it a point of pride to have found and covered up every grey hair that sprouts from her scalp. The aging flesh she cannot help, not after a life so well-lived outdoors, but it is unblemished for the most part, and she does not yet stoop unlike the washers and menders that live in every place from here to the palace. Dyes, at least, are easy to come by, and cheap enough to make if she does not want to spend the gil.

"Excuse me?"

She doesn't recognise the man, but his manner marks him as one of Einar's boys. She'll have to have words with him the next time she sees him: it's quite one thing to have her brother's junior sass her from time to time, but this firmly steps across the line and shits in the face of her good humour. Thankfully, he seems to recognise that, and quicker than the last who'd been overeager to share jokes with her like mead with friends. He straightens and gives what might pass as a nervous salute to an untrained eye. to her, it looks like a nervous fumble.

"Er, Bayan Beygarz. Miss. Ma'am. S'cuse me. That is you, ain't it?"

Unspeaking, Halgyth watches him for a long moment. A natural teacher, she has perfected the art of waiting silently until the guilty party squirms and admits to their role in whatever mischief they've done.

"Uh... I'm here on behalf o' the Spray. He said I'd find a woman here, wi' pink in her hair. That... you... I thought..."

It takes all her willpower not to roll her eyes. Einar's ridiculous nicknames are no longer as necessary as he seems to think they are - though he at least has assured her that they'd once been more elaborate than the ones he currently wears like fancy coats in the middle of summer. Needless.

The man before her fidgets some more, eyes trained on the patch of pink she'd thought stylish only a few weeks before. "Is or ain't it you?" he asks. "The description was thorough..."

"I'm sure it was," she says. "Come inside."

"Where're we headed, anyroad?"

Thankfully, the rain hasn't made it too difficult to travel. Chocobos would have complained the whole way and any cart they could have hired would have gotten stuck in the mud. All six of them have no problems picking their way across quick-flowing streams until they get to the red earth that was once Ala Mera. Orella spares it barely a glance: the landslide that had taken her home village off the map had been so long before, and everyone had gotten out, besides. It had been rain much like the one they'd walked through that had done it: years and years of water built up and swelling the cliffs until the earth could take it no more.

Honestly, a village on the edge of a cliff was a stupid place to build in the first place.

The Peaks have changed a little, but not so much she doesn't recognise the distant mountains. "We're still going east," she says confidently, and Wilhelm nods agreement.

"Ala Gannha," he says. Gisfrid harrumphs. "Better than any other place round here to ask questions, unless you want to put one o' them chapuli to the question instead."

Berend snorts. "For all we know, they'll squeal sweeter than any Mhigan will. Folles isn't stupid, he'll be hidden away nice and safe if he has any sense at all."

"Tell you what," says Orella, "Fifty gil says he's burrowed down in one of them antlion nests. You know, the ones we-"

"Could you not," Ingvald grumbles, and she laughs. He still has a scar somewhere by his ankle - faint, but white and rigid all the same - from the day after his induction to the Kingsguard had been formalised. "Be serious."

Orella shrugs. Likely he wants to forget that time of his life, and the anger he'd once borne his brother; she can't fault him for that, not when they seem to be getting along so well. "Suit yourself," she tells him. "There's no reason we're going there, then? Other than looking for any scrap of information?" When Wilhelm nods, she scowls. "You don't have anything to go on? Nothing at all? No dossiers, no eyes on him, not even an idea of where to start?"

Both Bloodhound brothers open their mouths at the same time, but it's Berend who beats them to the punch. "What, you think he's the only one the Resistance ever kept eyes on? We aren't perfect, Steelhand, and undermanned anyway - well, we were when it mattered most. You can't fault us for one man slipping through the cracks."

"Oh, it's we now, huh?" she shoots back, unwilling to let the truth silence her.

Beside her, Ingvald sighs. "Orella."

"Weren't you with the Garleans long enough yourself?" Berend snaps, and she clenches her hand into a fist. "What's your excuse?"

A pregnant pause settles across the shoulders of everyone present. Ahead of the rest of the group, Gisfrid and Milleuda have stopped to watch.

"I'm sorry?" Orella asks, so sweetly.

If Berend can hear the obvious warning, he heeds it not. "I said," and his own hands mirror hers, "Weren't you one of them for long enough?"

The brothers move in tandem before any blood can be spilled. Ingvald grabs Orella's wrists and wrestles his arms around her chest to stop her from leaping across the mountain pass and tearing him limb from limb. Wilhelm takes Berend by the shoulder, and then the face, and says something low and serious to him. Gisfrid's laugh is a backing track to the whole affair, infuriating Orella further. "Cram it, bastard, I'll do for you too-"

"My, my."

Perhaps it is the unfamiliarity of the voice, however soft, that silences them all. Still tense, Orella struggles to push Ingvald aside to see the newcomer; he holds her tighter.

"Aren't you all grown? You ought to be ashamed."

The woman is dressed in the local style, suited for forays along the mountain paths, with actual boots rather than the rags poor men sometimes wear. A Roegadyn, a few inches taller than Orella, with bright eyes that study them as though they are simply misbehaving students. A shock of pink in her hair stands out against her dark skin, though otherwise she's as plain as can be.

She sighs. "Oh, dear. Are you going to say I'm not welcome?" Her gaze flits between each of them in turn; she doesn't seem bothered by their suspicious gazes. "Tell me the road is free to all and you can act as you please? Tsk. Which one of you breaks arms?"

No one moves, and she tuts again. "Come now, 'tis not a difficult question."

"That... would be me," says Berend, taking a hesitant step forward. He hasn't bothered to make to unsling the spear across his back, but he could have it out and pointed at her in seconds if he chose. The woman is either very brave or very stupid. "Who-?"

"The Spray bid me pass this on to you," she says, and reaches into a deep pocket to pull out a folded paper and hold it out to him. "I trust you know who that is? No," she adds with exasperation. "By your face you don't. Take the damn paper, boy, I'm done playing the messenger."

He reaches for it warily and takes it quick enough that her eyebrows raise at his bad manners, but skimming it does nothing for his frown.

"I don't get it," he says, and passes it to Wilhelm, who has to shake the hair out of his eyes to read it. "Who are you? Who's the Spray?"

Orella, now relaxed enough that Ingvald lets her go, raises one eyebrow and then the other. "Wait. The... The Eastern Spray? About yay tall?"

She gestures, and the woman nods, and then her expression smooths over. "Ah," she says, matter of factly. "You must be Orella. Which would make this gentleman Ingvald," she says with a glance at him, and then moves between them, mouthing their names in turn - all of them but Milleuda. "You don't look quite like I imagined you to. His tales never did you justice."

"What the fuck has Einar been saying about me?"

There's mutterings from the others at the mention of their once-comrade; the stranger tuts. "Language, if you please. Not Ser Einar, though I'm glad you know our mutual friend. No - my brother."

"Your brother?"

When Halgyth Beygarz smiles, she looks weary, the lines at her eyes creasing the same way her brother's had once down.

"Why, Zartosht, of course."

#p07

2 notes · View notes

homiegeesus · 5 years

Text

The Year of Magical Thinking, Ch. 2

Summary: Francis Sinclair believed Arthur Morgan had not finished living. In a second chance at life, Arthur discovers what it means to love himself.

At the edge of a precipice and nowhere to run, Arthur concedes defeat. In an extraordinary turn of events, he is sent through the ether to another time where his path crosses with a group not too unlike his own family. After discovering the fate of those he loved before, he races to find a way back. But what if he realizes that there is something worth staying for in this new world? Can two people separated by nearly a hundred and twenty years of living find their happily ever after?

AO3 Link

The Year of Magical Thinking

Chapter 2 - Spelunking, and Other Wacky Ideas

Somewhere in East Texas – August 2018

It was hot. Typical for this time of year, but this heat was on another level oppressive. Surrounded by tall pines and thick shrubbery, there wasn’t much of a breeze. Dr. Steven Nichols removed his aviators and wiped his brow. God, what he wouldn’t give to work in a cubicle with glorious air conditioning right now. As it were, he was stuck on a worksite at a cave in the middle of bumfuck-nowhere Texas. Deep down, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

An anthropologist by trade, since leaving graduate school he had been researching a series of interesting rock carvings discovered in the late 1930s to early 1950s. Found all throughout the country, one even in Mexico, they had baffled the most seasoned scientists. Originally abandoned and nearly forgotten, that is until a mysterious benefactor funded their little department at Blackwater College. With that funding came a series of government grants that had the operation surviving somewhat comfortably. It became apparent that whoever this person was, they were well connected.

Grabbing the front of his white t-shirt, Steven tried fruitlessly to generate some cool air. Nick was going to flay him alive for most likely ruining yet another shirt. His fiancé was nothing if not particular about his dressings-down. Tempted to grab the closest water bottle and pour it down his front, he watched as one of his student-assistants walked towards him.

“Got the lights set up if you want to go in.” Sweat dewing at his upper lip, Jeremy looked about as miserable as Steven felt.

“Thank you, sir,” Steven replied airily as he hopped up from his perch on a picnic table and tucked his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt. He squinted. “Is it at least a little cooler in there?”

“More humid, but yeah, quite a bit cooler,” Jeremy shrugged.

Steven just smiled, “Take what you can get, am I right?” He placed a hardhat on his sweaty mahogany-haired head then began the short trek to the cave entrance.

“Oh,” Jeremy called out, and Steven turned to face him. “I’m gonna head into town real quick to grab some lunch. You want anything?”

“Uh –,” Steven furrowed his brow and bowed his head in thought. He looked back to Jeremy, “Ooh, get me somethin’ from Taco Bell. A, uh – oh, a big burrito. Doesn’t matter which one.”

Jeremy laughed, “Nick gonna be alright with that?”

Steven just gave the kid a bright smile and said, “Nick can kiss my ass.” He turned again towards the cave.

Jeremy called after him, “You sure you’re gonna be okay alone?” Steven just raised an arm with a thumb’s up.

“I’ll be fine. Now, go get lunch.”

Walking through the entrance, and true to Jeremy’s word Steven felt the cool, damp air wash over him. Stopping at the fork where the cavern split into two directions, he took a moment to wipe the sweat from his face with the bottom of his shirt. As he prepared to restart his journey, he heard what sounded like a gust of wind come through the narrow corridor to his right. Odd, he thought, since the hall led to a small chamber with no exits or vents. Brushing it off, he began his walk through the passage. This time, a sound, unnatural in its characteristics, entered his ears causing him to halt. Steven quickly reached to turn on the headlamp attached to his hardhat. Seeing nothing except thick electrical cables and darkness beyond the scope of his light, he held his breath and turned his ear fractionally toward the source of the noise. Again, a tinkling sound reverberated lightly along the cave walls.

Thoroughly creeped out and thinking of turning back, Steven called out unsure, “Hello?”

When the echo of quick shuffling sounded out, Steven shrinked back. “Who’s there?” In a series of jerky movements, he tried to shine the light anywhere and everywhere. Then, as if in cadence with the beating of his heart, heavy footfalls combined with the same tinkling noise inched quickly closer. Steven’s fight or flight instinct seemingly left him at that moment, as he stood rooted in the spot, unable to move. Until a shadowy figure appeared in his line of sight.

“Jesus Christ!” Shocked, Steven jumped back, falling against the cave wall behind him. The shadowy figure, a man to be precise, then became more detailed. Steven first noticed his peculiar attire. Dressed in dirty western wear, the man at first glance looked like a John Wayne caricature. If not for the setting, Steven would have laughed at the absurdity. “What the hell, man! What’re you doing in here?!” Then, he noticed the gun. “The hell – ”

The man seemed to catch on and slowly raised his hands halfway. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya,” a deep voice echoed through the corridor. “I jus’ – well you see, mister, I am slightly confused.”

Steven scoffed, “You? You’re ‘slightly confused’? How in the hell did you get in here? We’ve had it closed off – ”

“Mister, I do not rightly know. I cannot even begin to explain.” The strange man looked around, and then back to Steven, “Where we at?”

Confused, Steven replied, “Wha – ”

Cutting him off, the man tilted his hands forward slightly, “Jus’, please, humor me.”

Growing even more uncomfortable, Steven responded, “Uh, Texas. We’re in East Texas.”

“Texas?” he questioned, sounding disbelieving. “Tha’s impossible. I was just in Roanoke Valley, in New Hanover – ”

“New Hanover?” Steven exhaled a laugh. “There hasn’t been a New Hanover in like, a hundred years.”

Silence engulfed the hall. The stranger audibly swallowed and shifted on his feet.

“What, uh – what year is it?” He asked quietly.

“What are you playing at, man? Is this a joke, or something?” In obvious frustration, the stranger took a step forward and Steven shrunk back once more. Seemingly noticing the frightened look on the other man’s face, the cowboy raised his hands higher and curled each into fists. He closed his eyes and clinched his jaw.

“Jus’ please.” Feeling an odd sense of sympathy, Steven relaxed slightly at the small desperate tone.

Steven responded in a similar way, “It’s 2018. Um, August.” A little louder, he expanded, “August 15th, 2018.”

The cowboy looked to the side, his clinched jaw slackened.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighed.

Not knowing what to say to that, Steven went for the basics. “What’s your name?” He offered lamely.

“Arthur Morgan,” he replied, distracted.

Without thinking, Steven joked, “Right, and I’m Billy the Kid.”

The man finally turned his eyes to him. “I seen Billy the Kid, an’ you don’ much look like ‘em. Additionally, I believe he is dead,” he shot back, tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Right,” Steven nodded and volleyed the sarcastic tone back at him. “If you’re the –,” he gestured wildly in the air, “famed outlaw Arthur Morgan, then how did ya end up here?” Maneuvering his arms into a questioning stance, he awaited an answer.

The man’s eyes narrowed fractionally. Steven’s confidence dropped with his arms. ‘Arthur’ just let out a sigh, “Look, I’ll tell ya everythin’, can ya jus’ please get that light outta my eyes? I’ll show ya the carvin’s I – “

“Wait, carvings?” Steven said quickly.

“Yeah, ‘car-vings’,” he enunciated. “I’m assumin’ that’s what yer here for, considerin’ the lights I saw back there?” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder towards the chamber behind him.

“Uh, yeah it is.” Steven’s brow furrowed, “I meant, what do they have to do with – ”

“Mister, like I said,” he gritted out, patience obviously wearing thin, “I’ll tell ya everythin’; show ya what happen’d.”

All was quiet as Steven studied the man. “Look, my assistant is coming back soon, and – ”

“Please.”

Said so quietly, Steven could feel as desperation came off the man in waves, and something inside said to hear him out.

He sighed, “Okay, just please – please don’t shoot me or attack me or whatever a crazy dude in a cave might want to do to me, okay?”

The cowboy stood straighter and cocked a slight one-sided grin, “I ain’t gonna hurtcha.”

Steven stared a moment and then nodded. “Alright then,” he stuck out his hand in an abortive gesture. “Lead the way.” With a nod, the stranger turned and started walking.

“You gotta name?” He asked unexpectedly.

“Uh, yeah. Steven. Steven Nichols.” He amended, “Dr. Steven Nichols.”

The man hummed, “Doctor, huh?”

“Yeah,” he quickly elucidated, “I have a doctorate in anthropology.”

“What’s that now?” He sounded confused.

“Anthropology. Um, it’s the study of humans, in a broad sense. There are multiple fields,” Steven explained.

The cowboy just hummed in reply.

Steven continued, “Like I, personally, am an archaeologist with a focus in parietal – um, cave art.”

“Heh, I knew a scientist once. Well, a couple, but this lady in particular was somethin’. Kinda batty but meant well. She was diggin’ up dinosaur bones.” The man shook his head, “Wonder if she ended up findin’ ‘em.”

Curious, Steven asked, “What was her name?”

The cowboy pondered, “Oh, MacGuiness somethin’ or other.”

Steven laughed and looked over at the other man, “MacGuiness? Deborah MacGuiness?”

He nodded, “Yup, tha’s the one.” The corridor gradually gave way to a larger but still intimate room. Work lights cast the flowstone in the rear of the chamber in a muted orange tint. The pièce de résistance, however, was the large carving illuminated on the wall sat between two rock columns. The men stopped within feet of the insculpture. Steven removed his hardhat and looked back at him.

“You know of Deborah MacGuiness?” He asked incredulously.

“Mmhmm,” the stranger ran a thumb over the stubble of his chin. “Met ‘er, oh, I reckon it was in New Hanover thereabouts.” He looked to Steven, “In 1899.”

Deborah MacGuiness was ‘batty’ by all accounts but well respected by modern paleontologists. Unfortunately, women of the time were not taken seriously in a field dominated by men. She may have had some outlandish ideas, but many of her hypotheses were proven in the decades that followed her death from Spanish flu in 1918. Steven still could not believe this man actually knew her. He was a scientist, for Christ’s sake. He needed proof.

Steven started, “So, you were going to tell me how you ended up here?”

The other man nodded. “Well –,” he looked to the carvings, “I was knockin’ on death’s door, dyin’, an’ this feller I met awhile back showed up from God knows where. He took me to a cave with these carvin’s o’er near Roanoke Valley. Don’t know wh – ”

“Wait, what?” Steven interrupted. He furrowed his brow and held up a hand, “A carving in Roanoke Valley? In Appalachia?”

Arthur nodded, “I reckon.”

Steven huffed out a humorless laugh, “There aren’t any carvings in the southeast. Well, I mean, we haven’t found any, at least.” He was quiet a moment, and the other man just looked at him in waiting. “Ok, so let’s say that I maybe – maybe,” he emphasized, “believe you. Would you be able to find this cave on a map?”

The cowboy again nodded, “I reckon I could. I don’ know exactly whereabouts it is, but I reckon I could look.”

“Okay. Okay,” Steven replied, more to himself than Arthur. He glanced from the carving to the man beside him. “What else happened?”

Arthur continued, “So, this feller took me to this cave. Again, I’m dyin’, an’ he drags me to this carvin’. I remembered it lookin’ like the others I found for ‘em.”

“Do you remember what it looked like?” Steven asked.

“Like I said, I was very sick an’ waitin’ to die. I ain’t sure – it ain’t too clear.” He looked to the carving in front of him and shook his head, “It looked a lot like this, but different, ya know?”

Steven just nodded, “So, what happened when you got to the carving?”

“Well, Mr. Sinclair,” he looked to Steven. “That was the feller’s name, Francis Sinclair. Odd feller, with red hair an’ a birthmark over his eye.” He briefly pointed to the side of his face. “Had a funny way of talkin’. Said a bunch o’ words I ain’t never heard before. Anyways, he grabbed my wrists, an’ – now I’m in an’ out, can’t really understand what’s happenin’ or what he’s sayin’, but he grabs my hands an’ puts ‘em up against this carvin’. I dunno what in the hell happened or what he said, but –,” he then placed his hand against the wall, “this all started glowin’, like a blue color.” His arm dropped to his side. “Ain’t never seen anythin’ like it. Then, everythin’ went black.”

He was quiet a moment as if pondering something. He turned his eyes back to Steven and continued, “I saw my entire life flash ‘fore my eyes, like one a them picture shows.” A rueful smile formed on his face, “Trust me, Mister, I know how this sounds. Like somethin’ you’d read in a book by that English feller, but this is the God’s honest truth. Dunno how else to convince ya.”

Steven stared at him, slightly awed, as he absorbed the information. Then, something occurred to him.

“Your – Arthur Morgan’s,” he amended, “grave is a tourist trap on an interstate in Kentucky, or wherever. If you’re him, then –”

“Mister,” the cowboy laughed humorlessly, “I don’ know anythin’ ‘bout that, but I guaran-damn-tee ya there ain’t no body in that grave.”

Steven placed a hand over his eyes and held the other in the air. He sighed, “I gotta think.” He turned around and began the trek out of the cave, not caring if he was being followed.

#Red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #Arthur Morgan x oc #Arthur x oc #Arthur Morgan #rdr2 #rdr2 fic #The Year of Magical Thinking

5 notes · View notes

thesumofallmyfears · 4 years

Text

**WARNING!**... Be prepared for rambling. Weather related.

If I do say myself, I’ve done really well all Autumn & Winter to not moan (at least not as often as might I have) about the truly shitty, shitty, shitty weather. Usually my favourite time of year. It feels like it’s been one horrid damp, low, gale-y (why is galey not a word? Anyway...) day after another since October, and I’ve hated almost every minute of it.

Storm after storm, milder than mild temps, humid... That said just before christmas and just after new year, I think I remember we had a good few days or so where temps were down around 5c, a few nights hovering just below freezing, never lasts long enough before a southerly wind buggers all the good up. 😤 It’s hard to pinpoint exactly, as everyday has felt very same-y. We’ve had a few ground frosts, frosty grass and windscreens is about all, few and far between, I can’t recollect any air frosts, no glistening, no crispiness for long underfoot, it’s been highly uninspiring. Miserable actually, I hate using that word to describe weather, but it perfectly describes how I’m currently feeling.

Where’s my Northerly wind weather fairies, where is she?

Got told off for not wearing a coat again when I left work (by a manager in a jokey way), explained, again (dejavu) that I don’t wear coats unless it’s freezing (I’ve never taken a coat to that job, I get out the car walk a couple minutes outside to work, then spend all day in till hometime, then I repeat what I do in the morning, why’d I need a coat?). I had the usual thin-ish cardie on, she replied that it was freezing, to which I replied actual freezing freezing and laughed, as she was wrapping her scarf up high, doing her coat right up... aside from the wind being a bracing 32mph, the temp was 12c, real feel, and it was 6pm... that’s not freezing, that’s far far from freezing.

Oh, and don’t get started on the what feels like constant oppressing low pressure, I’m stiff and everything aches, heads all fuzzy. The weather fairies have been playing a cruel joke on me, especially these last few weeks... It’s low low, it’s low, oooh yeah it’s high... jokes it’s low low again. Ahhhhhhhhhhh..... (couldn’t find a suitable, screaming, emoji). I’ve been having a hot water bottle to soothe the stiffness at night, to awake a few hours later over heating, struggling to get back to sleep 😴.

Dear weather fairies, what have I done to wrong you? There’s only 32 days left till Spring.

#kerry overshares #thoughts #11:30pm #ssw 27mph winds #997 hPa #not supe low pressure... but yesterday was higher than the norm’... so I’m feeling it tonight

1 note · View note

girlnextdoor094 · 6 years

Text

Summer Storm

We'd fought most of the night. If you asked me now what the fight was about, I couldn't tell you. It may have been important then. It's not now. Like everything else we did, our fights were passionate. We were both so stubborn, always equally sure that the other was wrong. Sometimes the passion of our fight would shift to pure anger, and harsh words would be exchanged. Insults, name calling, threats and ultimatums. But there was always a limit on how far things went. It was unspoken, but mutually understood, that there were just some things you didn't use as ammunition. For a long time, that line was never crossed. But that night...we danced dangerously close to that line, both of us just shy of crossing it, until finally he stepped over.

It probably wouldn't have hurt nearly as much if he'd done it unintentionally. But the look he got in his eyes, the barely concealed grin, he knew the next words out of his mouth would hurt me more than anything. For the first time in our relationship, his calling me a whore didn't send an electric shock of arousal through me. His voice was so full of venom and disgust. It was more like a verbal slap. Finding myself at a loss for words, I responded the only way I could think of. I slapped him hard across the face, turned on my heel, and walked out the front door.

It was near dawn when I slammed the door shut behind me. The air was already hot and heavy with humidity. I flung myself onto the porch swing and tried to calm down. I could feel my cheeks burning with a mix of anger and humiliation. My pulse pounded angrily in my ears as all the things I could have said in response bounced around my mind. He'd crossed the line, and I was pissed. But I knew I'd crossed the line too, and in a bigger way. My guilt fueled my anger, which fueled my guilt. They fed from each other in a vicious circle, over and over, until I was shaking with nameless emotions, overwhelmed and exhausted.

The sun was well above the horizon before I felt my anger begin to ebb. Gradually, the anger was replaced by sadness and hurt. By noon, I was ready to apologize, but a childish voice in my head kept me on the porch waiting for him to make the first move. He came out shortly after that, and wordlessly handed me a large water bottle. I thought he'd sit, instead he turned and went back inside.

I sat there in the porch swing and watched the day drift by. The heat was oppressive, the air hazy.

By mid-afternoon, there were dark clouds looming on the horizon. It would rain by nightfall. I loved summer storms. There on the wide open plains, you could see the storm ages before a single drop of rain fell. I loved to watch the clouds roll in. It was still an hour or two before sunset when they crowded the sun from the sky. The restless breeze drew me to the porch railing; the electricity in the air made my skin tingle.

I felt more than heard him move up behind me. For awhile, we stood there in silence and just watched as the sky grew darker and darker. The breeze picked up strength. The smell of rain hung heavy in the air, but the clouds held back, rolling restlessly overheard. Suddenly a flash of lightning tore across the sky and lit the world for miles around. The angry rumble of thunder sent a shiver through me. He pressed himself against my back as the next bolt of lightning streaked the sky. His lips touched my neck and his hands found their way to my breasts as the thunder rolled. My nipples hardened against his palms almost instantly and I head him groan softly as I rocked my hips against him.

My arousal was sudden and complete. I wanted him, needed him, with an intensity I'd never felt before. My sleep shirt was off and tossed aside before I had a conscious thought about it. His deft fingers tugged and pinched at my pebbled nipples while the breeze caressed my bare skin. The rough denim of his jeans against my soft naked flesh was erotic in its own right, but I longed to feel his skin pressed against mine. His hands dropped from my sensitive nipples long enough to unfasten his jeans and shove them from his hips. Even as he stepped out of his pants, his rough and calloused fingers explored my skin. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled around us, but still no rain fell.

I gasped when his fingers parted my lower lips and roughly plunged into me. He growled against my neck as his fingers slid through my wetness. I thrust my hips against him, desperate for more and unable to stop the urgent whimpers of need that escaped my lips. His fingers moved in me, fucking me, feeling me like only a familiar lover can. My soft cries were drowned out by the almost constant roll of thunder, or maybe it was the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. When he pulled his fingers from my pussy, I groaned in protest. He silenced me by sliding them into my mouth, letting me suck the sweet, musky taste of my juices from them.

I tried to turn around then, wanting to face him, to wrap myself around him, but he roughly held me in place with one hand, his strong fingers digging into the flesh of my neck. He slid the head of his cock along my slit for an agonizing minute, rubbing against my clit in slow circles. Then without warning, he shoved himself into me in one hard, smooth thrust. He held me firmly in place as he began to move in and out of me. Each thrust forward pushed my hips against the wood railing of the porch. It should have hurt being slammed against the rough wood over and over again, but it only served to heighten my arousal. Naked on our front porch, we fucked fiercely. His thrusts were almost angry; I pushed back against him just as hard.

The storm seemed eager to participate in our frenzied coupling. The wind whipped itself against our skin, the thunder rumbled so loudly I could feel it in my bones, and the lightning filled the air with a crackling intensity matched only by the building tension in both our bodies. He spun me around and thrust into me again, lifting me onto the railing, balancing me precariously. I wrapped my legs around him and held on, my cries of pleasure echoed by the now whistling wind. I felt my orgasm nearing, the tingling heat of it spreading from my lower belly down my legs and up my torso. My nipples, sensitive and flushed, sent little shockwaves of pleasure through me as they rubbed against his coarse chest hair.

His rhythm faltered, then picked up speed. I could feel the tension building in his body as easily as I could feel it in mine. The hot gush of his cum deep inside me sent me over the edge. My whole body shook and spasmed. His lips covered mine and he swallowed my screams as my pussy fluttered around his cock, milking him dry. As the wave of my orgasm crested, the clouds let loose. We came and came and came surrounded by wind and rain, lightning and thunder.

14 notes · View notes

aalt-ctrl-del · 6 years

Text

04 _ Straw Spun to Silk

First - A Gentleman in a Coat

Chapter 04 - Bells Chimes and Orange Rhymes

Spate stole another step back, for all the good that would do. He sniffed the dank, humid air – picked up nothing, but rot and decay. He fought the curl of a snarl in his ribs; this was not the time.

“Come now,” Spate rasped. With a hand, he eased Chad out from his side, his other hand adjusted the hat on his skull. He hid his eyes, hid the light, and concentrated on moving Chad without the boy panicking. He kept himself between the designated corridor passage of the sewage line, deemed occupied and teeming with hostility. “Stay close. Slowly, turn. That’s good, very good.” The boy quivered shoulder to toe, but he worked his limbs to move seamlessly; if a little disjointed. Spate only need guide him, and keep him from collapsing outright. “Good. So good. I’m proud of you, you’re doing so well, Wick. Don’t look back. There’s nothing.”

“But—”

“There’s nothing. And we’re leaving.” Spate hunched over, and put his jowl because Chad’s chin. “But you can’t look back. Not once. I’m here, I won’t let you go.” He nudged Chad’s upper arm with his premaxilla, and coaxed hasty progress. Faster would be good, but Chad was swathed in a daze. “Keep moving, eyes forward.”

Movement was the essential – get away, gather distance, the more the better.

“This is where we came down,” Spate proclaimed. The slope was steep, but he could aid Chad on his ascent. Carry him if necessary. It would be best if the boy walked. “Take your time, I have you.”

“Chaddy,” a voice crooned. “Where y’going, chum?”

Chad choked, and pried out of Spate’s hold. “Sterling? Sterling!” And felt instantly the gravity of his error. A piercing howl erupted from his throat – there was nothing else in his arsenal that could contend with what his gaze met. Only noise, a piercing wallow, would liberate his throttling shock.

It was tall, built of ravels and jagged ends of splintered bone – the fetid odor that permeated it obliterated all fond recollections of food and summers long dead. The eyes in the oozing skull blazed, molten and hot and diseased. In an instant, the ghoulish marionette was gone—

Spate whirled about lurching in front of Chad. He didn’t see scrap or bit of what terrified the boy; he glimpsed a wisp of color that splattered across his memory, and some wholly physical force collided with his body – paralyzed his entirety. Spate went down sprawling, with Chad in his arms – then the bundle was gone, his grip vacant.

“Wick!” he croaked.

In the furthest recesses of the corridor, the rolling wail of the boy snapped off.

Spate roused himself, and pulled himself together in the most literal sense. He detected a definite and substantial loss of time. “Wick!” He shook out his coat and fixed his head, and stood. “Wick! Say something! WICK!”

The solid force of silence and absence brimmed through the vastness of the sloping channel. Spate looked to an open direction, continuing directly across from his stance. Water churned and splattered in some vague pipe elsewhere, the noises whirled and intermixed with the drumming of a rapid stride. No reply, no return cry.

No scent. None, other than….

Spate swept his attention back onto the fresh, mutilated corpse flayed not far from where Chad had plopped down. No, no… he couldn’t be certain. He followed the scent that was Sterling, whicha clung heavy to….

“Wick!” Spate lowered to the cement, and touched the grimy slough of the channel bottom. He dug through silt and leaves, inching forward little by little. He returned to his stance and shot off, taking the next bend to his left and picking up pace. His coat tail fanned out behind him, snapping as he hit the next turn – skimming along the wall and rolling to the opposite slope. A mesh-weave of rusted metal and left over construction supplies dipped in his path; one that Spate sprang through smoothly.

And stopped. He pushed the hat on his skullcap back, and leaned toward the sharp slant of a corridor bend. He darted to one end of a shaft, then returned to an intersection and studied the parched mulch layered on the floor. Follow Chad. Seek Sterling. That absorbed his essence, this was what he knew… he couldn’t follow the abductor, but he could follow his client.

The body was not only mutilated. It was practically chewed to bits. There wasn’t much left. There wasn’t much there to begin with….

A cry burbled in Spate’s ribcage, but he maintained the minimal silence he could afford. He navigated the long and winding networks of the sewer, and came to a ledge that dropped off into a lower chute. Another network of smaller, tighter tunnels extended from this division. There was water that sloshed around his boots, and soaked into the tails of his coat. It was much more difficult to drag semblance off the soggy, warm air; too much to calculate through. So many people, so many bodies.

Spate crouched onto a soggy heap of soil beneath the water, and watched the swirling stew twirl around his boots. The water was a constant, a moving and cleansing villain. It didn’t stop him from staring despondent, concentrating. With no fresh leads. Chads scent faded with each tick of the clock. Spate might’ve muttered about the crisis, if not for the teasing chime.

“Bells,” he uttered. Crouched low on hands and feet, he slipped along a low slopping wall. The pathway came to an open pass, with deviating channels. He could detect the lively aroma of plants, trees, other animals vividly. However, his fixation remained on his client. Chad.

There was a small, minuscule connector grate, at the edge of the copper wall; water spilled freely over the channel, nearly concealing it from Spate’s perceptive eye. If not for his keen sense of seeking what has no business of being. Spate was forced onto his stomach into the sludge – if he were a living thing, this would not be sanitary nor sane. Instead, he was free to swim through the shallow murk, the mud was heavily saturated and he barely made trudged out on the other side.

Immediately, his thoughts doubted. Could they have come through there? Was this a fatal error?

The channel Spate lifted up into was small, drab, and the tethers of roots hung low; slowing across his snout. Waterlogged materials clung to his boots, gurgled thickly with each step. He sloughed onward, taking a path to his right this time. He pursued carefully, slowly, aware of the oppressive unwanted the passage conveyed. It was a yearning, and at the same time repulsion.

Spate skittered to a stop, and cocked his head sharply. He meandered, tense and distressed. Something wasn’t right, this was obvious.

There was his Chadwick, partially obscured in reeds. He lay limp and folded over a greasy bar of dead grass and branches, the child looked okay – aside from some scuffing and scratches, but nothing alarming – he was alive and breathing.

For now.

And then spate could smell it, too. Popcorn and sweet treats, but oh so faintly, and distant from his memory. Did he ever visit a Fair when he was alive? The sewer, it no longer encompassed him; the space was something else entirely. A different place, a different time. Maybe at one time he was in the sewer, hunting for something that didn’t exist for a contract he never committed to. Not anymore. This was now a place for fun and games, the exciting sights and the flash of lights; the best food and offerings on this side of the county. There was so much to see, too much that needed experiencing. It was overwhelming. He wanted that more than anything – run and adventure, and appreciate every gleeful sensation that was stolen from him. He would have it, and a full, thrilling lifetime would be his. All of it, until he was old and worn out and his bed became a dried pine box.

Spate dipped his head down. He shook his coat out and loosened his bones. Water and liquefied reeds clung to his collar. Wet, soggy mud.

The Bells.

Chad whimpered an unintelligible sound. And that was when Spate struck.

He meant to fall upon the boy and gather him up in one decisive swoop, but his collision with Chad was arrested by a stringy mass… which growled and snapped back.

Soured, needle teeth gnashed at his snout, barely a breath width away. Spindly hands grappled with his throat, fingers bore into his fur and bone. It didn’t hurt – couldn’t hurt what was already dead – but the mere presence sapped so much of his resolve, his existence and ether. The amber eyes burned into his eye sockets. He wrestled at the writhing mess prying into his jaw, but found his limbs entangled with rich satin and bleached fabric; the scent of the carnival and all its treasures intermixed in the heap; beneath the acrid reek of decay and sapid wallow of death.

Something knobby and not hate fueled fury sagged against Spate’s knees. He was being folded backwards over his ankles by the snarling – this was a clown? – but when he chanced a grip out to brace himself from collapsing completely, his wrist snagged something else.

Chad!

Spate wove his claws into the boy’s shoulder. Chad was stiff, cold, and unresponsive, but his ribs persisted to cave and rise, shallowly. That was well and good, more than he expected.

A nasally snicker trilled from the towering nightmare that held him pinned. The eyes brimmed with tenors akin to delight, and equal parts malice and cruelty. Again, jaws snapped at Spate’s chin, eliciting a creaking moan from his bones. He recoiled back within the limited distance allotted to his coat and hide, all of which bunched up in the constricting grip. He pressed further backwards with no leverage; could only twist his snout aside as It leered, hissing, spitting, and gargling. It whispered against his cheek, closer and closer still. A little closer….

Like a tightly wound spring, Spate let his skull snap loose! The sharp edge of his nasal bridge connected with the white face, and an off withering yelp was his reward. Spate toppled, and somersaulted forwards. He hoisted Chad up to his chest, and twisted within the fingers locked into his throat. There was an upheaval of grumbling and fumbling limbs, but Spate broke free of the lethal embrace and bolted for what he perceived to be open air.

He raced through the cluttered passage, utterly blind with no sight or hint of where his direction led. The shrieks faded in small portions at his backside, with each meter he stole and each turn he cut around. He had enough sense not to collide with a wall; that was the least he could fare with for now. The horror couldn’t catch what didn’t stop, and Spate was nothing but a aimless spirit.

Chad sagged in his arms, dead to the world. Spate wanted to stop and check him over by a margin, if he could afford that, but the brutal cries echoed in the back of his essence. If he became more lost through his flight, then so be it. He doubted a second confrontation would merit his freedom, let alone Chad’s. The boy was still his client, and as such Spate would sanction his safe retrieval by whatever means passable.

In time, Spate understood he couldn’t find his way back to the primary channel where he first entered from; with the large and open expanse, and the runoff that were discernably… cleaner. The warren he navigated remained binding and claustrophobic, the shadows and deep water clustered about his flank like needy apparitions beseeching aid. It was almost relaxing, treading water in this comfortable fashion and seeking, but finding nothing. He bowed low beneath collapsed ceiling, and detected less cement, and more natural rock. The thought discomforted him, but he tried not to focus on that. He sought openings and secret pathways that did not exist, combed the edges of perception without piercing. He felt something was amiss, but couldn’t accurately decide what. The channels looped around, went in circles.

In the backdrop of churning water, was the delicate chuckle of bells. If Spate’s amble became too languid, he could hear them. But it was almost terrifying not to have confirmation that something was there, lurking and waiting. For all he knew, the lurker matched his pace perfectly and was toying with him. But Spate doubted that, he had a sense on it and could perceive that… It was not near. Not near enough to be a threat.

He hoped that was the correct presumption.

Somewhere in his aimless wandering, the ceiling began to rise higher and higher, the open channels melted into tunnels that stretched and yawned forth. The drastic alteration was unfamiliar, and the location – to what Spate understood, and what was expected – refused to match up. He didn’t like this. Everything became wrong and strange.

There still came the narrow and tiny chutes, low in the water and nearly submerged completely. Spate was indifferent to foul liquid, but he remembered Chad would become sick. Not only from the chill, but whatever hovered beneath the surface wouldn’t benefit his health. Spate cradled Chad’s head above the surface, and resumed his sharp canter once free of the tight confines.

In an open channel that was relatively dry, Spate redacted his stride and searched around. He sniffed at the breeze sharply; oil, tar, gravel. Fresh air. High above, in the center of the concave ceiling a manhole cover was punched in. Tendrils of light glittered down, Spate was certain he heard vehicles above. He examined the wide spread walls carefully, and evaluated the texture.

Chad burbled nonsensical noise.

Spate shook his coat, and moved around the channel. The only other notable detail was the center floor, a carved drain seeping. There was also rubbish, branches, and a shattered crib; nothing that would assist. He halted and listened, peering into the deeper sections of shadow. The street above sang its siren song.

Chad didn’t rouse when Spate lay him down. He crouched low, and unbuckled the belt from his coat; while working, he turned his sight on the manhole cover above. The climb wasn’t a trail for him, but he needed his arms free. In case. He looped the belt around his torso crossways, and hefted Chad up against his chest. Both arms needed to be over his shoulder, and with Chad comfortably balanced, Spate tightened the belt. For good measure, he untied the mask from Chad’s neck and looped it around his own arm – the stain tie was long enough.

Spate held Chad in place across his neck, and moved to the side of the curved wall. He experimented with pressing his claws into the imperfections in the cement, and put one boot to the wall. And pushed up. While he still had one arm free, he adjusted Chad a little higher on his shoulder, and surrendered his arms to the climb.

The difficulty wasn’t climbing, but the wall arched sharply backwards. Spate claws trembled, but he put his focus on the circular cover and the flittering light, teasing. His foot lost traction and swung loose, beneath the tail of his coat. Spate waited, until he regained composure.

“W-whuuh?” Chad came to. The worst possible time Chad came to, and pushed back from Spate, though he was tethered tight. “Holy crap!” He threw his arms around Spate’s neck and gripped with every ounce of his strength. “Where the fuck?”

“We’re safe,” Spate wheezed. “Almost out. Don’t worry, just hold tight.” Chad whined into his collar. Spate’s other foot swung loose, and he rocked by his claws. “I won’t fall. You won’t fall.” His boots scrabbled with the slick concrete; he swung, and retook stability. He gained a few more feet; hand, foot, had foot, alternating, and always a firm grip with his claws. Chad continued to mewl, but that was for the best. “Not far….”

You are not one of My children.

Spate swung his head backwards, nearly knocking his hat loose. He was completely inverted, and Chad was in no danger of falling.

Below, something glimmered in the depths of the swelling black. He didn’t recall it being so dark, but the hostility was familiar. Practically beamed into his skull. The eyes suspended in the miasma were vibrant and displaced from the curling shrouds; they were fastened into a pallor face with distinct red bands, like fangs. A delicate and lacey collar enveloped the steely gaze. The face smiled, and the giggle of bells alit on the air.

Spate dragged himself along the ceiling. In less than five seconds he reached the manhole cover; there was no ladder, no wall, it was just a steel grate in the middle of a featureless ceiling. Chad whined when Spate savagely shoved his snout against the metal plate; the plate popped right out.

The outside was balmy, saturated with night and cricket chirrups. Spate hauled him and Chad from the opening, bursting out into the cleansing natural dark free of grunge and the rot of decrepit catacombs. He kicked from the opening and hit the wall of a building. They surfaced into an alley, brimming with clutter and discarded crates. Five minutes of stunned silence, Chad had not lifted his head from Spate’s neck.

In the ground, the sewer opening was placid and unassuming.

“It’s okay,” Spate wheezed. “We’re out. It’s safe now. Safe. I told you. Wick?” Chad didn’t respond, except to bury his face deeper into the collar and constrict his arms around the rigid chest. Spate had to cock his head sharply to see clearly. “I have to cover the sewer.”

Spate undid the belt, carefully. Then, pulled the tie from the silk ribbon – the wooden mask slipped loose and clattered to the ground. Chad might’ve fortified his grip by tenfold, if that was possible. “I need to—”

��Don’t leave me,” came the muffled whine. “Don’t!”

“I won’t leave you,” Spate uttered. “But I can’t leave the cover off. That… person. We might let him out. I have to shut it.”

“No. Don’t!”

“It’ll be fine.” Spate rocked forward onto his knees. He did sling an arm around Chad’s middle, to keep him from slipping. He didn’t want the child near the sewer opening, and worked on detaching him from his arm. “Easy now. I’m right here. Everything’s fine – you’re safe. I got you.”

Chad put his feet to the ground – his shoes squelched, drenched and ruined. He kept a hold of Spate’s sleeve, as the monster scooted toward the open sewer access. Spate did press Chad back a bit more, before he looked down into the yawning vortex.

There was nothing reflecting their previous adventure. No cavern nor impossible climb greeted Spate’s scrutinizing leer; only the dingy floor of the channel, no less than seven feet below, and a ladder. No eyes, no face, no sounds.

Spate shoved the steel grate over the hole with a decisive clunk.

Next - A Gap in Wake and Dreams

1 note · View note

bxebxee · 7 years

Text

hey im p new to seventeen but

It’s too humid to hold hands, but you find yourself sidling up to Wonwoo and linking your fingers through his. He shoots you a small, appreciative smile and squeezes your hand back as a “hi, hello, I’m-happy-to-be-here-with-you” gesture. The miniscule quirk of his lips is almost enough to make this whole ordeal worth it.

It takes everything inside you not to swat at a mosquito or fifty while the two of you walk up the relatively easy trail. Wonwoo wanted to go hiking for date number five (not that you were counting, but you were So Counting). He had acquiesced to your whims up until now, and you had figured it was time to bend a little.

You are you, and you like what you like - a trait Wonwoo regularly reminds you that he adores. You have exact tastes and even more exact hates, and hiking on a humid July day smack in the middle of monsoon season is Not your ideal of a jolly good time. But still…

Wonwoo looks like he’s glowing. The sweat and humidity cast a gorgeous sheen on his face in an instagram-worthy natural highlight. He’s enjoying this, being surround by nature, despite this oppressive heat that makes you want to die from spontaneous melting.

You bite your tongue when you want to make a snide comment about the melting point of human skin. Down girl.

“You okay?” Wonwoo asks, eyebrows furrowing when he sees the pained expression you tried to hide.

You nod vigorously, head bobbing up and down too much for it to be anything other than a bold-faced lie. Wonwoo’s face falls as he puts two and two together, and you feel your heart sink at his realization.

“No, seriously, I’m fine…” You cringe at the sound of your own pathetic, lying tone. (Your inability to pull off a complete lie - another trait he adores.)

“It’s too hot,” he concedes, shaking his head, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t think…”

“No, you have nothing to be sorry for! I wanted to go hiking.”

He looks exasperated at your stubborn insistence. “You don’t need to spare my feelings,” he reassures you, “I underestimated how gross it would be-”

You see it happen right in front of your eyes. You apologize, and Wonwoo apologizes, and you apologize for him apologizing, and around and around and around you’d go. Wonwoo is too kind to just take sometimes, and you’re too good at taking and taking until there’s nothing left.

In a fit of impulse you pull at his hand, propelling your body towards him in a gamble. In the second and a half it takes for him to catch on to the projected outcome of your lips meeting his, you pray it ends well with minimal damage. Your eyes close, and you hope.

This only works in movies, you fool. The nasty voice inside your head loves to dissuade you from acting, but you’re not listening to that bitch today.

Wonwoo inhales when he feels your lips press a smidge too hard on his. Awkward angle, awkward pressure, awkward, humid skin texture…. He can smell the sweat you’ve desperately tried to hide underneath deodorant and body sprays. He looks at your face, all too close with eyes squinted shut in a comical crease, and the affection he’s held in his heart for the Girl From The Bookstore grows tenfold.

He lets his eyes fold shut, and he reorients his body and limbs so that the two of you can finally settle into a comfortable, good kiss. Your subdued sigh is enough for Wonwoo’s mind to go into overdrive. It’s beyond his expectations to even touch you, and here you are sucking on his lower lip smelling just like how he imagined you’d be all hot and keyed up from arousal.

He wonders if you’d hate if he hugged you completely to his body. It is hot after all, and there are bugs. Wonwoo is not completely dense as to your distaste for insects. But he is floored when you make that decision for him and wrap your arms around his neck, smushing your chest directly on top of his.

Oh. Fuck. Yes.

There is tongue. There is motherfucking tongue, and Wonwoo gets the feeling that if he’s not careful, he’d probably cum in his pants like an inexperienced kid.

You exhale in shallow puffs through your nose, doing your best to focus on the taste and feeling of Wonwoo. Yes, it’s hot and you feel like the air itself is sweating on you, but Wonwoo is also right in front of you, grabbing your ass by the handful as you do your best to buck your hips into his crotch.

You’re not even remotely worried about other people catching the two of you in your mini romp of frottage in the mountains because normal people have stayed at home where the air conditioning lives. Normal people are not out getting eaten alive by mosquitoes in this godforsaken heat. But you’d freely admit none of that matters because this is the closest you’ve gotten to Wonwoo, and if feels like a breakthrough.

He pulls away from the kiss first, breath heavy and rattled. His hands are still planted on your rear.

“It’s too hot,” he gulps, “We should go.”

“No we shouldn’t,” you decide, seeing the acceptance of your words in his eyes. You glance down at his lips, shiny with saliva and just the barest hint of swollen puff. “Don’t want to…”

You swallow, and Wonwoo captures the bob of your throat like a starving man looking at his first meal of the day. A thin bead of sweat rolls down your neck as you perspire for real now. No more lady glow; you are fully in sweatdrop mode. And without thinking he bends his head over to you, slowly moving his lips closer so that you push him away, tell him no. But you don’t (of course you don’t), and he lays down a stripe of saliva against your neck when he licks.

You grip unto his shoulders.

“Please,” you whisper, legs feeling like jelly from the hike thus far and the lust burning through your body. “Wonwoo…”

Your whine cuts through his body like a knife. Wonwoo throws caution to the wind and pulls away the arms that cling onto him like a koala. Your protesting pout has no effect on him, and he grabs your hand to drag you to a somewhat clean-looking birch tree.

Wonwoo backs you up against the bark, and the wood digs against your back in a delicious, firm way. He wastes no time in kissing you again, letting his tongue in early and taking what he wanted in the first place.

His leg finds its way between your legs, knees shifting forward to make contact with your jean-covered mound. The blunt, muted pleasure has you crying against his mouth, and Wonwoo is the one to make a decision this time.

“I don’t want to stop,” he tells you, “I want to f-fuck you.” He stutters at the curse but presses on, “I want you. So bad.”

“You can have it,” you answer, “Because I don’t want to stop either.”

#seventeen drafts

41 notes · View notes

imyourliquor-youremypoison · 7 years

Text

Divided We Fall (OUAT - Peter Pan x Reader) Part 1

Requested by @ajakral

Synopsis: Who said there were no girls on Neverland? Who said Peter Pan ruled over this world on his own? On the other side of the island, far from the mermaid lagoon, the echo cave and the skull rock – that's where (Y/N) and her girls lived. Because behind every great man there is an even greater woman, what would the king be without his queen?

A/N: Doesn't star any OUAT characters apart from Pan, Felix and Wendy.

Word count:2.5k

>>> part 2

MASTERLIST

The delicate rustling of the leaves lulled them, making it hard not to fall asleep. They were surrounded by dark – night had fallen hours ago and there was no way to tell what time it was. The girls, however, knew better than to give in to their exhaustion and allow themselves to doze off, unbeknownst to anyone but them. Somehow, She always knew. There was no hiding anything from Her. One of them moved her weigh from one food to the other but this movement alone made a lot of noise in the middle of a tranquil night. The girl to her left gave her a worried glance and it seemed to wake them all up. No, they couldn't fall asleep, they had to keep an eye open and watch camp for the night. Once a week the camp's safety was in their hands, they could not disappoint Her.

“Report.”

It was an all too familiar voice, one that sent shills down the girls' spine and inspired a mixture of awe and fear. She was as nurturing as she was fierce; no one in their right mind would consider getting on Her bad side.

“It's been quiet all night,” one of the girls said, her voice a little raspy. They hadn't uttered a single word in hours and the stiflingly hot air of the jungle had them suffocating and thirsty.

“Night's far from being over. If a Lost Boy so much as steps on our land, I want him to run back to camp with an arrow through his leg,” She told them, leaving no room for argument. She had trained them for this. “They came raiding our camp one too many times lately, methinks they need a little reminder who rules this part of the island.”

“We won't disappoint you,” the girl who moved earlier spoke up, looking up at their leader with glowing eyes, sweat trickling down between her brows and feet unsteady on the humid ground.

She turned towards the brave girl and stood before her a long while, minutely watching her, scrutinizing her.

“I expect not,” She eventually said before disappearing in the night.

A collective sigh fell from the four girls on watch and suddenly, they didn't feel too hot anymore – cold, fear induced sweat now covered their back.

(Y/N) reappeared on the highest spot of her territory and scouted her surroundings, squinting her eyes to try and see if the Lost Boys' campfire was still lit. Everything was eerily still – she didn't like it. The island was fast asleep for the first time in what felt like forever, yet she found herself unable to get any shut eye that night. Be it because she wanted to savor that peaceful night or because her own paranoia prevented her from sleeping, that was another question. For now, all she could do was to help her girls make sure the camp was safe.

Peter Pan. His name, although she hadn't pronounced it in ages, always left a bitter taste in her mouth – after a while she figured that this must be what hatred and contempt tasted like. There was something else too, that feeling lingered on her tongue whenever she talked with her girls. The tangible terror she inspired to all of them – even though it was one of the things she most despised about Pan, she realized it was a necessary thing to make sure her soldiers stood in line and remained loyal and obedient.

All the power this authority gave her was exhilarating and more often than not, (Y/N) had to remind herself not to turn into the monster He became. He still had tremendous power over her – more than the power he was actually deploying to keep on her Neverland. Sometimes she wondered why he didn't use more of it, because she knew he could, she knew she left before he could teach her how to use all of her power. What was holding him back? Was this a part of a bigger scheme? All these unanswered questions were probably the reason behind her insomnia and paranoia. All the more reason to have the girls take turns to watch over the camp at night, when they were the most vulnerable.

There was only one thing her girls couldn't fight off. One lurid thing that was too incorporeal for them to combat. The Shadow.

From the corner of her eye, (Y/N) saw its moving silhouette fly between the trees, silently making its way toward her. Her hands clenched into fists each side of her body – she hated this, she hated herself for this. It felt like a betrayal – towards her girls, who trusted her, and towards herself.

“What do you want?!” She spat at the dark form floating in the air a couple meters in front of her, out of arm's reach and over the precipice.

It didn't answer. It never answered her harsh questions or colorful curses. She knew who sent it – over and over again, almost every night, for the last eternity. Because that was how long she had been there - an eternity.

Its ghostly hand pulled a flower seemingly out of nowhere and it stretched its arm out for (Y/N) to take the gift. She remembered in vivid details the first time this happened, she remembered she screamed and attacked the shadow relentlessly for hours until she was too exhausted to keep going, she remembered that the flower didn't suffer any damage from her fireballs and still glowed its gentle blue color, she remembered reluctantly accepting the offering and crying for the rest of the night.

She was alone back then, none of the Lost Girls had come yet. Now she wasn't alone anymore, so why was this oppressing loneliness weight on her shoulders? An eternity later nothing had changed. To this day she still did the exact same thing – she reached out, took the splendid flower from the Shadow and waited until it disappeared into the night before collapsing on the rocky ground and crying, just crying.

She was the one exception – the only one in centuries, the only one in forever. Peter Pan didn't make exceptions, he was known to be a treacherous, ruthless leader and showed cruelty rather than mercy. His army was solely composed of young clueless boys - young enough for him to mold and shape the type of person they will become, and clueless enough to do it without them realizing it. Soon, his Lost Boys became cruel too, in their own way, even if his own viciousness could hardly be topped. Like any power-thirsty king, Peter Pan wanted more and more, always more power. There was never enough, never enough authority, or power, control, never enough enemies to defeat or magic to learn.

Neverland, as practical and symbiotic it was, was limited. It was surrounded by gallons and gallons of water, going as far as eye can see. There was no land to conquer, no enemies to challenge his authority. He was bored – like any child who had grown tired of their toys, he wanted new ones.

Peter Pan regularly left Neverland and wandered from village to village in the Enchanted Forest, searching for more innocent souls to corrupt and lure on his doomed island where everything and everyone stood still – frozen in time and space.

He was known under another name in the Enchanted Forest, though there was whispers about the identity of the boy who took kids from their parents, stole them right out of their little beds. The Pied Piper they called him and nobody knew where this curious name came from.

One day, (Y/N) found out though, but she was never able to go back and tell anyone. A pull stronger than anything she had ever experienced forced her to get out of her tiny bed, it compelled her to leave her room and she barely managed to slip on her shoes and throw a coat on top of her night gown before her feet dragged her out of her room and silently walked down the stairs. It was like they had a will of their own – they managed to reach the ground floor without stepping on any of the creaking wooden steps, something that (Y/N) couldn't even achieve when she tried.

Soon she was outside. She used both her hands to hold her coat closed and the freezing autumn wind made her eyes tear up but she couldn't fight off the urge to walk forward, closer, always closer to the mesmerizing sound that came from deep into the woods.

Before she knew it, she was in a small clearing with a bonfire in the middle. Around the flames were half a dozen boys of different ages – though all younger than she was – dancing madly to the tune. Once again guided by her feet, (Y/N) joined them. She didn't know how to dance but her body instinctively followed the music, her hair twirling around her as she spun in circles, her arms drawing invisible patterns in the air. Time was suspended – she lost track of it the moment she joined the dance. Her mind was foggy but at peace, she was one with her dancing companions despite not knowing any of them.

Everything came to an abrupt halt. (Y/N)'s arm fell down to the side of her body and she looked around, wondering how she even got here in the first place.

“Look boys, we have an unsuspected guest,” someone said. “What a treat! Here I thought tonight would be fruitless.”

“Who are you?” (Y/N) questioned immediately, wary of this boy.

He was the only one wearing decent clothes and not dancing. In his hands there was a pied piper and immediately, she knew. She knew who he was and she knew this was tonight was the last time she ever saw her village. In the morning her parents would wake up to an empty bed, like the parents of the boys around the bonfire.

“You'll know soon enough,” he simply told her with a sly smile that she would never forget. Every time she heard his voice, (Y/N) would associate it with this twisted smile and it made her shiver. “For now, I ask the questions and you answer.”

The boys suddenly resumed their mad dance, but (Y/N) heard no music.

“You can't hear it for now, I want to have a private conversation. Now tell me, who are you? The possibility of you being a boy with really long hair and pink lips seems highly improbable,” he said.

He was walking in circles around her, studying her, his eyes going up and down and up again. (Y/N) wanted to run but her feet were as good as glued to the ground. When she looked down she realized roots had grown out of the ground and around her ankles. She was trapped.

“I'm a girl,” she told him. “What is this? What are you doing?”

He smirked again. In a rather unpleasant way, but she didn't feel too threatened.

“I recall telling you that I was the one asking questions,” he reprimanded her. “You don't look like a fool. You know me, I see in your eyes. You're scared.”

“I'm not scared of anything,” she shot back right away, making him stop circling around her.

“A tough one, aren't you?” He huffed and resumed his walking. “How do they call me in this land again? Something to do with my flute,” he said, trailing off and waiting for her to complete the sentence.

“The Pied Piper. You're the one that takes children away during their sleep,” (Y/N) said accusingly.

“Do they seem asleep to you?” The boy asked, pointing at the dancing boys.

She didn't follow his stare but took this time to study him too. He was tall. Maybe older than her, but not much. He wore clean clothes and seemed clever. His eyes trained back on her.

“Are you asleep?”

She didn't like the way he emphasized the 'you' in his sentences. He might as well be poking her in the chest it would feel the same.

“You came here by yourself, just like you'll follow me by your own free will.”

“Following you while under the spell of an enchanted flute does not qualify as free will in my book,” (Y/N) spat at him. An odd feeling stirred inside her – like she was talking to a serpent rather than a boy. “What do you want from us? Where are you taking them?”

“Questions again!” He exclaimed, this time looking annoyed. He raised his hand and suddenly, (Y/N) was off the ground and hanging in the hair, an invisible rope tightening around her neck to keep her quiet. “Much better.” He smiled again. What was wrong with his smile? “Why not include yourself dear? I'm not taking them, I'm taking all of you. You'll be thanking me soon. There is a reason why none of the children ever came back. The place I'm taking you is a land of unlimited magic where all your dreams become reality.”

(Y/N)'s hands angrily grasped at the invisible rope but she only managed to scratch her neck. It wasn't tight enough to kill her, she could breathe but simply not talk. As an answer she glared down at him, putting as much hatred as she had in her in this one look.

“Fiesty, aye?” The boy said. “I'm going to enjoy having you around, I can tell already.”

“I won't go with you!” She protested weakly, the words coming out as merely a whisper.

The boy opened his palm and (Y/N) fell limpy to the ground in a muffled thud. A surprised yelp escaped her, it was followed by a groan. She rubbed her back as she stood back up.

“You were saying, love? I didn't quite understand your inarticulate mumble.” He beamed with self-complacency – he gave her a tooth grin that was anything but friendly.

“I said I won't go with you, you psychopathic man-child!” She shouted, her hands grazing her sore neck. It would bruise, that's for sure. “I'd rather die!”

“Careful!” He raised a finger in warning as he stopped walking around her and walked towards her instead. “Where we're going wishes have a tendency to come true, I'd watch my mouth if I were you,” he told her.

“What is it that you don't understand when I say that I will not follow you on your Neverland not even in a million years?” (Y/N) stepped back as she barked at him – she refused to be stepped on like a doormat but she certainly was no fool and this boy was dangerous.

“Oh but you will, I assure you,” he told her, closing the gap between them by disappearing and reappearing right in front of her. “A million years is exactly the time you'll spend there, with us.”

“Us?” She asked before she had a chance to bite her tongue.

“The Lost Boys and I- oh, I'm sorry, I still haven't properly introduced myself, have I? I'm Peter Pan, King of Neverland, and you, (Y/N) of Albridge in the Enchanted Forest, are going to come with me, whether you like it or not.”

If you like my work please consider buying me a coffee <3

A/N: Leave a review to tell me how you like it this far - the more I get the quicker you get next part :)

431 notes · View notes

bokocho · 7 years

Text

Adventures With Adrian! (SFW)

Well, here you go! @aftepes

The fire surged with heat against the humidity of the night. You rubbed the back of your sweaty neck and made a face when your hand came away wet.

The haven was just south of a stand of trees that would have been perfect for shielding it from the sun, but unfortunately it was just far enough away that the rock face had baked all day. Even now it was radiating warmth.

Dragging a hand through your damp coppery hair to get it out of your eyes, you got out of your canvas chair and headed for the cooler. “It’s not supposed to be this hot, right? Maybe the fire was a bad idea.”

Prompto, who was sprawled limply on the ground in front of the partially-assembled tent, whined in agreement. “I’m dying, guys! So’s Adrian! Are you sure we can’t just go to a motel? Pleeeease?”

Gladio spoke around a mouthful of tent peg while he slotted together two pieces of the tent frame. “Nah, it’s good for you. Don’t be such a wimp.”

You popped the cooler open. “I’m not dying, Prom. Just uncomfortable. Here, drink something. You’ll feel better.” You dug through the melting ice for a second, selected a can, and tossed it to him. Prompto caught it in spite of his professed weakness and started rubbing the sweating aluminum against his face.

“Okay, fine, you’re not dying, but I am! I am seriously going to melt.” He made a little noise of appreciation as he ran the can across the back of his neck.

“Perhaps we should bank the fire somewhat,” Ignis said without looking over his shoulder. Given the temperature, he was making a cold Ulwaat berry and basil soup. He had dropped his jacket on the back of his chair an hour ago and had just finished rolling up his sleeves. He could definitely see where Prompto was coming from; it was unseasonably hot, even after the sun had gone down and the air had begun to cool.

There was a scraping sound somewhere to the right of the campsite, and then Noctis climbed into view with a fishing rod in one hand and the handle of his tackle box between his teeth. “I’m pretty sure most of the fish in that river fried. I didn’t even get a nibble.” He scrubbed at his cheek with his forearm, leaving a streak of mud, before he dropped off his gear beside the camp stove. “Saw a Magitek carrier, but it didn’t come anywhere nearby.”

Ignis made a sound in his throat. “Good to know they are in the area.”

“Like I said, they didn’t stop. They weren’t close enough to be an issue.” Noctis flopped into a chair.

“Hey, you wanna help out a little, Your Highness?” Gladio asked with a chuckle.

“Nope, I’m good right here,” Noctis said.

You picked two beers out of the cooler and walked over to Gladio, plonking down next to him to help him finish the tent.

He took the beer you held out to him, popped the tab, and drained it. Then he winked at you and crushed it against the side of his head.

Ignis rolled his eyes at the display and turned back to his knifework.

Prompto, however, was duly impressed, and actually sat up. “Dude! Do that with mine!”

“Don’t encourage him, Prompto,” Ignis said firmly. “If he hurts himself performing that parlor trick, I will not be the one to stitch him back up.”

Noctis sighed and folded his arms behind his head. “No, we’ll just give him a Potion and he’ll be fine. Addy, you and Gladio got the tent covered?”

“Yeah, we got it,” you said. You helped Gladio pop the roof of the tent into place and hammer the pegs into the rocky soil. It wasn’t a very solid hold, but as long as the wind didn’t kick up before everyone went to bed it wouldn’t be a problem. You gathered the empty cans and dropped them off in the collapsible recycling bin. “Hey, Iggy, when’s dinner?”

Ignis spared his watch a glance. “Dinner should be ready shortly.”

“Sounds good.” You used your plaid shirt to wipe your face. “We’re staying at a motel tomorrow. I need a shower. Like, bad.”

“Don’t we all,” Ignis murmured, briskly mincing the basil. He hadn’t intended to say anything, but the oppressiveness of the humid air was genuinely bothering him. Normally, besides Gladio, he was the most resilient of the group and weathered biting cold or burning heat with perfect tranquility. However, he had never been a fan of humidity, and it was causing his silk shirt to cling to his sweating skin.

“We still have time,” Prompto wheedled. “With those crazy anti-demon headlights Cindy installed on the Regalia, we’re golden. We can cruise straight to Lestallum and be in nice, air-conditioned hotel rooms before midnight. Heck, I’d take the camper at this point.”

“Oh, hell no. We are not re-packing the Regalia at this time of night,” Gladio growled, getting to his feet. “Suck it up, Prompto.”

“Can I at least take off my shirt? Please?” Prompto cast an imploring look at you.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Why would I care? Gladio’s shirtless 99 percent of the time anyway.”

“Eh. Good point. Woohoo!” Prompto flung off his vest and tank top with a whoop of glee and flopped back into his prone position on the ground, spread-eagled for maximum cooling. “Can I take off my pants too? Black skinny jeans, man.”

“....I draw the line there, Prom,” you said. “As much as I feel your pain.” You gestured to your own pants. The only way to tell them apart was Prompto’s name was written on the tags on all of his clothes.

Gladio pursed his lips; then his leather shirt (which he never buttoned anyway) joined the pile of clothes. He stretched, enjoying the freedom.

Noctis opened one eye; he had been lounging in his chair, both eyes closed, listening to the crackle and pop of the fire. With no one tending it, it had gone down somewhat, but it was still pouring off heat like nobody’s business. If they hadn’t needed the light, they probably would have gone without.

Without a word, he shucked his jacket and shirt too.

Ignis, incensed, turned away from the soup he was garnishing. “Noct. You could, at the very least, have folded them.”

“So Prompto and Gladio can just drop their stuff wherever, but if it’s me, I need to fold it?” Noctis asked, nonplussed.

The look Ignis gave him would have stopped a charging Behemoth. “You are a Lucian prince. They are not.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay, okay, chill out, you two.” You were smiling, under the hand covering your face. “Anyway, isn’t it about time for dinner?”

“You are correct, Adrian,” Ignis deposited a full bowl and spoon in your hand.

#ffxv #ffxv fanfiction #ffxv headcanons #FF15 Headcanons #ff15 fanfiction #Gladio #gladiolus amicitia #Ignis #ignis scientia #noctis #prince noctis #Noctis Lucis Caelum #Prompto #prompto argentum #camping is fun

6 notes · View notes

thewritingsofwren · 7 years

Text

Weather

The heat is oppressive. Its weight doesn’t force me into myself, grounding me. It forces me out. Displacing me like water in a tub as the weight of its body pushes me out of mine. I’ve lived in the heat my whole life. California, born and raised, the Golden State. Sunshine year round, sixty-degree winters. Wading through as if in dream, a hazy fugue.

Days of relief, moments of escape. Short trips to San Francisco, the foggy city. Cool air, a nice change. But it’s heavy, still so heavy. The fog is dense, a sponge soaked in water, clinging to your clothes, leaving you shivering but with lids weighed down, in a liminal space, a lucid dream. Longer trips to Half Moon Bay. Sitting as close to the ocean as you can get. Only on cloudy days. Only on cold days. Hopefully the wind is blowing hard enough to dispel some fog, to lift the weight. Maybe you roll up your pants, walk onto the wet sand. Feel the gentle give underneath your feet, the cold grains between your toes. Standing still. Waiting. Then the water comes, gripping your ankles, draining them of feeling. Numb. Awake. Finally.

Living on the East Coast. The first month and half is hard. It is hot. It is heavy. You left California for a reason, and you are disappointed. You become a full-time somnambulist. And then: seasons. Leaves change: brilliant reds, oranges, yellow, earthy browns. The air is cool… and crisp. Yes! There is a bite to it now, snapping at your nose, your ears, findings the gaps in your clothing, raising goosebumps on your skin. Traveling up through your nose, down into your lungs, spreading in your bloodstream, waking you up. Slowly.

Then the transitions. Back and forth between the hot and the cold. Never knowing which to trust; which is real? Can they both be? Your life doesn’t have room for multiple realities. It’s hard enough to grapple with just one. California to New York and then back again. One autumn in New York somehow produces sixty degree weather in November. I am violently disoriented. The red leaves dangling precariously from trees take on hues of blood, dripping slowly to the ground, floating down on currents of warm air that tries to lull my skin, my senses, to put me at ease. But something is wrong.

Back to California again, and I complain of being cold. My parents are confused. “Aren’t you used to the cold by now? We thought you preferred it?” They have a point. I don’t at first understand the problem, either. But the cold air has different qualities on the opposing coasts. When East Coast air gets cold, it gets cold. There’s no room for a middle ground. It’s the kind of cold that reaches the backs of my eyeballs, making me worry about their mostly liquid composition. Can people’s eyeballs freeze? I hope not. Did you know that eyes are the only exposed parts of the human brain? It’s true. They are directly connected to the brain, and there they are, out in the open, vulnerable to just about anything. The cold air pushes past, sparking signals in my brain, jolting me into a forced realization of my body. I am.

So what’s the difference, then? Between the cold air in California and the cold air in New York? California cold doesn’t do much to capture my attention; it’s a nuisance. Trying to garner a reaction, it gives me occasional chills, so I want to put on a coat or grab some extra blankets just so I don’t have to deal with it anymore. It is an inconvenience, something that I can complain about because it is so uncommon that it has become annoying. But the New York cold is undeniable. It is bigger than I am. It warrants a kind of respect, a level of acceptance. We have a symbiotic relationship. Of this I am sure. It gives me fodder for my complaints; I let it tinker with my mind. It brings awareness to my body; I let it dwell inside my spine.

You get older, and people begin to ask where you’ll live once you’re “on your own.” “Do you like big cities?” They want to know. “Rural cities? Something in between?” You try to answer, but you find it difficult. That’s not really what matters to you. “Somewhere not too heavy,” you want to reply. But you don’t; they probably wouldn’t understand. You think about this question a lot, and you realize that heaviness isn’t complete anathema to you. Regulated in small doses, it can be comforting. Like rain: a weight that exceeds the strength of the clouds, and so they let it fall. There’s a freedom in that, letting go.

You used to disobey your parents for the rain. Going out in the rare California showers, relishing this welcome weight, a relief after stratospheric stagnation. And then, on the East Coast, there are thunderstorms. Not the weak occasional rumble in the distance and the faint flash of light that you grew up with. Real live thunderstorms. So loud that it feels like your body is being used as a resonator, a temporary conduit for weight. A way for you to experience it without having to carry it around with you.

Even when I was younger, maybe six-years-old, I looked forward to moments of escape from the warmth. My grandparents used to live in Hartford, Connecticut, and we frequently made the journey back East for Christmas. Their property was immense, and I always wanted to be outside, playing in the snow or just sitting on the old wooden swing hanging from what I was convinced was the biggest tree in the world. Despite how big the house was and how much my grandfather loved books, the library was somehow restricted to a short hallway at the back of the house, from which the guestroom branched out like a hasty last-minute addition. This hallway was the coldest room in the house, which, combined with the books it contained, made it my favorite room. Because the hallway was narrow, there was no room for any sort of furniture, so I often just stood, staring at the faded titles on dusty, torn book jackets. My parents stayed in the adjoining guestroom and were often spooked when they heard soft footfalls coming towards them and then stopping just before their door for several minutes before retreating. They always talked about the relief of stepping out of that hallway into one of the two warmer surrounding rooms. I had the opposite experience. The hallway itself was a relief, a cool sigh, a light airiness.

My parents couldn’t be from more opposite climates. My father is from New York, and my mother is from Panama, a place where winter means ninety-nine degrees with ninety-percent humidity. Already, I’m starting to see some connections. But something I can’t get past is if these climates are in my blood, why don’t I like them both equally? If anything, I should prefer the warmth. My mother and I are stubborn, brooding, hyper-analytical, frequently paranoid and quick to judge. Despite the sense of humor and the interest in music that I share with my father, I am far more similar to my mother, but in ways that highlight the aspects of my personality that I frequently try to deny.

Growing up, and until very recently, I had set ideas of my parents in my head, completely contrary to their climates of origin. For me, my father was warm, open, out- and easy-going, and overflowing with kindness. My mother was colder, more closed-off, strict and prone to worry, kind but stern. But nothing is ever that simple.

As I test the waters of my twenties, the heat balance has begun to shift. No, that’s not quite right. In fact, I’m quite certain that the balance itself remains practically unchanged, but my perception of it, the clarity of my thermal imaging, if you will, has shifted, the image becoming more precise and honest. The complexities of the climates that run through my parents’ veins are more apparent now. Once, I could only see the cooler aspects of my mother and the warmer aspects of my father, but I’ve noticed qualities of warmth and coolness in both of them. My mother is warm, open, and fiercely loyal. But she carries an immense weight with her from the heat and the turmoil that she grew up in. My father is self-centered, colder, aloof, sarcastic, and occasionally too quick to laugh.

We travel together, the three of us, into the heat. We are on our way to the airport. My mother’s hand is cool and dry in mine. She has reached across the backseat of the hired car to interlace her fingers with mine. For some reason, whenever she does this, I find myself tensing, as if bracing for something. I always do this, and I don’t know why. I find myself concentrating too hard on not letting my palm get sweaty. We just sit in silence until she has to let go to open a bottle of water. I relax.

On the plane, my father asks if he can kiss me on the cheek. I nod; he delivers a quick peck and immediately starts a new conversation. It’s endearing, for a moment, and then it’s sad. Though, briefly, I thought the request odd, I didn’t mind it or the following kiss. But I realize that there must have been something uncomfortable about it for him. A discomfort similar, I’m sure, to the one I feel whenever my mother takes my hand. I feel guilty.

The Panamanian heat assaults me. We are driving along a body of water, with the windows down, and we are opposite the shore. I stare hard, wondering what feels strange about the scene. Then I realize that it looks like the waves are in reverse. Instead of meeting forcefully with the shore and gently retreating in on themselves, the waves aggressively retreat, barely gliding across the shore with each swell.

Is this how my parents feel? They watch me grow up. They see me get closer to them as I learn to communicate. They feel the shift as the hierarchy diminishes and we become more like equals. They watch me drift; like waves in reverse, fleeing from the shore.

My parents: I often find myself attempting to trace my need for the cold back to them. Now, I’ve distanced myself, turning from the cold and the heat in both. I search for my weather, longing for cold, afraid to get lost, buried, under the heat.

#personal essay #original

1 note · View note

disnerdkatie · 5 years

Text

Every June since 2010, Naval Support Activity Mid-South’s Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Department has hosted the Navy 10 Nautical Miler. This is one of my favorite races (even with my sketchy personal history with it), and it is special to the world of racing because it is the first race in the U.S. to be based on nautical miles instead of land miles. By the way, a nautical mile is 1.15078 land miles, so the Navy 10 Nautical Miler winds up being 11.5078 land miles long. 2019 was the 10th anniversary of the Navy 10NM, and I knew I would definitely want to run it, so I actually registered back in December at the St. Jude expo.

The Navy 10NM starts at 6:00am, which is insanely early. Luckily, I don’t live very far away so I get to sleep in more than my friends coming from farther (further? farther!) away. Still, I set my alarm for 4:33, plus extra alarms just in case. Of course, that mean that Asscat woke me up at least twice, and I had weird dreams that also woke me up. I never seem to have good sleep before a big race. Oh well! I was up at 4:33, and got dressed, brushed teeth, made coffee, & all that stuff by 4:50. Then I realized I had nothing resembling fuel and tore apart the kitchen trying to find something to use – I wound up shoving an oatmeal cream pie in my skirt pocket. Then off I went!

Parking at the race was a nightmare. Well, not true. Getting into the parking lot was a nightmare. It takes roughly 15 minutes to drive to the start line from my house… but then I spent another 15 minutes on Navy Road, waiting to turn into the parking lot. Once I turned in, it was really quick and easy to park, although I was in the grass because the actual paved lot was full.

Lisa, Nikki, and I were planning to run together, but I don’t think we had heard from Nikki yet that morning, and Lisa had sent a message that she made it halfway to the race and realized she didn’t have her race bib, so she had to turn back home. I just assumed I was the first there, so I headed to the start line to see who else I could find to hang with. Found our friend Tad, and chatted with him until he saw another friend and went to talk, and I got in the porta-potty line. Nikki found me there, and after I used the (surprisingly clean) porta-potty we set off to get in the start corral and find Lisa.

Success! We found Lisa!

Lisa’s got a personalized training plan because she has a coach, whereas I’m cobbling together some Hal Higdon and Breakaway Running training plans, and Nikki is gearing up for 50K training. Anyway, so Lisa’s plan was to start out running 1:1 intervals, and then halfway through the race switch to 2:1 intervals. I was like “dude, I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to hang once you switch, but go for it!”

Oh. Back up. Important tidbit: the race announced that no hydration vests would be allowed. I wasn’t actually planning to wear one, but a lot of people do wear one on this race because it is a longer race in the intense Memphis heat and humidity, so there was some outcry about the policy change.

However! The Navy 10NM really went above and beyond with their water stops. There was a stop at every single nautical mile, for one thing. Yes, every single one. And every stop had both water and Gatorade. And it was COLD water and Gatorade. Yes, even at the later stops. One of the cups of Gatorade I had, at a later stop, actually still had ice in it.

So major major major super props to the race directors/coordinators. I’ve never run in nor volunteered for any race that did such an amazing job with the water stops!

There were also porta-potties at every water stop. It is really rare for me to need to use the bathroom during a race, but it was really awesome that they were available for those who did need them.

Hmm… another tidbit that I maybe should have led with is that the course has changed. I first ran this race in 2015, and again in 2017 (although I, umm, decided that I was bored and just done with running that day when I was only halfway through the race, so I… uhhh… just walked off course and didn’t finish…).

Those are the Garmin maps from the last time I ran the whole course, and the one from this year. You can see that the course is way, way different. To tell the truth, I looked at the new map on the race website and was thinking “This is going to suck major monkey ass” but… it really wasn’t that bad overall. No, the whole thing wasn’t in shade, but there was more shade than I thought there would be. And the weather was amazing for a June race in the Memphis area. It was warm but it wasn’t oppressively hot, and there was a breeze for pretty much the entire time.

We were moving along at a pretty nice clip (our walking was pretty slow but our running was pretty quick so it evened out) and before I knew it, we were about to enter the base. I didn’t take many pictures the whole race, but there are zero from the base, because photography was not allowed. I feel like that is a new rule too, and I definitely feel that it was not advertised enough. Apparently there was a sign as we entered the base (which I missed), but so far as I know that was the only official race communication about it. So, I think they dropped the ball on that, but since I personally wasn’t planning to take pictures anyway it didn’t really affect me personally.

While on base, we started leapfrogging with an older couple who were walking (power walking? speed walking?) the race. On a run interval we would pass them, and then while we were walking they would pass us again. I didn’t catch their names, but if you guys ever read this: you were the highlight of the race for me. Thank you for the jokes and even more for the encouragement! Eventually we pulled ahead, though…

Before I knew it, we were through the base and at the halfway mark of the race! Right past the 5 nautical mile water stop, we turned onto Jones Boyd Road, which I never knew the name of… it was always just “the turn around for the RRS half marathons” road. Unlike the RRS where you just go down the road a little bit and then turn around, this time we would be taking the road all the way to Raleigh-Millington Road. This is also where I decided to see how that oatmeal cream pie would sit if I ate it mid-race. Mmm, those are my favorite Little Debbies!

Before we got there though, it was popsicle stop time! The popsicle stop is a long-standing tradition. That year that I walked off course? I made it to the popsicle stop and just started handing out popsicles instead of taking one and running on. This year, as has happened before, the popsicles weren’t all frozen, but they were still cold… but even better than the popsicles were the smiles and encouragement from all the friends who were handing them out. Thanks guys! It was awesome to see you on course!

At the next water stop, Lisa popped into one of the porta-potties. That delay gave the older couple who was walking a chance to catch up with us again. Hello again y’all! Around this time, my legs started feeling a little bit crampy. Not awful, but not really pleasant either. It was also about when Lisa’s watch swapped over from 1:1s to 2:1s, I think. Or it already had and we were using mine and Nikki’s watches which were only set to 1:1s… but as we came up to the 7 nautical mile marker/water stop, I realized I needed to take a break from the running and stick to just walking. Lisa wanted to run on though, so as we got through the water stop she just kept going.

{Side note: thank you 7 nautical mile water stop! Even though I didn’t take one, the fact that you were offering Gu (and chews? I didn’t see for sure) is freakin’ amazing! You guys rocked!}

Anyway, Nikki said she would hang with me for a little bit and then probably run on ahead later. We continued on the course without any run intervals. As Nikki pointed out at one point, our walking pace improved when we weren’t running. Of course lol! Although to be fair if she hadn’t stayed with me I probably would have been trudging instead of walking at a decent clip.

We turned onto Navy Road, and that was probably the worst part of the whole race. There is zero shade on Navy, and the sun was fully risen. And of course we were walking into the sun. At least there was a nice break as we turned down the YMCA road… umm, yeah technically it has a name but sorry, its just the YMCA road to me. There was tons of shade from lots of trees here! It was around the 8 nautical mile water stop that I realized running again just wouldn’t be happening for me. That crampy feeling had turned into my legs trying to completely lock up, and I was just done.

We found ourselves back on Navy Road, again walking into the sun with not a bit of shade around. Even though the right lane was closed off from traffic with cones, for the runners, we moved to the sidewalk. The camber on Navy is pretty intense and neither of our hips would much appreciate that. But eventually we did have to get down and walk on the street.

I think the only part of the race that I truly hated was the dead skunk on Navy. Ugh. Roadkill is always sad, because those poor animals… but since this was a skunk it was also completely gag-worthy. Yuck!

Finally, we were almost done! One more nautical mile to go! The sign was on Navy and almost right after it we turned left to work around the back roads to the finish line. Once we turned, there was another water stop! Yes! That was actually surprising – neither of us expected on so close to the finish line. And just like every other stop of the day, the water here was deliciously cold. Still don’t know how you guys did it, and you might be sick of me harping on this, but it seriously blew my mind. And it deserves all the praise!

Several left turns later, we were there. The finish line was just around the corner. Even though we had been walking for miles, we agreed to run in, and off we went. Someone was calling out names as people crossed the finish line, but I wasn’t paying attention at all and didn’t realize it. I only know because Lisa came up to us and said, “I knew it was y’all because he couldn’t pronounce Katie’s last name!” The curse of a unique name. Sigh.

Our friend Chelle was also hanging around the finish line. She moved away (last year?) but came back to be a pacer for the Navy 10NM. I was desperate for something to drink and something salty to eat, but before we went off in search of sustenance Chelle got a group picture of us.

Lisa’s first stop was the Italian ice stand, but Nikki and I hopped into the beer line. Okay, I can’t lie… this beer was kind of nasty. I’m going to be generous and say I bet it is because we were at the end of the keg and maybe a fresher cup would have been better? I don’t know. I mean, it wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t finish, but it took a while to get that small cup down. We went inside the gym and found food. I hear the mac n cheese was delicious, but I went for a chicken biscuit. I’m not sure who provided the food, but thanks! Michael said it was probably base commissary food, but whoever it was did good.

After that, I was ready to head home and crawl into bed. Sure, doing that leads to muscles locking up and making you sore later, but I didn’t even care. I was exhausted! So that’s exactly what I did – headed home and crawled into bed.

Even though we all complain about the early race start, and I hated the lack of shade along the end of the race, this really is one of my absolute favorite local races ever. The support along the way is pretty great, and it is neat to be a civilian running through a military installation. The anchor medal is always awesome, and this year’s medal being a spinner was beyond awesome. I can’t say if I will ever run this race again, but even if I don’t run it any more, I will definitely be back to volunteer.

Tell me: Have you ever run the Navy 10 Nautical Miler?

My 2019 Navy 10 Nautical Miler race recap. Every June since 2010, Naval Support Activity Mid-South's Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Department has hosted the Navy 10 Nautical Miler.

#navy 10 nautical miler #navy 10nm #race recap #running

0 notes