#* / WRITINGS.

[sealrock]

poem - or specifically, a character reading a poem that particularly strikes them as meaningful or enjoyable

{-creeps along in Sea's footsteps to deliver YET MORE prompts-}

cw: depictions of illness

(ty for the ask @thefreelanceangel!)

"I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading – treading – till it seemed That Sense was breaking through –" Paris paused for a moment, glancing beyond the worn and yellowed pages of their cousin's poetry book to an unmoving body as it lay in the infirmary cot in front of them, its emaciated frame swallowed under layers of itchy blankets and sensitive medical equipment to control the frayed aether reserves. Evander continues to gawk in childlike wonderment at Physis Technon's "scientific ingenuity and advancements in aetherology," but Paris sees this as inhumane. It's sickening. The monotone beeps and hums of the machines are here to keep a corpse alive, to pump fluid and nutrients into otherwise wilted flesh. It's scientific necromancy for all Paris is concerned. A growing collection of flowers and sentimental tokens sat on a dresser in the corner of the room—most of them were from the Scions, even if they didn't know this person.

It's Paris' turn to look after the body. Andromache—their mother—looked like shit after pulling an all-nighter. She's not young like Paris, but Paris refused to stand by and let her intentionally neglect her health to cater to a husk. The artificial sunlight of Labyrinthos cast Paris' shadow long and dark from the open window behind them, cutting across the body's torso in an act of pseudo-bisection. Paris couldn't look at the unruly black hair and sunken face attached to the body. It's not the gentle, smiling face they once knew, for it belongs to a stranger. The skin, once a rich shade of brown and so soft to the touch, grew pale and dry. The healthy meat, strong enough to carry Paris even after they got too big to be held, withered away to reveal dull blue veins and sinew. A lot has changed in the fifteen years of separation, but Paris continued wishing for things to return to how they were before. Especially now.

Paris had excised a tumor from the body in the same manner as they did Thancred. But Thancred wasn't down and out for this long—his friends didn't have to watch him languish away to something unrecognizable. Not even Gaia suffered this much. The tumors were phantoms feeding off of their life force, like parasites. This parasite dug too deep, it nestled in the very marrow of the husk. If only Paris had been quicker to flush out the infection. They were still a child then.

Tumor.

Parasite.

Infection.

Paris calls it many names. To be this detached helps them cope. Halmarut is dead, yes, but the destruction left in their wake resonates like thunder. Case in point: the body being kept alive with somanoutics.

The equally artificial breeze from the facility's wind turbines blew into the room. It felt temperate. Paris felt their thick hair tickle their goosefleshed nape. The body wouldn't feel it. The body hasn't felt the sensation of sunlight for a long time. Paris ran trembling fingers through their hair and shifted around in their uncomfortable chair before continuing,

"And when they were all seated, A Service, like a Drum – Kept beating – beating – till I thought My Mind was going numb –

And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots and Lead, again, Then Space – began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race Wrecked, solitary, here –

And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down – And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing – then –"

The poem stopped abruptly. Paris shuddered.

"How can Patroclus read such morbid stuff like this?"

Paris talked aloud to no one in particular. The body couldn't hear them. Paris carefully flipped through the pages, briefly scanning the stanzas to find something less depressing. For the half a year the stranger's been here, all but dead to the world, Patroclus would read poetry to keep it company. The lad never met this person before, but he was willing to travel from Ul'dah just to spend time with them. Paris failed to understand his reasoning, but Patroclus had always worn his heart on his sleeve.

Patroclus believed this therapeutic; he reported witnessing a smile as he read his favorite poem one autumn day—it must mean the body liked it, too. Paris could vaguely recall Evander, swellheaded as ever, brushing off his brother's excitement and saying it was an involuntary response to the environment due to the persistent vegetative state. Evander then gave an example where he recalled when the skeletal hand grabbed his wrist as he shaved the face free of patchy stubble, but he appeared too giddy telling the tale. He's no different from the Sages running this facility. Between their bickering and Achille threatening to lose his breakfast, Paris didn't want to hear anymore.

Paris doesn't expect the body to spontaneously rise and converse with them, but the fact that two people with no relation to it were present for these events settled wrong in Paris' gut. It should've been Paris. Paris let out a sigh and continued to read,

"If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin, Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain."

This poem is what Patroclus loved the most. Paris finds it ironic. They've helped ease many people's pain, but who can help Paris with theirs? Stealing another glance up, Paris felt a shriek catch in their throat as they jumped. The book fell from their hands and landed on the tile floor with a soft thud. The head had turned towards them without Paris noticing.

Black eyes, more like black holes with no visible bottom, were watching them. As the Warrior of Light, Paris has seen many things that would disturb the most hardened individual, but this is different. Hector—their dad—is watching them. Paris froze in their seat, unable to look away. Their heart hammered roughly against their ribs. Their dad blinked slowly, his weak eyes scanning their face for something to land on. His expression remained unchanged, the hollows of his face more apparent up close. He looks… so old and frail. Paris couldn't move.

Dad… Do you remember me?

Please look at me.

Paris wanted to say it, but they just sat there, mouth gaping like a fish as dread filled their belly. It twisted and roiled. Their hands gripped the arms of the chair with such force that Paris thought the metal began to bend. Before Paris could react, Hector's eyes rolled up as his eyelids fell. A soft sigh escaped his nose. He returned to being a corpse.

Paris' throat clamped shut. Tears burned fiercely behind their tired eyes, and Paris would be a fool in not letting them out. Paris isn't one to cry, they stopped crying a long time ago. Paris told themselves to be stronger than that because no one was there to wipe away the fat tears from their face anymore. But Paris reached a breaking point. They couldn't keep the façade going any longer.

First, it was one. Then two. Before long, tears drenched Paris' face. Their shoulders shook violently as stifled sobs threatened to break free from their clenched teeth. The tension fled from their body as they sagged in the chair, callous hands coming to hide their face from no one. Through bleary eyes, Paris reached to take their dad's fragile hand into theirs and squeezed.

"Please, open your eyes. It's me, dad, it's your little sprout."

Paris' voice pitched higher with each word before they finally lost it. Paris' head dropped onto the edge of the bed as they continued to sob, their tears falling at the toes of their worn boots. Patroclus' poetry book lay discarded and open next to them, its pages gently fluttering in the breeze.

"Hope" is a thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – And sore must be the storm – That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm –

I've heard it in the chillest land – And on the strangest Sea – Yet – never – in Extremity, It asked a crumb – of me."

#inbox #thefreelanceangel #writings. #................. :) #i uh. went overboard with this #poems are by emily dickinson (but are considered anonymous in my canon) #i just know patroclus would love her poetry #but yea this is a peek into hector's post-ascian possession recovery. it wasn't good #i also tried writing in present tense. it's a bit rough idk

[feminurge]

the scene is, well, folkloric. istar sits, cross-legged, on a piece of furniture that has certainly seen better days. were it not for the slight frowning and the wood carving she is currently occupied with, she would be nothing but a threatening gargoyle-like presence behind the wizard who, for some obscure reason, is thinking out loud. his voice echoes within the rock walls of their hiding den, magic evident in his tone. perhaps he is lecturing her on a subject, that would explain why she occasionally rolls her eyes at him-- not that he is paying enough attention to see her do so. despite the rather sad look of the room, the easiness of the exchange would surely scratch a laugh out of your throat, were you to know how the two of them came to meet.

perhaps the rest of the scene is more representative of that violent history, for the girl rises from her spot like a disgruntled cat, only to jump to the ground with an ease that whispers of habit. her steps, quick and particular in their quiet assertiveness, bring her to the door, in front of which she stands for a breath or two, not paying any mind to the talking wizard who is lost to the world, babbling about magic (the word 'crown' is heard once or twice). after a time, long enough for a sentence to escape gale of waterdeep's lips, a tilt of her head, loud as the cracking of a bone, & then the door opens, only to reveal victoria; beautiful and deadly, apparently rather busy with trying to pry the door open. istar's welcoming smile is a wicked thing, a mocking little corner of her lips remaining upward, as if to say, really? istar does not have many things; her body is hers only when neither bhaal nor victoria claim it. most of her story was stolen & forgotten decades ago. but her magic, the dark tumult of it, the uneasy weight of a wind that comes from a place even mystra cannot reach… that is istar's. bold of victoria to think she would be able to counterspell the sorceress' lock.

alas, another thing she will consider part of victoria's disease. "my darling wizard", she says, but she is not talking to the woman. her eyes do not leave her silhouette but it is evident she is waiting for a word of ascent from gale. "i fear your babbling will have to stop. we have company." her eyes are bolder than any hands, travelling across her lover's skin, looking for scars she has yet to trace, perhaps ink she has not tasted. all she comes up with is the look in the duchess' eyes, the stance with which she faces her, the weapons and the outfit. ah.

istar's laughter is loud. "did you come to vanquish me, love?" then, with a smirk, "thought i played with your food? mh? that's not very charitable of you to think me as selfish as you." a pause, as she turns around to see both wizards. "i'd rather share." this is going to be delicious. making one uncomfortable and the other angry. sweet, sweet retribution for months of excrutiating loneliness. @netherill, @victo1re

#netherill #victo1re #istar of eryri. #writings. #let the chaos begin <3

[johnnparsons]

Summary: How different times in his life made Johnathan grow to hate Polly Pocket. He definitely did not watch the Barbie film.

A heavy door swings open and silences the room. A dark, detached stare lifts to acknowledge the locals enjoying their afternoon at The Tavern – a seedy, rundown pub in Walthamstow – then to the pub owner, Pete, standing behind the bar. Firm nods are exchanged between the men, and similarly to a conductor’s cue, after a few beats, the pub springs back to life.

“Y’alright, John?” “’Ey up, John.” “Howay, man” “John, mate!”

Griggs, Marmy, Thick Boy, and Jim. Four men Johnathan could rely on, to be the eyes and ears on the streets, and report back to him with anything that could be important. All they needed were some strollers and glasses of rose to fit in with the stuck-up bitches in Chelsea. Probably lose a couple of stone, too.

Johnathan drags a seat across the pub towards the end of the bar, in his usual spot, where he can lean against the wall, eyes cast downwards as he picks at the torn skin over his knuckles. Marmy appears next to him and grabs the tray with four pints. It’s the only type of reward that satisfies them. Wordlessly, Johnathan puts down a ten-pound note.

“Cheers John,” Marmy says and turns to leave, stepping over the shattered glass. Johnathan only responds with a grunt. It’s clear his mind is elsewhere. The men let him go wherever he needs to, they’d all been there when they were starting off.

“Why don’t you just go round, you fuckin’ pillock?” Thick Boy, ironically, the smartest of the bunch, though hard to tell from his harsh Geordie accent, shouts across the pub from his seat. “You’re makin’ more mess, like.”

“How about you get off your bloody arse for once, eh, Thick Boy?”

“To be fair, mate—” Griggs chimes in, then Jim finishes his sentence, “He’s right.” There’s a nod to the floor, and all eyes fall on the red stained footprints covering the loose wooden floorboard. When one starts laughing, the rest of them follow.

The men argue over who will do the mopping: Marmy created the mess but Marmy cleaned up last time, Jim is usually the one to always clean up, Griggs never leaves much mess, Thick Boy rarely moves. Whilst they’re distracted, Pete calls Johnathan over quietly, “Jonno, over here.” Pete is a short, chubby man with a round face and friendly features, but it doesn’t require much intuition to figure his patience shouldn’t be taken for granted. He is the kind of man you’d expect to run the local’s favourite, family friendly pub, rather than hosting men who have made bad decisions and in return have nowhere else to go.

Johnathan sighs, pulling the bottom of his shirt upwards to wipe the specks of blood off his face. “Not today, Pete. I know. Alright? I fuckin’ know.”

“You took it too far—" “Yeah, I know.” “He had a—"

“I said I fuckin’ know,” Johnathan’s voice booms, but the chitter chatter can still be heard in the background, “Didn’t I, mate? I fuckin’ know, and I can’t fuckin’ take it back now, can I? So what do you fuckin’ want me to do?”

“Listen to me.” The switch up in Pete is always too fast to catch. He has his hand wrapped round the collar of Johnathan’s t-shirt, pulling him up so their eyelines meet. There’s no room for pity here. “Last time, was the last time. This time, is your last chance.” His words are measured, balanced, but most of all, fair. “Don’t make an enemy out of me, lad.” Pete glances towards the men in their booth, then back to Johnathan, as if to say: or you’ll be getting a visit from them.

Out of pride, but not quite anger, Johnathan shoves Pete’s off him, “Fuck off, mate.” Pete’s grip becomes loose only because he allows it. He can see that John’s temper is reduced to a simmer and that his words are being heard. There’s a silent understanding, which Pete acknowledges by fixing up a glass of whiskey. “Merry Christmas Eve, lad.”

The first time Johnathan met Pete was around twenty years ago. He was a skinny boy with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, tears streaming from his eyes which was stinging the deep gash along his cheek. When are you going to learn your lesson, John-Boy? Unless you’ve found your fuckin’ mother, fuck off, his father had yelled at him, after having abandoned him for a week to drown his sorrows at The Tavern. It was then, when Griggs and Jim picked up a shaking Johnathan off the floor, and Marmy, Thick Boy and Pete did whatever they had to do. One blocked his view, the other covered his ears. To this day, Johnathan doesn’t know what that was exactly, and he never cared to find out. But it hadn’t stopped him from seeking out his father and it hadn’t stopped his father from taking out his grievances out on his son. All it did stop, really, was stop his father from enjoying The Tavern, which in return gave Johnathan a place to run to. If it wasn’t from his father, then it was after his fights, personal and criminal, until he grew into a man with a rabid sort of ferocity that no longer needed a place to hide, but a place to keep his secrets. Like today.

“Oi John,” Marmy calls out from the booth, and Johnathan barely looks over his shoulder. “We’d been talkin’, yeah—”

“And really, well, we were just waiting for the right time, weren’t we, boys?” Griggs says, then Jim and Marmy both nod, mumbling ‘aye, aye’. Thick Boy sits there like he’s surrounded by idiots, but he’s the only one without a pint in his hand, instead both hands are kept beneath the table. Jim brightly continues, “But we got something, something small, init, but it’s actually well nice.” A beat, then Marmy says, “We only just went and got your little girl a fuckin’ Christmas present.” Begrudgingly, Thick Boy brings out a box. It’s pink, or purple, or somewhere in between.

“What the fuck is that,” Johnathun grumbles, but it gets him out of his seat. He’s laughing, as he throws the box up in the air like it’s a football. There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes, which the other older men could’ve probably related to back when they were his age, at thought of maybe, just maybe, his parents would let him see Zoe for Christmas. All he had to accomplish now was to not turn up drunk.

***

“What do you mean, you don’t fuckin’ play with Polly Pocket anymore?” Outraged, Johnathan’s hands go to his hips.

“I’m thirteen,” Zoe says, eyes narrowed. Her walls are full of posters of bands he doesn’t recognise, pop stars who look like gimps and probably wear makeup, and the toys on her bed have narrowed down to one: a teddy bear he didn’t get her.

“Yeah, and? I’ve got Polly for you every year!” It’d been ten years since Johnathan first gifted Polly Pocket to Zoe for Christmas. Since then, although he didn’t get to stay for long, he made sure she always had the newest edition in her possession. It had been worth it, to see the smile on her face. “This is from Porto! Do you know how hard it is to find one of these out there?”

“Uh... No?” She might as well have said: and I don’t fucking care.

“Christ, you’re a fuckin’ nightmare, you are. Nan and Granddad know about this?” Who, technically, were her great grandparents.

“Mhm.”

“Fuck me…” Johnathan blows air from his cheeks and takes a sip of his tea. It’s painfully silent. He can feel her staring at him, not particularly wanting him to say something, but maybe making him uncomfortable enough so he leaves. This isn’t exactly how Johnathan imagined their Christmas to go, however, so he slowly walks around Zoe’s room, pretending to keep himself busy whilst thinking of a conversation starter that might get more than three words out of her. But then:

“Johnathan?” “Dad.” “Johnathan.” “Dad.” “You know what—” “Alright, fine. John, then.” A beat. He’d be an idiot to mess up the one-time Zoe has ever asked him a question. “What is it?”

“Do you really want to give me a good Christmas present?”

“’Course I do. More than anything.” Something good to remember him by. Anything that might outweigh the bad.

“Can you tell me about your parents?”

The warmth and softness in his features quickly harden into something sharp and rough, visibly shutting down. “Zoe.”

“Please? Nan talks about her all the time. She only ever has good things to say.” It’s the first time Zoe has sounded so earnest, but Johnathan remains unwavering.

“Yeah, well, nan and granddad weren’t there, and you don’t need to know,” he says tersely. Not to fucking forget, they were her parents.

***

“Alright, alright. I’ll give it to her.” Johnathan gives in, and the guys cheers in celebration. “You sure kids like this shit, yeah?” He doesn’t need further persuading, but they reassure him anyway. A Christmas with your child, especially when they’re young, is special. They all know that.

An hour or two pass. Johnathan has returned to his seat, finding solace in somewhat solitary, with the Polly Pocket box placed to his side. Suddenly, and rather unusually, the pub door opens and he hears the sound of heels clicking against the floor. He could tell it was a woman from the whistling and the low coos heard from the other men, but he pays them no attention and keeps to himself. Any woman with an ounce of self-preservation would’ve walked straight back out the door, but the clicking of heels grows louder and it’s only when she sits next to him that makes him look up from his drink.

She exhales nervously and runs her hands down her skirt. It’s low, goes past her knees, ironed. From her hands, he can tell she’s older than him, closer to Jim’s age, but he can’t be sure.

“Hiya,” she says. Softly spoken, definitely smokes or smoked, poorly dyed hair but definitely not the type of person to enjoy this kind of pub. There are lines on her face that suggests a long and hard life lived. He could even see it in her eyes. It looks like she’s come straight from work, not an office so deep in the city but an office, nonetheless. Did she not want to be with her family, after working on Christmas Eve? “What a lovely welcome,” she laughs quietly.

Johnathan goes to look over his shoulder, as the crudeness from the guys were audible from where they’re sitting and tells them to shut the fuck up. He used to join them, back in the day, before he was legally able to drink and before he knew better, so their taunts of calling him a bore and acting like he’s better than them rolls off his back. “Your, uh—your label,” he points towards the tag sticking out of the woman’s blazer.

Mortified, her hands fly round to tuck the tag back in. The redness of her cheeks might’ve been attributed to the cold weather but now the tips of her ears match. “Oh my god, thank you.”

“You’re alright.” “That’s so embarrassing.” He shrugs. It wasn’t that bad. Worse things have happened in this pub. “I’m—I just, I must’ve forgotten to take it off,” she scrambles to explain. “It happens." “I hope I didn’t walk all the way over here with it out.” “Doubt anyone saw. No one here really cares anyway.”  “God, I’m so silly. I don’t know why but I always do that.”

An almost silent sigh. Way to fucking bang on about it. He could understand lying once, he was happy to play along, but lying again after he let her off easy was starting to piss him off. She was taking him for an idiot. “Want me to tear it off?”

“Oh, no. No, that’s alright. I wouldn’t want to bother you.”  “Wouldn’t bother me.” “Oh,” she laughs. “It’s okay. Thank you, though.” The corners of his lips quirk upwards, but only faintly. “What’s good here?”

Johnathan returns a blank stare, though underlying the pause there’s an apology, then he responds coolly, “If you’ve come here for a good drink, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Oh,” she laughs again, and it’s clear it’s a habit to just fill the gaps. “What are you drinking, then?”

He inhales sharply. Strangers, small talk, he was in no mood for bull shit, so he replies curtly, “Whiskey.”

“I’ll get you one of those, love.” Pete interrupts before Johnathan can speak again, and fixes him a look, as if to remind him it’s Christmas, and Johnathan responds with a look of his own that reads: Eve. The drink comes quickly and the woman looks up at Johnathan, hesitant, almost as if she wants to clink their glasses together, but it could’ve easily have been something else entirely. She simply smiles then takes a sip of her drink. “It’s very nice,” she says timidly, like she’s aware he never asked, “My dad used to drink this.”

Johnathan looks up then, twisting in his seat slightly, and lips part as if to say something but he decides against it. Smacking his lips together, he mutters, “Glad you like it.”

“Is that for your daughter?” She asks, tipping her glass towards the Polly Pocket box, smiling sweetly.

“Yeah,” he replies, turning to glance back at the present. “Yeah, something like that.” “How many kids do you have?” “Just one. A little girl.” “What’s her name?” “Zoe.”

“Zoe,” she repeats with a smile, but this time it felt like the smile was for herself, as if it meant something to her, to be saying the name for the first time, “that’s a beautiful name.”

A small crinkle forms between his brows, as the memory of picking out the name with Melissa comes flooding back to him, and he resigns by taking a large gulp of his drink. “You? You have any?”

“Kids? Oh, yes. I have, um, I have four.” “Bloody hell.”

“I know, it’s a lot.” She laughs quietly. “They’re lovely, though. Here, let me show you--” she digs into her bag to find her purse. She fishes out several photos, slightly crumpled, because maybe she tends to show them off to strangers in pubs. One is a family photo, must have been a birthday, they’re all surrounded around a cake and two of the kids are pretending to blow out the candles which hadn’t been lit. He spots the big smiles, tall windows and clean clothes, and can see why she would carry this photograph with her. Then she moves to the next photo, it’s her and three of her kids, on a beach. A family holiday, she says, and talks about how funny that moment had been and how grateful she was that her husband caught it on camera. The more she speaks, however, the more bitter he feels, and whilst he knows the deep resentment is misplaced he can’t quite help himself. So, when she moves to the next photograph, he abruptly cuts in, “Alright, I get it.” She looks up at him, wide-eyed, but seems to understand her mistake. “Your kids are lucky,” he says, less aggressive.

“I’m- I’m sorry.” Quickly, she tucks the photos back into her purse.

“Why are you here, then? Shouldn’t you be with them?”

She pauses, trying to be more careful with her words. “Oh, I was. Earlier. But I told them, I mean, they know. Well, I’m here to meet someone.”

“Meet someone?” He repeats incredulously. Who could she possibly be meeting, here, at The Tavern, that wasn’t here already? Another lie, he suspects.

“Yes, I know, I’m—well, I’m a little late. Oh, nevermind.” Despite the look she receives, which was one that didn’t hide how unconvinced he was, she holds her drink like she intends to finish it and continues the conversation as if her company is welcomed. This makes Johnathan think that she’s either incredibly stupid or incredibly lonely, or quite possibly both. “So, what do you do?”

He looks up at Pete with a look in his eyes that reads: save me. Pete responds with a small shrug, clearly holding back a laugh. It’s either the alcohol, or the fact that he is also incredibly lonely that makes him respond, “I work in construction. You?”

“Wow, that’s impressive.” “…Are you havin’ me on?”

“No! Not at all,” she protests. “I take it that explains your..?” Her gaze drifts downwards, nervously, from his ripped shirt to the stains and his battered hands.

After a beat, he replies simply, “Sure.” He wonders how long ago she’d noticed all the things she’d pointed out, what kind of explanations she’d come up in her head, and whether or not he needs to be concerned. The look in her eyes, though he may be reading her wrong, seems to be filled with worry, even more so as he catches her staring at the scar on his cheek. “Nosebleed,” he says, tugging on his shirt that has blood stains from earlier in the day. She lets out a sigh of relief, then her gaze returns to his cheek, concerned.

A deep sigh, and before she asks, he offers, “Uh, cut myself. When I was kid.”

Her hand goes up to cover her mouth. Fucking dramatic, he thinks. “How old were you?”

“Nine, ten. Something like that. Wasn’t a big deal, to be honest.”

“Oh god,” her hand twitches, almost as if she wants to reach out to graze it. Thank fucking god she doesn’t. “It must’ve been bad, if the scar’s lasted this long.”

“Yeah, well.” Johnathan finishes off the rest of his drink, unintentionally slamming the glass against the wooden bar top, which catches Pete’s attention and without a word, Pete refills Johnathan’s glass. Even without looking at her, he can tell that she wants to ask more questions. It’s Christmas Eve, he reminds himself, and maybe he’s trying to build some good karma for tomorrow, so he turns to her and asks, “What do you do, then?”

“Oh, me?” She tries to quickly gather herself, which is the only reason why he doesn’t quip back with ‘who the fuck else?’. “I’m just a secretary.”

“Right. You use one of them computers and all that?” She laughs, albeit meekly. “Yes, yes I do.” “Not doing too bad yourself, then. You work in the city?” “Oh, no. Well, thank you. But no, I work just outside of it. It’s, um, I work at Wilkinsons.” “Do ya?” He groans. “I hate that place.”

She doesn’t ask a question this time and simply takes another sip of her drink. They sit in silence, like this, for a while. But he couldn’t quite get himself to enjoy it. The woman seemed upset, for reasons he didn’t care for, but it was getting late and he figured this wasn’t the kind of place she should be at right now.

“It’s a bit rough round here, you know,” Johnathan says. “Shouldn’t come this way by yourself. Not this late.”

“I—I know, it’s been a while, since I’ve been around here.” He could tell from her voice that she’d been crying, or at least trying to hold it back. “But thank you.”

He shrugs, and he decides that this is all he can manage. He looks behind him, over at Griggs, Marmy, Thick Boy and Jim, who all quickly look away in unison and act like they’ve been talking this entire time. He wonders what would be more painful, to sit here or join them. He doesn’t think too long on it and decides to get up, but before he can leave his seat, another question shoots out from from the woman’s mouth: “Would it be okay,” she starts, which makes him stop, and she pauses as if to muster up the courage to finish her question, “if I asked you, what you were like as a kid?”

“What?” He blinks at her. “Sorry, I just—“

“Trouble,” Pete says, with that warm smile of his, and joins them on their side of the bar with a drink of his own. “Like you won’t even imagine, love.” Johnathan rolls his eyes, but Pete continues, “The number of times he’d come in here with all sorts of cuts and bruises.”

“Alright, Pete. Settle down,” Johnathan says, disgruntled.

“He was always crying and getting into some kind of shit,” Pete says, and though his eyes were on the woman, his words were for Johnathan, “And I was always getting him out of it.”

Tears began rolling down her cheeks, and she runs the back of her hand beneath her nose as she sniffles. “Where was your dad?”

“Left him!” “Pete.” Johnathan warns.

“His mam too. Then one day, he stops crying and he’s all grown up. Turned into a right little cunt, mind you. But look at him, doing what’s best for his kid. Better than all of us in here, I’d say.”

“I—I should go,” she says unexpectedly. Johnathan only notices now how her makeup has run all down her face. All of a sudden, she’s in a hurry to leave, as she finishes her drink and slips out of her seat. “I’m sorry, I—you’re right. It’s late.”

“You alright?” Johnathan asks, confused but also a little concerned.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry, it’s been lovely.” She puts on her coat and collects her things. Then, she pauses and brings out her purse again. “Can I leave these with you?” She asks, holding the photographs of her family.

His face twists in bewilderment and looks to Pete for some help. To which, of course, he offers none. “I—”

“Please,” she says, and pushes them into his hands. “This is a bit fuckin’ weird. They’re your kids.” “I know, I know, I just—” “He’ll have ‘em,” Pete says, unhelpfully. “You sure you’re gonna be alright? How’re you getting home?” “I know I seem a mess but I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll take a taxi.” From her purse, she takes out some cash to pay for the drinks. “Here, for both of us.” “No, no. On the house,” Pete says, and waves the money away. “Please, take it,” she urges. “It’s Christmas Eve,” Pete says, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. “I can’t possibly—” her hand has been pushed away so the cash goes back into her purse, but she makes another attempt to pay.

“On us,” Johnathan says, putting his hand on top of hers so she puts her purse away, but this makes her drop it. There’s a small thud once it lands on the floor. Some money, a card and another photo has fallen out of it. Johnathan reaches down to pick up her belongings, but when his eyes land on the photo, his whole body stiffens. Slowly, he stands back up, holding the photo between trembling fingers. There’s a glint in his eyes that Pete hasn’t seen since Johnathan was a child. “What’s this?” Johnathan asks, voice low and seething.

The photo is of him as a child, playing in the park with a woman and a man. He only recognises himself, from having dropped Zoe off at his grandparents, and they’d showed him pictures of himself as a kid, along with his parents, who were the woman and the man in the photo. The woman in the photo, which he can see now, having a resemblance to the woman standing before him.

“Johnny,” she whispers under stuttered breaths, “I can explain…”

***

The atmosphere quickly grows uncomfortable and tense. Johnathan, who had promised to himself to never lose his temper in front of Zoe and to only show her the good parts, was clenching his jaw and pushing his thumb into the palm of his hand. Unfortunately, however, Zoe had already seen it all. She stood tall and unphased, because even if he were to blow, she was desensitised by it all. It’s too much of a burden, for a thirteen-year-old, Johnathan recognises this and he tries his best. But every time he’s around her, he can’t help but feel that it’s never enough.

“She was here, earlier,” Zoe says bluntly. “What?” “She’s been coming every year. With her kids. They’re nice.” “What the fuck are you talking about?” Johnathan says.

Zoe sighs. “She gave me this.” She opens a drawer and pulls out several photographs. They’re ones he has seen before that night, in the pub. A few of her with her new family, and one of the one she abandoned. “They won’t tell me everything. They said she was sick and now she’s doing better. But I overheard them talking, her and Granddad, and they said you--”

Then, suddenly, Johnathan cries out, “I’m her kid!” A lump quickly forms in his throat, and then breathlessly, he says, barely audibly, “I was her kid.”

Zoe’s eyes are as cold as her mothers, and she looks at him like he’s weak for letting his emotions get the better of him. “You should go.”

“No, Zoe—” “Nan!” Zoe calls out, “Granddad!”

That evening, after being escorted out of his grandparents’ house and being told to never come back, Johnathan was arrested on a charge of assault and manslaughter, after getting into a fight with the first group of men he’d bumped into and beating one of them to a pulp in a fit of rage. It was in the news, and he’s sure Zoe heard about it at some point. Luckily, Andrew pulled some strings and he was released, but even then, she didn’t seem surprised when he next visited her.

***

The funeral chapel is small but there’s not an empty seat in sight. Johnathan can’t bring himself to believe that this many people have turned up. Every single one of these people, at some point, knew his mother and they had enough of a relationship to pay their respects. All of these people knew her better than he did. He sits three brows behind the four kids who, until today, he’d only known from a few photos. From what he can see, they’ve grown up to be the kind of kids she’d be proud of. They spoke to him, welcomed him, and thanked him for showing up. Johnathan, now nearing fifty, returned the respect. He carries himself better than he used to, whether that came with age, or money, or power, it didn’t matter. He could tell it’d caught them by surprise, however. He'd arrived in a range rover with tinted out windows, a driver who opened the door for him, and behind him was another car full of men in black suits who were sat at the back of the chapel. They didn’t ask questions, and they suspect it’s because they knew not to.

The service was described to be a celebration of life. Her husband and her kids all did well in staying strong and delivering speeches that made people both laugh and cry. They opened the floor up to anyone who wanted to say their final goodbyes. People from all walks of life stood at the front and spoke from their hearts or shared funny anecdotes, which Johnathan thought was a bit stupid, if he was being honest. Surely this could’ve been done at the wake, he had things to do, and if he was being honest, he was only here because Zoe had mentioned it to him and he wanted to see her. The husband, who weakly still held a smile, asked if anyone else wanted to go. Johnathan flicked his wrist to check the time, and Zoe bumped her leg against his.

“Sorry,” he whispered, but with a turn of the hands, as if to say, I’ve got places to be. “No,” she whispered back, “You should go.” “What?” “Go. Say something.” “Zoe, no.” “You’ll regret it.” “I won’t.” "Dad." But if there’s anyone he caves to, it’s his stubborn little shit of a daughter, and after some more badgering, he rises to his feet. The husband looks surprised, shocked even, then looks to his children. Johnathan could only see the back of their heads, but he assumes they gave him an approval of sorts considering the husband’s reaction.

Once he’s at the front, Johnathan clears his throat and gently tugs the collar of his shirt. “Hello everyone. My name is Johnathan,” he pauses, and rubs a hand along the brim of his jaw. “Laura… was my mother.” Several people look surprised. “I was her son. When I was eight years old, she left me at an Wilkinsons. She told me to wait there for five minutes, and if she wasn’t back then to go home. I didn’t know how to tell the time and I didn’t know what came after ten, so I had no way to know when five minutes would have passed.” That, surprisingly, earned a couple of laughs. “I stayed there, in the same place, until the shop was starting to close and I didn’t see Laura again.” Johnathan presses his lips into a thin smile, he supposes there was no point in telling people what happened after that. “Until, around twenty years later, she showed up at my local pub, dressed in this blazer that was too big for her with the tag sticking out. Mind you, it was probably the first woman that’d entered that pub in about twelve years. So, from the get go, I knew she had issues.” Another few laughs. “We spoke a bit. She told me about her family, her kids,” he nods towards them, sitting in the front bench, shedding a few tears, “She asked lots of questions. It’s a bit of a blur, now, if I’m being honest, but one thing I remember clearly is she asked what I was like as a kid,” he says, rather solemnly. He didn’t know it at the time but now he knows she was just trying to get to know him, and she was trying to show him that she was doing better, that she knows how to be a mum. A memory flashes in his mind, of when the photo of them had fallen out of her purse, and how he’d slapped her before she got a chance to explain. It hurts now, knowing everything. “I wish…” The words are caught at the back of his throat. He’s not confident he’ll be able to say what he wants to say. “I wish I could forgive her. I don’t know if I can, but I understand her better now.” He looks at Zoe, someone who probably won’t ever understand why he’d done the things he’d done, even if it was for the best. “I’m glad she got another chance,” he lies.

Suddenly, the doors burst open, and an old drunk man wobbles in whilst yelling profanities. Gasps and whispers fill the room. Johnathan nods towards the men sitting at the back who promptly escorts him out of the room, and he makes an effort to settle the chaos in the room and bring the services to a smooth finish.

As groups of people leave the chapel and transition to the wake, Johnathan waits outside.

“John?” Zoe calls out. “I’ll be there in a sec, love.” Johnathan nods, urging her to go along.

A black range rover pulls up outside the gates of the funeral chapel. From there, they could see the top of the hill where the service was held. Sat on the drive is the old drunk man, who somehow had managed to get a hold of a bottle of vodka. The window rolls down and Marmy pops his head out of the window, “Oi oi, what we do we have here?”

“Ahh, Marmy, my fuckin’ saviour, you,” the old drunk man slurs his words and gets up from his seat.

“Aye, get in here.”

The old drunk man opens the door and climbs into the seat, rambling about what a fucking day he’s hard. Wordlessly, Marmy locks the doors, then says, “Have at him, John.”

The old drunk man turns to his side, and only then notices a larger figure sitting next to him. “John Boy?”

Slowly, Johnathan looks up at the man with a cold stare, fixing his knuckle duster on top of his leathered glove. “Been a while, dad.”

#writings. #warning: it's very long!!! #late apologies to kate #n e wayzzz i am replying to dms as i speak <3

[vmprre]

he    wears    the    smell    of    blood    and    death    like    a    perfume.    she    should’ve    known.    should’ve    seen    it    coming.    DANCING    WITH    THE    DEVIL.    his    hands    covered    with    blood.    the    same    hands    touching    her.    comforting    her.    warm,    gentle.    kind.    not    knowing    it’s    the    same    hands    that    killed.    he    who    takes    and    takes    -    it    is    never    enough.    hunger    for    power    and    so    much    more.    but    little    does    he    know    .  .  .    it’s    him    who’s    stuck.    him    who’s    not    under    control    anymore.    him    who’s    close    to    lose    everything    he    once    upon    a    time    wanted    and    longed    for.    and    all    because    of    her.    not    realising    she    had    been    his    weak    spot    all    along.    he    likes    to    neglect    it,    the    devil    within    him    trying    to    convince    himself    of    the    fact    he’s    only    doing    this    because    of    her    magic.    strong    arms    wrapped    around    fragile    body,    bringing    her    closer    to    his    chest    as    a    smile    curls    up    fleshed    lips.    ‘’    hey,    beautiful.    ‘’    a    moment    passes    by,    taking    her    in,    dark    eyes    fixated    on    the    girl,    knowing    all    too    well    she’s    not    been    herself    lately.    he    sees    it,    feels    it    :    the    fear,    the    anger,    the    pain.    mystic    falls    has    been    DANGEROUS    lately    &    he    thinks    it’s    swallowing    her    whole.    ‘’    are    you    okay?    i    heard    about    the    girl    . . .    she    didn’t    make    it.    i’m    sorry,    bon.    ‘’

#fairybit #writings. #wheeeeeeee

[fraegiles]

how long has he been running ? the nights have turned into days and his sense of time is one that cannot correctly measure. bruce building his own rebellion , the knowledge that the capital cannot subject innocents to such brutality. he's almost passed out , reaching a lower district before doing just that. there's the warmth of lighting as eyes open , and he looks up and into her eyes. body tensing , and he isn't quite sure just where he has landed , becoming reckless in his quest for those who would support such a cause. though , he knows his name is known ; the famous passing of his parents has been told to all. another story built by the capital to keep those who they consider 'beneath' them afraid. finding that it is easier to rule in fear than anything else.

' ... it's nothing ' bruce struggling to get up as he feels the wound that has brandished against ribs , and he sucks in through teeth. the pain a reminder that he was very much alive , ' i ... it comes with the price of running ' humor attempted as his fingers dab at shirt that is ruined by blood. the crimson color spreading as he feels a fever setting in , ' cleaning it would help ... ' his words shaky and unsure as he talks through the pain , ' could you give me that much kindness ? ' looking into her eyes as he pleads for mercy. this world had been carved out in cruelty , laid out for all to see. @loneheir

she knows his face, knows his name and his story, she believes she knows most of what there is to know about him from reading. it makes the urgency greater, to place her hands against his skin, to see them tainted crimson, trying for a great breath, to fill her lungs as much as she can and find her footing. she quiets the slight panic that threatened to overcome her, her hands steady as she nods at his words. ❛ i've got something for that in my bag, ❜ it's said with kind reassurance, trying to comfort him, for him to know she is right there, that she will help him and be kind. just as he asked.

bloody hands reach for her bag, the too big bag she drags around, the one filled with all she thinks they could need. however, however she is but books and knowledge, mostly useless, great ideas and speeches, running around trying to help, to find a purpose, someone that could turn her into a useful tool, not some faceless cog in the machine of it all. her fingers reach for some gauze, an antiseptic, ❛ it's going to sting but i can't be helped, try to focus on your breathing, i heard it helps. ❜ she pours the liquid over his wound with a sorry expression, knowing it will hurt. she pushes the gauze then, try to wipe away the blood, try to see clearly exactly how hurt he is. ❛ what caused that ? ❜ it could help, to know how he got injured, to imagine the consequences that could follow, the ramifications of it all.

#loneheir #writings. #hermione : thg verse. #( very happy abt this :) )

[violenthunted]

the case ends early, without any flourish. a rather straight-forward situation, with a child recovered early enough that he will probably find a way to get past the traumatic events. his parents are overjoyed, and reid has to turn away from their cries of relief. not from disgust, exactly — more like envy. a crude feeling he does not wish to study in any way, shape or form. their work trip ends well. something that does not happen often, which of course calls for a celebration. the place they have left their stuff at is nice and clean and relatively welcoming. the town is small enough that the party will not be invaded by outsiders. most of all, they desperately need a break — a break from the restless succession of cases and corpses and violence. spencer does not remember the last time he went to get a drink with his colleagues instead of collapsing on a bed that is not his, shirt half-opened and shoes barely taken off.

the night off is clearly necessary, but the fact that they all gather around beers and cocktails is a happy incident. at first, all morgan had asked for was for a game of cards. he knows the danger of playing with reid, of course, so the shift happens quickly : from game to magic tricks to drinks. the night goes smoothly, with laughter and jokes about events that they have collected along the way like precious stones, greedily, for they were too rare not to.

spencer isn't drunk exactly since he hasn't consumed anything except a beer. but alcohol on an empty stomach gets the job done anyway : he feels slightly buzzed, happily drifting away from clear consciousness. he is happy just to sit and listen as juno recalls events and stories that david seems happy enough to ask her about. one by one, his friends leave : morgan and garcia, his arm around her waist as she babbles about codes and programs that would make the job "so much more fun". derek's smile is so sweet spencer doesn't even have to wonder what is hiding behind it. emily, rossi and hotch end up leaving together, all discussing quietly. the only true mark of levity is the absence of lines between hotch's brows. david's enigmatic smile hasn't faltered at all. only emily's behavior seems slightly off in the tame light of the bar — with the way she tilts closer to them in order to capture the softly spoken words. garcia tried to outdrink her, and lost — but not by far, it seems.

spencer and juno are the last to leave. he caught their friends leaving one by one, but only through snippets ; most of is attention is on juno as she speaks of a book she read in the plane. if it were up to him, they would never leave the place — but here she is, taking her jacket. there is nothing more to say and he finds himself lacking in questions, his brain too hesitant to speak of anything at all, so they have no choice but to depart. on the way, he wishes for a distraction ; for her stomach to make a sound, so that he could take her to dinner. for something to happen, anything that would force them to stay together. just one more hour. one more minute. but nothing happens and soon enough, he has taken her home, which is to say he has wallked her all the way to her hotel room.

perhaps it is that his state makes him braver than he usually is. perhaps it is that he has been thinking of it for years now. if a thousand things have always been between them, preventing any evolution in their dynamic, these things have come crumbling down with the passing years. he thinks of morgan's hand around garcia, the smile she sent his way. he thinks of jj, the way she threw herself in the arms of her husband knowing he'd catch her. he thinks of the kid's parents. how they held each other through the horror, and never faltered. not until their child was brought back to them, anyway. he thinks of his mother and how he will have no one left the day she dies. how, even now, he only has parts of her. loneliness gnaws at his bones, and his mind only knows quiet hours when juno is close.

maybe he is not any braver today than he was yesterday. maybe he is simply more desperate. more aware of the fact that she is going to get away from him and he will not survive it. maybe he wants her in unspeakable ways and can no longer find it in himself to pretend otherwise. all that matters is that, when their goodbyes have been spoken and the soft click of the door has rung out behind him, spencer does not move. twelve steps would take him to the elevator. five more and he'd get to the stairs. it would be terribly easy to do as he has always done, shoving his feelings down his throat and walking away from her. he knows that with a painful clarity. he could leave and never speak of the hesitation again. he has done it before, he could do it again in a heartbeat.

and yet. his knuckles tap against the wooden door. slowly, at first, and then faster. he won't be brave for much longer and he needs to do this right. (meaning if he doesn't do it now, he never will) the door takes a moment longer to open, and he finds juno a little more disheveled than he left her ; shoes off, her jacket abandoned somewhere in the room. spencer has never had any doubt whatsoever about juno's beauty but once again he is in awe. he knows that there are geometrical theories and mathematical equations to explain why she is so pleasing to the eye. yet despite this, he cannot help but believe that some of it is simply juno — she is beautiful as nature or art is beautiful. not for reasons exterior to itself, but simply because it exists in its own unique ways. he could spend an eternity watching her and he would not get bored, not even grow restless. in fact, he has spent countless hours following her every move, and he has always found something worthy to admire. she is a strange creature. one he wishes he could study closer, closer, not just with eyes but hands and mouth. his own desire is a monster he does not know how to destroy.

his humanity always comes as a surprise ; how he can hunger and thirst for such trivial things. even other people seem surprised of the fact that, at the end of the day, spencer reid is just a man. yet in juno's presence, reid has never felt like anything but. he wants her. he wants her the way he wanted her when he was younger, badly and excessively and sometimes even jealously. tonight he is tired of pretending otherwise.

she must have a question on her tongue, perhaps wondering what he is doing, if he has forgotten something, but it cannot be spoken before he moves forward. her face is captured by his hands, a soft hold. spencer leans toward her, his shadow eating away all her personal space. a few steps are taken, so he can close the door with the back of his heel.

he knows it is surprising. he knows that she might have not realized the effects she has on him — the way the flush on her cheeks makes him yearn, how when she speaks of something he doesn't know, he wishes she would whisper the pieces of information against his throat. he knows this is all in his head but god — years of fantasy and he is tired of abandoning her at the end of the night, not knowing if she regrets it as much as he does. for a moment, he thought juno and derek... well, a stupid conclusion that had saved him from admitting to himself what he actually felt.

now, though, spencer is willing to be brave. he even is willing to admit he is so stupid when it comes to her. "tell me," he starts, his breath probably smelling a little like stale beer. he'd apologize, except his hands have moved from her cheeks to her hair, and the long curls have him already weak in the legs. whatever the painters thought of when they talked about beauty, spencer knows they thought of her. like this. face flushed, lips slightly open, surprise and something else... something he cannot name. "tell me if you don't..." but then the thought dies on his lips, and he simply does what he has been dying to do for years. he leans forward, captures @suarcz 's lips with his, and prays she won't try to shoot him in the chest for invading her personal space.

#suarcz #spencer reid. #writings. #this is something. for sure. hi.

[foradio]

❛ you are being so fucking weird, man. ❜

the demon chuckled lowly as tara spoke , crimson hues staring down at them as alastor’s head tilted slightly. much like a curious animal , the noise bubbling from his throat sounding staticky and warped. “ why thank you , my dear. i’ll take that as a compliment. “ the demon’s form bowed slightly , lowering so the two were now eye to eye. “ what’s the fun in being . . plain? “ the man added , tsk’ing softly to themself as they gazed at their companion.

“ so , my dear tara- “ the static spoke up once more , alastor’s big grin still plastered on his face. “ to what do i owe the pleasure today? “

#rotdame #writings. #THIS IS HORRIBLE I APOLOGIZE #trying to get into his headspace... grrr #also i haven't wrote in forever screams

[b4dwulf]

abrupt . kiss my muse out of the blue .

this was a feeling you had felt many times, at least . . with your own doctor. you had kissed tentoo many times, under many different circumstances. but this? you hadn’t expected this at all. your ten. your doctor. his lips upon your own, unexpectedly, abruptly . . the action drew the air from your lungs. like you were a fish out of water and he was the one thing keeping you from dying.

there was a soft gasp against ten’s own lips, yet you wasted no time in wrapping your arms around his neck. trying to pull him closer and closer, till your bodies melded into one. in truth, technically you two had kissed once many years ago . . but your consciousness was not your own. it didn’t count.

reluctantly you had to pull away, the need of air in your lungs evident as your face flushed. hazel eyes looked up at the doctor as rose smiled gently, searching his own eyes for an answer. some kind of sign as to what warranted the kiss.

‘ what was that for? ‘ you asked softly, your fingers gently messing with the hair on the nape of the doctor’s neck. ‘ i certainly enjoyed it, but- doctor . . ‘ rose’s voice got quiet as your train of thought faded, free hand moving up to cup the doctor’s cheek. you missed him. ‘ after all this time? you finally got the courage, huh? ‘

#timedten #writings. #the doctor - timedten. #RAAHHHHH

[sealrock]

send LOST for a scene from my muse's past in which they felt lost, literally or figuratively

ask meme (closed)

(ty for the ask @aethergazing!)

Evander adjusted the wide-brimmed sunhat around his head for the umpteenth time this hour—it was much too big for the boy, on top of being itchy as the straw poked at his scalp. Despite his discomfort, Evander's mother wished to protect the crowns of her children from the noonday summer sun that baked the lands across Thanalan. While the streets of the Sapphire Avenue Exchange were covered with richly decorated tapestries to block out the overwhelming sunrays, the heat was inescapable thanks to the choking amount of people stuffed in the thoroughfare. Evander gripped Patroclus' stuffed tapir close to his chest—not that he was afraid, mind you, he's too old for that—he just didn't want someone to come up and snatch it, for that would mean excessive crying and temper tantrums.

Merchants hollered out their wares at slashed prices from every angle, city criers screamed louder than the merchants about the latest scandal, and carts of imported goods sluggishly made their way through the crowd of wealthy men and impeccably tailored women. Evander never liked coming here because of the crowds, for one could easily get lost if they weren't careful. But today, he and his younger brother Patroclus were pushed out of the house by his mother so that she could prepare his stepfather's nameday dinner. It happened to be one of the rare occasions that they left the safety of the manor without their parents, especially on a day like today. Evander felt well enough to venture out, but that didn't mean he wanted to. He had a mind to fake being sick but decided against it. He outright refused to wear matching outfits with his brother, however. He could dress himself just fine. 

The boys' nanny, Nanaqo Naqo, an otherwise absentminded Lalafellian woman, had her hands full this day as she triple-checked her list of to-do's while keeping her round ruby eyes on her young charges. She kept Evander flanked on her left and Patroclus on her right. Patroclus dutifully held onto Nanaqo's apron strings as he took in the sights and sounds of the thoroughfare with rapt interest, his green eyes sparkling with amazement. The young lad, no taller than Nanaqo and just four winters old, was dressed in light fabric of the finest quality—akin to a little sailor, with a sunhat similar to his elder brother, his thumb hooked in his mouth the whole while. Their mother thought it was adorable, but it was a habit their grandfather tended to frown upon. Evander skinned his nose up at the display, something he learned from his grandfather. Their mother never attempted to 'fix the issue' as his grandfather complained about. She and Evander's stepfather encouraged and enabled Patroclus to never grow up.

Patroclus and Evander may be brothers, but they share nothing in common. Patroclus was too immature to be on Evander's level of intellect, even if Evander had a five-year headstart. Most of Evander's tomes and journals were tarnished by Patroclus' impish desire to scribble on the pages. Before that, Patroclus would chew on the bindings or rip out the parchment as an infant whenever Evander attempted to bond with him. His mother dismissed Evander's frustration by buying him more books; she would offer hollow comfort in saying Patroclus didn't mean it. He was still a baby, after all.

Babies are no longer babies past the first year of life: Evander learned that from his treasured medical textbook, something he keeps out of Patroclus' reach with his grubby hands. Perhaps the material was too advanced for Patroclus; not everyone could be a (self-proclaimed) prodigy like Evander.

Evander blinked and allowed his eyes to refocus. With his head turned downward, Evander landed on his exposed toes between bejeweled sandals, the lavender tapir squeezed between his arms. Nanaqo never noticed the boy's ruminating as she agonized over fresh produce for what felt like half a day. But she was so preoccupied with her shopping list that she failed to realize Patroclus was missing.

Patroclus was missing.

Evander had a few ilms on the woman to see over her yellow hair, his eyes quickly scanning the area for a familiar sunhat. Patroclus was nowhere to be found.

Evander wanted to say something, but the words never came out. His attempts to silently grab his nanny's attention went unanswered with an irritated wave of her hand. He could see it now: his mother practically inconsolable with grief at the news of her youngest son's disappearance, and his stepfather's wish to turn the city inside-out for his only son. The family would be beside themselves, all while ignoring Evander.

With no other recourse, Evander swallowed down his nerves and snuck away into the crowd. When he wasn't weak from illness, Evander took to studying various atlases and the city's layout, so he had landmarks to guide him back to Nanaqo once he found his wayward brother. He shuffled between tall bodies, hoping not to be stepped on, as he weaved through the busy street. He kept his eyes forward and ears strained for any wailing calls for their mother, but Evander quickly became disorientated over the overwhelming amount of sounds.

Evander got knocked onto his back by a speeding courier, his sunhat tumbling to the cobblestone road. He fell right into an exposed spot of sunlight, the harsh light blinding him. He never let go of the stuffed tapir, however. It was the only thing that kept him anchored, and as childish as it sounded, its comforting presence kept him from crying. He's too old to cry, stony words his stepfather would tell him. No one was around to help him, so Evander had to toughen up.

Shaking off the dizziness, Evander brushed off his dirt-stained clothes and placed the sunhat back on his head. He walked a far distance away, and he still hadn't seen Patroclus. The Sapphire Avenue Exchange was a straight road, but it had many exits to alleyways and hidden corners that any mischievous four-year-old could hide in. Patroclus could be anywhere. The boy dipped into a random alley to escape the din of noise, only to land in a completely different world.

The alley was dark, dirty, and smelled of something foul. The sun wouldn't cast its light here. Evander got strange looks as he walked past adults with nothing better to do than loiter. His pace quickened when he saw, or thought he saw, someone brandish a weapon against a man he was arguing with. Feeling unsafe, Evander stepped back onto the main road and became swallowed once more by the hungering crowd. He was now further down the thoroughfare, in an area he wasn't familiar with. Evander felt anxiety settle in his stomach as he continued to walk, overcome with trembles. It had occurred to Evander that, maybe, he didn't know the streets of Ul'dah as well as he believed.

Evander was lost, and there was no one around to help him. Evander found a shaded spot to sulk in as he watched hundreds of faces pass him by without a second thought. The excursion left his belly griping for food—he would starve here. Evander curled into himself and let his eyes fall shut.

Surely, Evander's mother would mourn him. His aunt Cassandra would've seen this coming thanks to her 'predictions,' not that anyone believed her. The bad men would take him, especially the ones spoken about in the morning newspaper. He would read about missing persons and tales of how they were snatched up by Amalj'aa, fresh sacrifices for their god. That terrified Evander more than anything in the world. His whole life was ahead of him. He was too young to die, not now—

"Evie!"

Evander jumped up, wild eyes spotting a red-faced Patroclus on the other side of the street. His sunhat was missing, leaving his fluffy head of pitch-black hair uncovered to the afternoon sun. He appeared to have been crying... as per usual.

"Evie!"

Disregarding Nanaqo's rule of looking both ways, Patroclus ran to him on wobbly legs and outstretched hands. He crashed into Evander's skinny body before letting out a tired wail, snot and drool straining Evander's sweaty shirt. Evander finally dropped the tapir to hold his younger brother, shaking and unable to form words.

"I want mama, I–I want mama and papa!" Patroclus cried, heaving sobs soon catching the attention of unbeknownst pedestrians. Evander felt annoyance rise once the shock wore off. With care, Evander pulled Patroclus away to look him in the eye:

"You idiot! Where did you go? You know you shouldn't wander off like that!"

Patroclus' cries lowered to whimpers, his freckled face stained with tears, "I–I wanted a candied apple 'cause Nana said I would get one, but then I got lost..."

So that's what happened. Nanaqo took too long weighing literal apples and oranges, and Patroclus grew impatient. Evander huffed out a breath and handed the toy to his brother to hold. Patroclus grabbed it before wiping his runny nose against the fabric. Evander rolled his eyes before rising to his feet. He tried to smooth down his brother's hair like their mother would, but his fingers were too calloused from holding books all day. He didn't have the same loving touch as she did. He cringed as he used his handkerchief to wipe away the drying snot, a gentle motion he would catch his stepfather do, but Evander was too rough. Patroclus didn't seem too bothered, he stopped crying at least. His eyes were a bit swollen, and his cheeks a tinge of orange, but his breathing grew regulated.

"Where did your hat go?"

"... I don't know..."

Another huff. Patroclus could never keep track of his stuff. At least Evander keeps a log of where his items belong to. Now satisfied, Evander gathered his wits to begin the long trek back to the produce stand. But before he could take a step, a shrill voice reached his ears:

"BOYS! Oh, thank the Traders, you're both safe!"

Nanaqo looked more frazzled than usual as she gathered her skirt to rush over to their spot, her tidy bun slowly coming loose from stress. Sweat clung to her flushed skin, usually pale, from exertion. Her eyes were as wide as dinner plates and filled with terror. Evander could only imagine what was going on in her thoughts, how she could've misplaced her employer's grandsons so easily. Guilt washed over Evander for causing her such worry.

"What happened?! Are you hurt?! Did anyone try any funny business with you?"

Evander glanced at Patroclus, who looked at him, "No, Ms. Naqo, we're fine. We, uh... we wanted to–"

"I want a candied apple!"

Evander glared at his brother. Nanaqo let out a long-suffering sigh and shook her head, but she didn't chastise them. She smiled, even. Nanaqo's seemingly infinite amount of patience continued to amaze Evander.

"Yes, yes, it completely slipped my mind. Come along, then, before the hour grows too late, I must return to my duties."

Instinctively, Patroclus grabbed Nanaqo's apron string, his other arm holding onto the stuffed tapir for comfort. Evander grabbed the other end, not that he needed to, but it would ease Nanaqo's frayed nerves some to know he was right behind her. With Nanaqo, the three of them walked through the street with ease.

"Um... Ms. Naqo?"

"Yes, Evander?"

Evander didn't want to ask, but he swallowed his pride.

"Don't tell grandfather about this. Or our parents."

He caught a small smile forming on her lips, "I wouldn't dream of it, dear. As long as you two are safe and sound, I won't say a word."

Evander released a quiet sigh of relief.

"And because you've been such a good lad looking after your brother, I'll get you two candied apples!"

Evander felt a youthful sense of glee come over him, and the question went out of his mouth before he could catch himself:

"The green apples? Covered in caramel?"

"Of course!"

#inbox #aethergazing #writings. #a look at evander and patroclus' life as kids. ough... #sorry for the wait but ty for the ask friend!! #also evander knows a lot of big words even though he's 9 years old here. he's so funny #the subtext here is that he spent a lot of time reading as a kid because he was usually sick. and he had no one to play with #so he was lonely most of the time #and patroclus was doted on since birth so he never got punished for anything during this period of time #as an adult evander doesn't like to talk about times like this but he's still a big brother #and he always looked after patroclus despite him saying otherwise #but yea this isn't really edited but i think it looks good!!

[feminurge]

[ stumble ] + reverse!!

victoria's toy is larger in size than istar herself could carry; he is nowhere near small and the sorceress is, well, petite. though a flicker of a wrist is enough to summon enough wind to press at his sides, keeping him afloat as they gingerly walk through the back corridors of the temple, it does not mean it is a walk in the park to continue down their path. each stone, she knows intimately. a place that she would neither call home nor safe haven, but a third, more sinister thing; coffin. death usually finds her late, once all others have met their end, but if she had to bet on the place of her demise, she thinks it would be in the vicinity of these dark halls. not on the sacrificial altar, but here, away from prying eyes. bleeding directly in bhaal's guts, swimming in the dusty air of those hidden chambers.

the wizard, however, has never had the chance to walk through these tunnels, especially with what must amount to a few broken bones and bleeding wounds. (orin's knife must have made the mockingbird sing so beautifully-- victoria will be livid. if only she knew before avenging her pet. if only. but alas rules are rules and istar is not one to pass her turn.) still, she is kind enough not to press on the wounds. strange is the touch that does not harm; palm of her hand where he has yet to be hurt, not far from the thrumming orb, while the other is around his waist. holding him upward. wind softly breathing around him, a protective cushion were he to miss a step.

"keep going", she grits her teeth when he does, in fact, falter. fucking oversized wizard. "or i'll find a way to move you, dismembered if i have to." she even takes a second to think about it; a beautiful corpse. she would be moving one piece at a time, only to remake him in the most precious puzzle. a doll for vic's enjoyment. magic would animate him all the same. but alas. rules are rules. and istar suspects that victoria's illness probably spread further inane fungus in her chest: gods, she would care, were he even slightly bruised. disgusting. disgusting. and so pathetially human.

"come on. it would be… terribly… pathetic… to die here" the effort of trying to keep him upward cuts her sentence in more parts than she would normally care to pronounce. after a moment of calculating silence, she finally stops. fingers spread over his pectoral to keep both of their balance. she finally turns her head toward the man. "will you carry yourself or do i need to summon a magic hand, dear?" the nickname is all teeth, no smile. needless to say she has no desire to make it easier for him- yet the offer remains on the table all the same. what a peculiar experience it is for her to threaten with no intention to act upon whatever curse she spews.

#weaverots #istar of eryri. #writings. #istar is 5'2 so her trying to carry him around is absolutely hilarious

[gaebrial]

[WONDER]: unable to comprehend how incredible the receiver is, the sender decides to simply cup their face in their hands and marvel at them instead.

feeling the robot’s hands reach up to cup their face , gabriel stared down at the woman with softened eyes - an almost purr like noise coming from their throat. leaning down a little , not wanting kitty to have to reach so far; the angel smiled gently. wings engulfing the both of them as they practically melted into the bot’s touch.

“ well , hello to you too. “ hummed gabriel , a hand moving up to rest against kitty’s own - their forehead leaning down to rest against hers. “ i don’t mind the staring , but . . i do not think i am supposed to be here. “ their voice lowered as gabriel spoke , anxiety lacing their tone as they reference the vee’s room they were in. of course , they’d love to see kitty anywhere- but they definitely felt like a trespasser in the lion’s den.

#kttybot #writings. #THE BABIES #heart eyes for them tbh #i already love them listen

[vmprre]

salvatore    brothers.    everywhere    they    go    to    .  .  .    destruction,    grief    &    pain    follows.    she’s    stuck    in    the    middle    of    it.    caught    between    monsters.    no    way    to    run    from    it,    impossible    to    escape.    HERE    COMES    A    FEELING    YOU    THOUGHT    YOU’D    FORGOTTEN.    longing    for    a    shred    of    hope.    hope    that    his    brother    is    still    alive.    fighting    for    his    life.    fighting    for    everything    that’s    right.    damon    despised    him,    hated    everything    his    brother    stood    for    and    yet    .  .  .    here    he    stands,    eyes    locked    with    the    girl    who    would    go    to    the    end    of    the    world    for    his    brother.    ironic,    is    it    not?    the    good    brother    slowly    turning    into    something    hideous    when    the    evil    one    is    slowly    beginning    to    care.    oh,    leaving    town    crossed    the    mind    multiple    times.    but    leaving    her    here    to    die    -    it    was    just    something    he    couldn’t    do.    and    truthfully,    he    hated    it.    ‘’    just    get    some    sleep,    elena.    ‘’    sigh    full    of    defeat    follows    through,    dark    &    empty    eyes    slowly    finding    her    very    own.    ‘’    i    can’t    focus    on    finding    my    brother    and    babysit    you    at    the    same    damn    time.    ‘’    words    full    of    annoyance    escapes    the    vampire,    instantly    regretting    it    -    knowing    she’s    doing    the    best    she    can.    ‘’    just    .  .  .    get    some    rest.    okay?    i’ll    be    here.    you’re    safe.    ‘’

#fairybit #writings.

[fraegiles]

❛ cards ? show ? wha' — ? ❜ agitation couldn't even fully cover the scope o' what he's feelin' right now. there's confusion, he reckons, and a bit o' fury there, 'ven though he doesn't want t' feel that, he doesn't. 'cause he knows what that looks like, and it ain't pretty, rage, even if many men said that tha's exactly what won the war against the dragons once. that robert baratheon was the most o' his house he could've become: he was strong, and mighty, and righteous. and when he brought down that war hammer t' the plate o' rhaegar targaryen's armour, the last livin' dragon that could've opposed him on the battlefield, there was fury in it strong enough, it quelled the power o' the dragon dynasty right there. rhaegar targaryen died, and in his death, a new kingdom was borne.

this is no place o' fairytale such as that. fury may works as tool t' bridge the bonds of fightin' men with stories like that, but people often forget that outside of it, all tha' rage, all tha' temper ... it just ruins. gendry doesn't want t' ruin this, 'ven if he barely has an idea, he hasn't, of what this is. people are callin' him m'lord and suddenly treatin' him with more respect than he deserves, but it's ridiculous, is what it is. they just wanted a tool, they did; another baratheon they're hopin' to fashion, to end, the dragon dynasty once more. it's sickening. ❛ wha' are y' talkin' about ? ❜ the frantic in his voice is true, as gendry comes forward, surges t' touch myrcella's shoulders in his panic. any other time, he would've minded his manners — this was a princess — though he's far too hasty t' consider properly. ❛ i've got no cards here, m'lady. i'm uneducated. i'm baseborn. surely they can't just name me legitimate like that, could they ? ❜ @forgaeven

he is sincere, she can feel it, can see it in the frantic tone of his voice, all words, hurling against one another as if there was never enough time, like watching a carriage wreck itself against another, unable to look away, the disaster hypnotizing. no matter, myrcella has no claim to any of it, born a woman, born of disputed parentage, there is no hope for anything, only her beauty some kind of lighthouse in the storm, she only hopes to find shelter far away, PEACE really. but gendry is powerful, no matter how much he denies it, running after his anonymity as if he could escape the wheel he was sure to be crushed under.

her steps are certain as she steps closer to him, green eyes looking around, trying to spot spies, ears on the wall. ❛ you're my brother, gendry, no matter what anyone say, your father was mine and my love was pledged to you the day we were born. ❜ she is made of love, wrecked by it, some call her beauty but those who knows her tragedy call her the goddess of broken hearts. they are not wrong.

❛ they will declare you lord paramount of stormlands, they will declare you heir of the baratheon family, they will do it because they need someone there they can trust and they will obtain your fealty by giving you those titles. ❜ she worries for him, all alone in this pit of snakes, unaware of the dangers that lie on his path, the traps they will lay for him. ❛ you're the only one that is left, gendry. i only wish to warn you, only wish to provide you with as much advice as i can. ❜

there is an URGENCY to her tone, she knows they will not have much time in privacy, a need to protect him as much as she can guiding him, a fondness for those baratheon looks he sports, reminding her of uncle renly, of father. ❛ but once you're legitimized, they can't take it away, you have to remember that gendry, remember that please. ❜ he must save his life, must make certain only a certain happiness awaits him : do not get caught in their webs she wants to plead.

#forgaeven #writings. #myrcella : divergent. #( i adore the both of them #he's like the brother she didnt have :') )

[violentlydone]

"miss di angelo", he greets, a file in his hands while he sits across from her. after a moment of silence (the tick tock of the clock their only company) he places the pile of paper down and presses his hands, flat, over the cold metal table. "do you know why we are keeping you here?" @infernocte

#infernocte #WRITINGS. #SPENCER REID. #heres the prettiest fbi agent for u #enjoy

[dreamsofithildin]

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#blog. #bookish things. #cat archive. #fanfic things. #inbox. #liveblog. #photos. #reference. #rb. #seasonal. #text post. #theme. #writings. #wheel of the year #christmas #happy new year #st patricks day #star wars day #yr: 2024 #yr: 2025