#I managed to resist calling it petrichor

[beansandfungi]

Storm-Power

There is something about the first rain After days of heat and sun That never fails to make me smile Like the world releasing a breath Held for too long When finally the sky breaks open And life rains down from above A release of emotion Tears held back for fear of appearing weak Flowing freely at last The sharp sweetness of the air Life-blood of the gods An offering, a sacrifice From the immortal to the mortal Life given to give life There is something about the first rain After days of heat and sun It is a raw power Electrifying and freeing And I am left aching for more

#poetry #I managed to resist calling it petrichor #summer rains #poems #queerpoet

[lambourngb]

a skeleton of something more [malex wip]

Inspired by the promo/trailer for season 3. Spoilers and speculation ahead. 

A tumblr work-in-progress

Pairing: Michael/Alex, Alex/Forrest

Summary: Alex goes undercover to seek out Deep Sky. Starts mid-2x13.

Alex leaned his back against the solid wood of his front door, letting the heavy oak take up his weight. He kept making the standard uneven bargain with his body, of giving just a little more, going through the motions for a little longer, and then it would be over. But the tally sheet his body held was long, overflowing with so many unfulfilled promises that it seemed ever more likely he would end this journey in the red. 

If it ever ended.

At least, tonight, he had haggled wisely for some space to breathe. On the other side of the door, he had managed to escape Forrest’s hopeful and not subtle attempts to follow him inside, toward the bedroom for a long-awaited reunion. A reunion that Alex had deftly avoided without a trace of guilt. He had used the bland excuse of fatigue from a long, cramped ride from Holloman Air Force Base to Roswell on a bus that had predated the ADA by a good thirty years. It was transparent but still true, written on every line of pain in his smile as he had said “Not tonight.” that even Forrest could read it, even if only Alex knew the real source of his fatigue. 

He waited several long moments, before turning to look out the peephole to watch Forrest’s Prius silently reverse out of his driveway. Exhaling out long and low, the tension he had started carrying a little more than a year ago slipped away, letting the calm certainty of safety of his house slip down his body as he released the facade. 

Alex was almost done with this assignment, he reminded himself, as he rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth, scrubbing away the taste of Forrest Long from earlier. 

Just a little while longer, and he will have enough good will built up to finally meet the leader of Deep Sky face-to-face, after all who could resist the request of a senior member, especially one with the last name of Long? It had been a lucky find that Alex had made in cleaning out his father’s house after his death, a ring and an old photo of the members. In washed out Kodak colors was the cabal of Deep Sky. Former military men with names Alex had memorized off the salvaged hard drives from the Caulfield prison. Linked not by overlapping time on the alien project, but what had become of their careers after their military service had ended. All of them vowing to carry on the protection of Earth against an alien threat, but without the oversight of the government. 

The photo in his dad’s desk had been expected, but the silver ring? He had remembered clutching it, his hands still sore from tearing down the shed with Michael, and feeling the imprint of the symbol press deep into his skin. Searing across what Mimi had called his long-love line, singular and deep on his palm. Searing even deeper inside with the recognition that the symbol matched the ring Forrest Long wore.

The genial historian with the loose-fitting cardigan and blue-streaked hair, who had shown flattering interest in Alex, had worn the same ring. Easy on his hand, flashing in the bright sunlight when he had eagerly met up with Alex at the paintball fields with sharpshooter skills. After that date had crashed and burned thanks to a mishmash of his father’s voice and the feeling he had whenever he thought about kissing someone, not Michael, well, Alex had figured that would be the last he would see of the man. 

It hadn’t been. 

Suddenly, Forrest was everywhere he was, the Crashdown, the Wild Pony. It should have been suspicious to Alex, after months of sharing the same town with the other man without a single encounter. His heart was still bounding uselessly after Michael, while his hands had been full of his suddenly feeble father, and he had missed the snare of the trap. Not just the one his father had laid. Then after his kidnapping, two things had become clear to Alex, his father would never change from the hateful man he was, and Alex’s heart would never change when it came to his feelings for Michael.

Alex pushed his leaden body away from the door, tottering on his feet for a moment before the new prosthesis shored up his balance and he took a deep breath for the strength to move forward.

Fuck. That was a mistake. 

His house smelled like rain. Michael. The unexpected consequence of having Michael watch over his house while he had moved around the country, playing up the role of the grieving scion of the Manes family legacy. After a year of brief trips back to Roswell and long stints on the road, the house now smelled like Michael. 

Alex sucked in greedy gulps of air, chasing the taste of green and petrichor with his tongue to wash away his previous actions at the bus stop. His security system, his reinforced door and window locks, the weight of his gun still tucked in his back holster, none of it made him feel as safe as the smell of Michael in his home. It was the smallest crumb of promise, but it filled him.

Moving toward the kitchen for a drink, he clocked the changes Michael had made in his absence. His heavier luggage, shipped ahead of him, was already stored, including the set of crutches and the charging station for his back-up prosthesis. The lights in the kitchen came on with a single touch, all of them bright. Dammit, Michael had fixed the two burnt out bulbs, along with the slightly weeping fitting on the sink faucet.

There was zero sign of neglect in his house, no matter where he looked. Not even the faintest trace of dust on his guitars. The house looked warm and well tended. Loved. 

The rush of tears welled in his throat, an impossibly large lump, as Alex fought to keep from breaking down. Don’t fucking cry, don’t do it, that’s for at night, he swore creatively at himself. Tears were only allowed under the cover of dark, in hotel rooms or visiting officer quarters, not in the middle of his brightly lit kitchen.

A knock sounded on the front door.

Abruptly, every drop of tortured longing was gone, as Alex straightened his shoulders and crossed the threshold back to the door. He pasted the right amount of faked aspiration mixed with real annoyance on his face as he yanked the door open, expecting to see Forrest back on his step with a weak excuse concocted to overcome the earlier rebuff.

Michael looked up in the porch light, his black hat in hand and his curls wild with nervous raking. “Uh, hi.” He scuffed his boots against the concrete before growing still under Alex’s gaze.

He looked over Michael’s shoulder nervously, for the distinctive truck that everyone in town knew belonged to Michael, but his driveway was empty.

“I parked a few streets over. I don’t think anyone saw me-” Michael’s explanation was cut off short as Alex grabbed his wrist and yanked him inside. Stumbling from Alex’s strong grip, Michael fell forward, and then back as the front door slammed shut with them both safely inside out of view. His mouth was still open in surprise as Alex covered his lips in a kiss. 

The surprise was short-lived. Michael came alive under the kiss, opening and yielding to Alex’s hungry lips and tongue. Alex brought his hands up into Michael’s curls, cupping his head protectively as he pressed Michael firmly against the door, drinking in every sound Michael was making. 

Hours before, he had kissed Forrest at the bus station, playing up the role of a dutiful boyfriend returning home. It was the tariff he paid with his body to get closer to the roots of Deep Sky, but this, feeling Michael whole and safe under his hands, tasting him now, that was sustenance. Lifeblood. There was an evolution of difference between the two, like comparing simple bacteria wiggling toward complexity and the finished product of a man, standing upright. 

It was both a reminder of why he was doing this and a reinstatement of focus, as he slowly broke the kiss with reluctance. Michael chased at his lips, his mouth red and wet, his eyes dark with want. He could feel the heat coming off of Michael’s thin brown shirt, his hands itched to pull it off, to descend back into the physical, but Alex knew that he owed Michael an explanation for earlier.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t know he was going to be there to meet my bus. I thought it would be okay for you to give me a ride,” Alex explained quietly, as he ran his hands from Michael’s neck down to his fingertips, drinking in all the changes that had happened while he was gone. Michael looked thinner to him, as if he wasn’t eating enough despite the healthy amount of work and money. “I guess he wanted to surprise me and thought it would be romantic.” 

Michael made a face at the idea of surprises ever being considered romantic, especially to Alex. He turned sweetly toward Alex’s palm, kissing the center as Alex pushed a stubborn curl out of his eyes. “Are you sure that’s all it was? He wasn’t testing you, was he?” 

“I don’t think so.” Alex couldn’t pull his hands away from Michael, and leaned in to kiss him again. It started soft and shallow, trading breaths with Michael, lips against lips, licking deep into his mouth as his previous weariness disappeared now that Michael was here. “He saw you watching us. Now that I’m back, he’s worried about losing my attention to you. He hasn’t hidden his jealousy that I asked you to watch my house last year.” 

“Did I look sufficiently broken-hearted?” The question was light, but Alex could hear the grain of truth under it.

“You did.” Alex closed his eyes, the guilt of the situation flooded back inside. The statue of his father looking down on him didn’t make him feel nearly as sick as having Michael’s eyes on him as he let Forrest kiss him in front of the town in a cinematic homecoming moment. It was a cruel reminder to Alex that he had never been able to give Michael that, a public welcome that spelled out who they were to each other, not once in ten plus years of deployments and duty station assignments. Trading a glance across the Wild Pony was as close as they came. “I wish it wasn’t like this, sneaking around, pretending-”

“Hey, I agreed to this, right at the very beginning when I was your only back-up. Remember?” 

“We were just friends back then, you couldn’t have known that things would end up like this.”

Michael laughed, his head tilted back against the door, casting an attractive line of his throat to his collarbone. “We’ve never been just friends, Alex, but I knew what I was signing up for when you told me what you planned to do to smoke out Deep Sky. We’re in this together.”

*** to be continued... here

#malex fic #malex wip #season 3 spoilers #isn't everyone writing a trailer fic? #rnm #not forrest long friendly

[mrs-hatake]

a/n: wrote this little blurb at work yesterday. as always, special thanks to @petrichor-writes​ for proof reading!

Levi's eye twitched in annoyance at the flirtatious giggle coming from his newly hired administrator.

Face hidden behind his laptop, he glanced over to where Y/N is sitting at her desk directly in front of the door. Standing in front of her desk is a tall and lean man with his thick and long locks put up in a bun. He is leaning down, trying to get into Y/N's space as much as he can without climbing over the desk and sitting on her lap.

Levi clicked his tongue but no one paid attention to him as that is a common sound that emits from him whenever he is frustrated reading lengthy reports after another.

Y/N giggles again and Levi glares.

Y/N had been working with him in the marketing department for three months now and in all the time she had been here, Levi had never seen her as lively as she is now...until she somehow managed to befriend Eren from the legal department.

Her demure personality, her soft tone of voice and her air of professionalism vanish the second Eren steps foot into their office. Her voice is melodic, her eyes are flirty and she is more outgoing.

The two never stop talking as if the topics they engage in are infinite. From music to comics. From social news to the latest food trends. The two have talked about those and more. And to be quite frank, it bothered Levi to no end.

See, whenever Levi tries to engage in a conversation with Y/N -a new regiment from his close friend, Erwin, who insisted he engages in more social exchanges to gain connections and give their company a good name- she only replies with short or one worded answers. He would literally have to fight tooth and nail for her to give him at least a six worded answer. Her voice would be small, as if intimidated by him. It's a pitch higher, as if it's an iron wall warding off any one she does not want for them to see her true nature.

If only Eren wasn't so damn good at his job, then he would've fired him. Even if Levi isn't in HR.

Levi is snapped back to reality when Eren's phone goes off. And, although he is responding to the person on the other end, his eyes never leave Y/N's. If he is standing closer, he'd see the tiny blush tinting Y/N's cheeks.

"I have to go." Eren says as he pockets his phone. "See you for lunch?"

Y/N nods her head, "See you." she says sweetly.

What Eren does next shakes both Levi and Y/N to their cores, but both for different reasons. For Y/N, it sends her to cloud nine when Eren leans in and whispers something in her ear, making her eyes widen at whatever he was telling her.

As for Levi, it boils his blood that Eren went to such measures to not only disregard the fact that their work of line demanded a high level of professionalism but he also disrespected Levi by ignoring his presence.

Pulling back, Eren turns to exit their office but not before nodding his head his way in farewell. "Levi."

Levi resists clicking his tongue, this time at the way Eren doesn't bother calling him Mr. Ackerman as all employees in a lower position do.

"Eren." Levi says instead.

The silence that replaces Y/N and Eren's enthusiastic chatter is deafening.

Levi huffs and feels a headache forming. The tapping coming from Y/N's keyboard makes it worse.

"I don't like that guy."

A hissed curse and the sudden stop of tapping.

"Who, Eren?" Y/N asks as she looks at him curiously.

Levi refuses to meet her eyes and focuses his attention on his screen. "He's exceptionally talented at what he does." Levi speaks up when he feels Y/N's curious gaze on him, burning through his skin to penetrate his skull and searching through his mind to explain himself.

"But, he has a reputation."  he finishes.

A heartbeat. Two. And three later, Y/N finally says. "I didn't take you for a man that would blindly believe rumors."

Her words stings more than the slap his ex-girlfriend, Petra, gave him when Levi called things off because he didn't really love her and only dated her because everyone had pressured him to find a nice girl and settle down. He is too addicted to his work, they had reasoned when Levi questioned them.

Levi opened his mouth to...Defend himself? Reason with her? Well, whatever it was he wanted to do is robbed from him as Y/N leaves the office as she is being called by Erwin to go over the survey report.

No matter.

Levi might have screwed up today and possibly restarted their acquaintanceship back to square one but he is determined to win Y/N over and make her his.

He just had to get Eren out of the picture first.

#levi x reader #eren x reader #aot imagine #aot imagines

[way-to-the-future]

#20: Rin - Petrichor

(cw: sexual content)

Do you want to know the best part? We thought we actually won.

               I don’t pretend to be a strategist. I was never working at the highest level. But when they called me back from the border that first time, told me to pack up because we’d beat the skeleton crew of tin suits back, I was more than ready to believe it. We all were. Whether Lord Kaien was a puppet or a true father of the resistance – and you’ll hear either side, depending on which tavern you sit in at which time of day – that day, we were all ready to sing his praises down the bombed-out streets. For the first time in most of our lives (and you have to remember, here, just how many fathers and mothers died in that first invasion), we had achieved something. We’d achieved not a boot in the face, a lash or a harsh word, but something real, precious, almost tangible for all the reality that it was a fleeting dream. More, it was the biggest fucking thing any of us could imagine. And what did we do?

               We partied. We, who couldn’t rub two grains of barley together if you rounded up all of our cousins along with us, we got loud and stupid and drunk on all the watered-down wine we could dig out of collapsed cellars. I was hungrier than a street dog when I wandered into the camp-turned-festival, and the first thing I did was pound so much grain liquor I thought my heart would stop then and there. Maybe, a little bit, I wanted it to. Maybe spending moons in the dark, on my own, and coming back to the crashing of cymbals and steel-plated heads shoved on pikes wasn’t the welcome I needed. But fuck me if I was going to kill the mood.

               Discipline bleeds away with the memory of the conflict. It’s catharsis, garish and uninhibited, and not one of us willing to be the one to step back in line. People wrestle wearing the guards and visors of the last centurions to get trapped in the garrison. Shooting contests spring up, all for using up all the ammo the three-eyes had left behind. Idiots. I have to stop looking at it – all of it. Not because I can’t take it; don’t you fucking think for a second that I don’t want to join in the pissing contest.

               I know it’s not over. I didn’t do my part.

               I find the courage, at least, to face the proxy. It’s close enough to the rainy season that some insightful souls have stretched lengths of silk and canvas between the shells of the ruined houses that host our celebration, and the one right above me is a brilliant forest green, embroidered in red-gold thread with the image of fucking Suzaku, of all things. I try to keep my eye on her, on my southern goddess, and show her I’m still ready to fight. I’ve got passion, spirit, fury enough to meet the next threat. I’m not tapped out. Instead, this lady keeps putting her tits in my face, blocking my view.

               More’s the fool me for trying to manage some sacred communion while her boyfriend is pulling me apart ilm by agonizing, maddened ilm. I don’t have the grace to ask myself if the Four Lords want to see me getting fucked, here on the shattered tile floor of some hovel which very likely serves as someone’s tomb. I’m done with it; really, truly done, and this I demand of myself when she dips forward and the ride gets another few degrees too severe, another step closer to the beating I deserve for spending the fight for freedom tucked in a blind in my other motherland. Here’s my fucking battle fury, oh Lords: here’s what your son can do when you put him to the test for his people. I can take it as hard as my brothers in arms like to give it to me, go as long as my sisters want. Hero of the liberation that I am, catching this punishing fuck while my comrades have at least the grace to be on their knees and not on their backs.

               I’ve got a great view, at least, to see the storm begin. The cloth shelters our heads, kami forfend, but I watch the whole while as Suzaku sags under the weight of the rain damping her tapestry. I’d laugh if I could catch my breath for a single fucking second. Good mother that she is, the Queen of the South shelters me all through it, even while she and her disappointment stare me in the eye.

               Needless to say, I don’t stick around for the celebrations the second time around.

#ffxivwrite2021 #dutybound #narrative #we salute you sir #im done for the night....... sorry

[geminimoonbeamx]

Moon lit Serenades

A/N: Dedicated to the reader, may you find happiness. I am so nervous for TROS, I saw a rumor that Poe dies and lost it. That plus the fact that there is literally no Plus Sized ReaderxPoe community? I had to remedy that. This is porn.

Warnings: This is porn. Serious smut from pretty much start to finish. Please enjoy.

Summary: Poe seeks comfort after a particularly hard mission in the only way he knows how. A Poe x Plus Sized Reader story

I am a moth, who just wants to share your light.

I’m just an insect, trying to get out of the night.

I only stick with you, because there are no other’s.

You we’re all I need.

I’m in the middle of your picture.

Lying in the reeds- Radiohead 

War had finally caught up with Poe Dameron.

Had finally taken it’s toll, and far more then it’s chunk of flesh. Battle wary and blaster shocked, it was hard to think of the resistance these days as just that- a resistance. No, this was more of a bloodbath.

War.

He’d never thought of it like that before, always held his head high, a defiant flame in his eyes. This was fuck the system- fuck the First Order. Fuck anyone who tried to tell him what to do. He was willed, motivated by the sheer rage that anyone would have to live their life in oppression. Under the thumb of Snoke or Phasma, dead and gone now- Hux and Ren hopefully to follow sooner rather than later.

And that fire to see them fall was still there...but it was dimmed.

Had been stomped on, choked out.

Watching people you love die for you, because of you on a daily basis...it wasnt something he’d wish upon anyone. Friends, family. Allies, brothers and sisters in arms. His fleet which had once flourished with dozens of pilot’s was down to a mere handful of lucky ones.

He was willing to breathe and bleed for the cause. It was in his blood- the sticky substance that matted his dark hair to his head as he climbed out of his X-wing. His parents had been the same.

Was he willing to keep watching others die for it though?

He couldn't stop form pondering the question as he and his unit arrive back to the makeshift base, in the middle of nowhere on a planet in the outer rim- the name of it he could barely pronounce. The shabby hut like quarters made the memory of D’quar and its green covered everything throb longingly in his gut.

That seemed so long ago, now.

No matter. No time for getting attached. They’d be on the move again within a fortnight, never staying any one place longer than a month at a time. Rey usually kept them one step ahead, connected to Ren through the force in a way that made Poe’s stomach churn, but that came in handy with them not getting caught.

Thinking about Kylo Ren always made him sour from the inside out. Muscles clenched in memory of the torture he’d endured at the hands of what used to be Leia’s son, but was now just a shell with his dead fathers nose and the mark of his dead uncles betrayal on his black soul.  

Poe would kill him in an instant if he got the chance. He prays to fuck that one day he does.

Clenching his fingers into fists is painful right now- the small mission had gone awry and they’d had to punch their way out of it. Literally. He’s feeling the aftermath of it all over, aching and sore.

He doesn't have it in him to attend the debrief. Can't muster the will, not right now. Maybe after a hot shower, maybe after he gets some food in his stomach and allot’s himself a moment to wallow. He forces himself to stand straight, spine elongated in a way that has his bones and muscle screaming.

Poe tries not to limp, as he scurries away to lick his wounds. He fails.

“Poe, you need to see a medic!” Finn insists, somewhere behind him. Always worried, always caring. Poe has nightmares about the night that he eventually loses him, too.

“Don't worry, I will” Finn wonders how someone who looks like they’re going to keel over at any moment- can manage to sound so cheeky.

Rey, who stands beside Finn, bruised bleeding herself wonders if he realizes that Poe is on the verge of tears. The pilot rippling and vibrating so hard she could feel it, taste it on the air.

Neither of them say anything though. The just watch him disappear into the stormy, starless night.

----

Sleep isn't something that comes easy to you as of late.

Not only did you spend your days(and most hours of your nights, too) in the Med Bay, you had never been the kind of person that could handle big changes, sharp adjustments. This hop forts every couple of weeks trend was killing you.

Your mind couldn't relax, R.E.M. State was always just out of reach.

Especially when he was gone...which also seems to be a trend these days. The missions just kept getting longer and longer- the time that he was on base shorter and farther between.

But it was raining tonight- the soft rhythmic  pitter patter of it on the roof of the hut reminding you of your home planet, you could almost pretend you were there; the smell of petrichor tricking your brain. Making it easier to curl up on the bed that was really more of a cot and cozy into the Resistance standard blanket.

For the first time in two weeks- you sleep. Hard. Like a rock. The exhaustion finally overtaking your body, and putting you out of commission. General Organa was right to send you back to your bunk, physically removing you from your post.

You feel kind of, extremely, guilty for the attitude you’d thrown at her -

“I’m fine, if I don't do my job, who’s going to?”-

aimed her way even though she didn't deserve it. She was right, of course. She tended to be most of the time. Why anyone ever doubted her, why you ever doubted her, you didn't know.

The sleep is dreamless, just the way you prefer it...you hadn't always, but nothing was better then the nightmares. Nothing is far from peace, but close to quiet. A middle ground that could be called purgatory, depending how you looked at it.

So when there's a knock at your door, the wooden one that gave you more privacy then you’d had in months, that wakes you from your much needed slumber, you can't help but feel the irritation surge through you. Your hypothetical feathers bristled as you huff and puff and pull yourself out of bed, yanking a pair of breezy sleep pants up your chubby legs and a robe over your shoulders- not wanting to answer whoever it was in the near nude.

When you pull open the door- well, it was the one person who wouldn't have minded if you had greeted him in your panties.

“Poe?” You question, because your eyes still haven't adjusted, your mind still three fourths asleep and one fourth confused.

“Yeah, it’s me, sweetheart” And oh? Sweetheart? In that gravelly voice, tired and worn and fragile...you're instantly aware of what kind of state he’s in.

When you pull him inside, flipping on the light orb, and are able to see him. Clearly now; all bloody and bruised, you inhale sharply. His eye is blackened on the same side of his face that seems to be saturated in crusted crimson.

“Stars, Poe” You whisper as you crowd him, urging him to sit on the cot that’s still warm from your body heat. Poe frowns, pretty lips pulled down as he takes it, and you in. Your hair rumpled, your robe falling off your shoulder as you gather medical supplies from what seems like all over your small “room”

The first thing you do is take out a small capsule full of neon blue liquid from a jar and hand it to him. He takes it gratefully, tossing it down the hatch before you can even offer him water. Painkillers aren't the easiest to come by since they’ve been on the move.

“I woke you up, didn't I?” He inquires, after he swallows.

“Obviously” You answer as you step back into his orbit, close enough that he can smell your skin. That his eyes can trace each of the freckles that dot across your nose, your cheeks. You put your finger under his chin and tilt his head up, and fuck, isn't that a pretty view?

“I’m sorry” He whispers, hissing between his teeth as you, gently but deftly, begin to clean his head.

“Mmm, it’s fine. I’m awake now,  Kriff Poe, you look like warmed over shit. This gash in your hairline is going to need stitches” You’re focused, wiping and dabbing as you speak.

He didn't realize, until that moment, just how much he missed your voice.

“Your bedside manner is spectacular as ever” He grins as he says it, even though it hurts to do so. His busted lip is next on your itinerary.

“Well when you show up at my bedside and not the other way around, I’m pretty sure that changes up the rules”

“Didn't you miss me...at your bedside, that is?” He pushes on, he wants you soft and sweet for him but he knows from experience it takes a bit to get there. Especially since he’s been gone so long.

“Stop distracting me” You mutter. You're only half pretending to be completely focused on the task at hand, at this point you could probably stitch a wound with your eyes closed.

“M’sorry” He’s not. It’s selfish, but he really isn't. He’s not sorry for barging in on you and waking you up, or for sitting in your bed reeking of blood and days worth of dirt. How can he be, when this feels so good? Your soft little hands working at him, healing with every touch. There’s no hurt when he’s around you- only good.

The painkiller makes the edges fuzzy, makes the fact that your repeatedly pulling a needle through his skin seem mild. It’s not like it’s his first time getting sewn up, and he highly doubts it’ll be his last.

Poe can't stop staring at you, dark eyes hooded. Hungry in a way that he doesn't care to hide. Drinking you in, gulping. It’d been almost a month and he was dying to get his fill. Your round body, nothing but curves and dips that he was itching to touch, is mostly covered, but the robe is still hanging off your shoulder. Satin skin exposed, so pretty and pristine.

It’s almost out of his control when his hand skims up our arm, skin seeking out skin. His palm sears as it settles on your upper arm. The plush flesh so soft under his calloused hands that he’s almost worried that it would give if e pressed down too hard.

In the back of his mind he knows better, though. Recalls just how much you can take.

“Poe” You warn tightly, lashes fluttering as you shoot him a look. One that makes him chuckle, because you're not fooling him.

He’ll play, mostly because he wants to, but he knows you missed him as much as he missed you.

You wonder if he can feel the way that you're trembling, already shaking for him. It’s stupid, you feel stupid, and yet you cant stop it. You have healers hands, medic’s hands- and at least you can get them to stay still as you finish with his head, then his lip.

Going insane from the simplest touch, from the way that he rubs his thumb in circles over and over on your upper arm. You remember when that would have made you uncomfortable, big arms that you wanted covered at all times used to be a big no-no.

But with Poe it was different. He wasn't there to judge. He just wanted to feel.

You don't want to pull away, but you have to. Your brain is torn, but ultimately resorts back to it’s resting state: health driven. Medically inclined.

“You need to go take a shower, wash the rest of the blood out of your hair. The hot water will help to start to bring down the swelling” you instruct, and it would be how you talked to any patient. Except for the way you cradle the side of his face, your voice breathy as you touch is thick locks that are greasy. A bit tangled.

Poe nods, he knows your right. Knows he should have done that before he even came here…

“Can I come back?” It’s hopeful, he spits it quick- desperate.

It feels like someone yanked, hard, on a loose thread inside your chest.

“Always. You know that”

--

While he showers, forced to go a few huts over to the community bathrooms, you’re a flurry of anxious thoughts and movement. Tidying up the small space and yourself the best you can. You’d showered earlier in the evening, using the last of the last of the Obsidian Lily oil that you’d carried with you. You still smelled good, pretty.

Your hair was wild, but not untamable and you end up brushing it smooth. You hadn't shaved since before he had left and curse yourself for not doing so earlier. How were you supposed to know that he was coming back tonight? Growing up on your home planet, there was a moss based soap that everyone used that minimized body hair. But still…

You wished, like you had more than once, that you could be better for him.

You're trying to swallow that horrid ugly little thought back down when your door opens, Poe not bothering to knock this time. Barges in, and he seems a bit more like himself in that moment.

His hair has gone back to his natural curls, thick and bouncing, dripping and the navy, loose materialed sleep clothes hang on him. Dont cling to him with dirt and sweat...all and all, he looks so much better.

Or so you think. Until you see him in the right light, his top falling open and revealing his chest.

“Poe!” You exclaim and his thick brows furrow, he had been drying his hair with one of your spare towels.

“What?”

“Take off your shirt” You demand and one side of his lips pull up- a smirk that doesn't meet his eyes.

“You know if you ask me nicely, sweetheart, I’ll give you whatever you want” It’s a purr, a ploy. Many a person- male, female and Wookiee had fallen for that charm of his. Your own name thrown in that pot.

But he was hurt, had to be in pain, and that thought cut through the others that that coy tone had stirred up.

“I’m serious, that bruising looks deep- why didn't you show me this earlier? You could have internal bleeding! Something could be broken”

Poe would never let it be known, would deny it to the ends of the galaxy...but he loves the way you fret over him. It makes him feel warm.

“Okay- Okay!” He sighs as you start to reach for him demandingly, knowing that you'd pull it off yourself if he didn't. There's a handful of winces as he tugs the fabric up and over his shoulders. You’re silent the whole time, and then for a long moment after.

“Oh...baby”

It’s the first time you've called him that tonight. In weeks. The first time an affectionate name has slipped from your mouth.

You can't help it, can't help the overwhelming feeling of...horror. Of shock and worry. His tanned chest and abdomen are hard, dusted with ebony hair that matches that of which grows from his scalp...and covered in bruises.

Four huge patches of yellow, and black and purple and blue...he looks like a fucking water color painting. You’d seen him in some pretty bad states over the years, and this was up there with some of the worst. The worst? Well you didn't like to think about that particular bloody day.

You reach out, fingertips tracing the purple bloom on his left ribs.

“It’s not so bad” And that’s Poe in a nutshell. Always trying to convince not only the people around him, but himself, that things were going to be okay.

“That one’s a deep tissue bruise” You point out to him, fingers gently probing, trying to detect if anything is broken “It has to hurt like a bitch, it’s going to get worse before it feels better”

“Not so bad” He loves the way you're touching him, and his hand, that big paw, goes to our waist. Holding you. Urging you to keep going “Those painkillers are something else”

You snort through your nose. He’s something else- you tell him of that fact, often.

Poe can only be so patient, can only allow you to touch him, feather light, for so long. Eventually, his impulses win out. Just like the always do.

You’re almost done, checking his bones, when he grabs your hand, envelopes it in his large one. It’s still for a moment- the air sparkling with energy. His eyes are mahogany, dark wood. Deep forests as they stare down at you.

The want in them is raw, unbridled.

“I missed you, so fucking much. Every day. Have I told you that yet?” His words, mixed with the timbre- vehement. Honest. It makes you want to squirm.

“No- you haven't” You wish your voice at that moment wasn't so anxious, weak and almost a whisper. Something about Poe had always brought this out in you. He was so bright, beaming. Everyone around him flocked to him, in hopes of just being able to taste a fraction of his light.

Sometimes, you still couldn't believe that he let you fill your cup, that he sought you out, parted the crowd for you.

You had never been a weak woman; had never let your weight or your too loud opinions or your tendencies to be overly emotional make you feel small, or less then...but being with Poe-- the level of intimacy was suffocating.

You felt burned up. Icarus who flew too close to the sun, who willing allowed himself to be burned up just to feel its warmth for a moment...you could relate.

“I did” Poe continues “I missed the way you feel, the way you taste-”

You close your eyes at that, images of the last time you’d gotten a moment alone with him, of a head of dark curls between your legs, assaulting you. Smacking you right in the face.

“-You taste so good, Y/N. Should've bent you over when you came to say goodbye. You would've let me, huh? Let me get one more taste- you have no idea how bad I want to stick my tongue inside of you. All the time. No one else gets to taste, right?”

Poe is well on his way to being rock hard, already. It had taken all of him to not jerk off in the showers.

“No one, Poe. You know that” you’d meant to tell him to fuck off, that you didn't belong to him. That he couldn't just have you whenever he wanted you. That came out instead.

“I need you” He tells you, roughly “feel how bad I need you, Y/N, fuck” he still has your hand in his grasp, againts his chest. When he begins to slide it downward, you know where its destination will be.

That doesn't stop the thrill, the flip flop of our tummy that comes with Poe pressing your hand to his crotch, hard and hot. The thin pants the only layer between your palm and his erection.

“You’re the only one who gets me like this, I need you to make it better, Y/N”

The switch is flipped then. Hard.

You’re surging forward, and he's meeting you halfway, your mouths slotting together. Lips and tongue, so much tongue. He talks all about how you taste, but stars, the way he tastes is intoxicating. Want to suck the taste of him off his tongue, off his cock.

Its blurry and ferocious. Hands everywhere. Touching, grabbing. While you are gentle with him and his tattered body, he doesn't extend that same sentiment. He’s groping, fingertips bidding into flesh. Groaning into your mouth as he clutches your thick, dimpled thighs. Reaches around to squeeze our ample ass.

Best ass in the galaxy, he'd write fucking sonnets about it, if he was good at anything but flying.

Clothes are shed, way too fast you worn Poe who doesn't listen. Because he never does- and he ends up hissing in pain, and relenting, sitting on the cot and letting you take off his pants. Slowly. You make it up to him by standing over him, grabbing his hands and guiding them to strip you. Slow drags of fabric over supple skin.

You’re so fucking sexy, and he tells you so as he urges you into his lap, you stay on your shins to mind his middle. Poe worships with his words. His fingers and lips do their fair share of praying next.

“Fuck I missed these the most” your breasts are large, heavy globes. Puffy sweet nipples are pebbled and just begging to be sucked on. He licks them messy, wet before he does just that; sucks them into the hot cavern of his mouth.

“Oh, oh, ugh” Your hands are twined in his hair, dripping down onto his thighs already, when Poe feels the wetness drip on him, his fingers go searching, hand pressed in between your thighs. Fingers slipping through sopping, heated flesh. You grasp, a high sound as he presses up and circles your clit, firm and pointed.

It’s so good, pleasure shoots down your legs, all the way to the tips of your toes.

It’s not enough. For either of you.

“Poe, fuck. Please” He’s injured, and you know it hurts him to do, and you should scold him for it, but when he manhandles you, flips you easily onto your back to that he can climb on top and situates himself between your thighs-

It’s just as hot as it always is. You know you have to be dripping down onto the cot, can feel your slick covering your thighs, slipping down your crack.

Kiss, Kiss and Kiss and Kiss and Kiss and…

You get lost in it, caught up in the way his stubble burns. His fingers slide back inside you and he watches your face as he crooks them, pumps them fast. Finger fucks you until you’re sobbing, letting out animal sounds.

“Do you still have the implant” he pants, head swimming. He gets like this when you let him make you feel good- wants to go down on you, but wants to be inside you even more.

“No, I took it out in the last few weeks” You’re cheeky, even with his fingers burried inside you. He loves that about you, “Of course I do, Poe”

You’d be damned before you ever brought a child into this world.

Poe holds your thighs wide, staring between them, your pussy wet and clenching around nothing. You’re so vulnerable for him, it makes you dizzy. He lines himself up, clock head dipping into your slit, resting against your hole, when thrusts inside of you it’s in one fluid movement.

You mewl, so full it’s hard to breathe and Poe makes a punched out sound. Like he’d been shot by a blaster in the chest and his hips start undulating, needing to be deeper. It feels so right inside of you. Feels safe. He wants to tear into your softness, rip you open and nestle inside. Settle himself in your bones.

You let him take what he needs, how ever he needs it. On your back, on your hands and knees. You bounce on his cock when he gets to achy,letting him run his hands all over your tummy, sides, breasts.

He can have it all.

After, the two of you lay spent, cuddled tight to one and other in the small cot. Standard issue thrown over your naked bodies, the sound of the rain starting up again mixed with Poes breathing is a lullaby you hadn't known you needed.

This...thing between you might have started as a way for both of you to numb the pain. To seek support. But it was more now. You were so in love with him that it made your eyes sting if you thought about it for too long.

“You’ll always come back to me, right?” Its so, so timid that he almost doesn't catch it and you almost hope he’d miss it.

Poe does what he always does; tries to convince you both that it’s going to be okay.

“Always”

You let yourself believe him.

Well I wasn't expecting this to turn into pure porn, but here we are lmfao. I loved writing for Poe and there will definitely be more of him coming soon! If you are able- listening to All I Need by Radiohead and the Hot Like Fire cover by the XX really sets the tone for this. I actually dropped a line from hot like fire in this- who can point it out?lol

As usual, I'm going to ask that if you can please give me some feedback. I truly love interacting with my readers and would love to hear your thoughts and opinions.

#poe dameron #poe dameron x plus size reader #poe dameron smut #poe dameron x reader #star wars #oscar issac

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die, Chapter 8

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 8)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Roman and Logan reconnect. Remus and Virgil find some common ground. There are too many secrets--but the royals finally expose a big one to the Crofter brothers: the one that ultimately led to Logan's imprisonment and the destruction of their family.

Meanwhile, Janus is looking for some information from his treasure trove--and Patton is more than happy to provide it to him.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), Moceit (Patton/Janus) and future Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: I’m nervous about this one, ‘cause it sucks? But I also don’t care cause there are cuddles for my fave ships and I do what I want.

I am, however, SO SORRY FOR THIS TERRIBLE CLIFFHANGER, but the next chapter will come out much sooner. Promise. XD

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1033, A.A.

Logan asked Virgil to leave. With murder in his eyes, Virgil acquiesced.

And when the door clicked shut...they were alone.

For long moments, the silence was deafening. They sat there, staring at each other—Logan seated on the edge of the bed, and the king with the blankets pooled around his waist, bare chested and staring at Logan as if...

Logan's mouth suddenly went dry as his heart seemed to grow in his chest, swelling to the point that it compressed his lungs against his ribcage, preventing him from drawing breath.

Silently, Roman extended his hand, palm up. It took Logan abruptly back to the visitations in his dreams, anchored by the feel of human contact he thought he had only before imagined. The reality of it was so much more, so intense—so necessary he could hardly stand to think about it.

And yet, with the king's silent offer, Logan was helpless to resist it, reaching out to slide his hand into Roman's. Their fingers meshed with the ease of experience—through dreams or through the history that had been stolen from him, Logan could not say, but that alien ecstasy of skin on skin felt so right it hurt.

“I have dreamed of this for so long.”

Logan looked up from where he'd been staring at their joined hands, spellbound. For a day now, he'd been in the presence of his Green Man, seen his true face, but this was the first time he'd actually been alone with him since...

“So have I.” he confessed. “Every time you came to me.”

Roman blinked, confused—then a light went on behind his eyes, making them snap with something electric and so alive it made Logan's chest tight.

“They...were real.” he realized. “I wasn't dreaming.”

“You were, but... we were inhabiting the same dream at the same time.” Logan explained softly. “Knowing who you are now, it's unsurprising. Conduits cannot use the magic within them, but it does make certain forms of involuntary magic possible—such as dream walking.”

“I've never done it with anyone else before.”

Logan frowned. “That is unusual. If that was the case, the ability would be consistent.”

He paused, then felt something in the core of him tremble with...a feeling he could not name, even reluctantly. It was light and fragile and enormously powerful—and Logan wasn't totally sure if it was good or bad.

“Did...did we share dreams...before?” he asked hesitantly.

Roman smiled, sad, tremulous, and hesitant in his own right.

“It's...a complicated thing to explain.” he confessed. “I don't have all the answers.”

“Do you have any?”

“I do. If you want them.”

“Why would I not want them?” Logan asked.

Something slid through Roman's eyes, dimming their light, and it ripped through Logan with a fury that had no root, no real cause.

Only that something dared to darken his demeanor, and with terrifying clarity Logan knew he would even destroy himself were he to discover that he was the cause of it.

“Because I'm a royal?” he pointed out. “Because my family did this to your people...because I did this to you?”

“Falsehood.”

Roman smiled, and Logan felt suddenly powerful. He felt...he felt, with no anchor for any of these feelings. It was deeply disconcerting—and it was also intoxicating.

“Hearing that again is almost as comforting as hearing you call me an idiot.” Roman laughed, squeezing his hand. “I missed it.”

Logan felt dizzy with the gaping hole in his chest, the warmth of Roman's touch—the world, every breath, every second that ticked by, it all suddenly felt like too much to hold inside of him. If he could remember, maybe he could bear it, maybe he could handle the things that his fingers and his heart seemed to know as he clung to the king's hand and stood on the edge of a chasm of years that stretched between them with no memory of how it got there.

“I do not remember,” he managed to choke out, “but...I think I did, too.”

“Oh, Starlight...”

Roman pulled him forward, and suddenly Logan was being held, cradled against acres of bare flesh and solid muscle. His lungs were filled with the scent of warm cotton and sweet skin, tinged with something that reminded him of fresh earth and damp stone—not the rank stone of the dungeons, but granite and petrichor, fresh from a gentle, cleansing rain.

Logan could not have stopped himself from clinging as Roman held him, not even if he wanted to—and he didn't want to stop.

“Tell me?” A question, whispered against his shoulder as he was held in strong arms and drowned in the warmth of safety and affection.

Roman did not hesitate to open his mouth and start talking—and he kept talking until there was nothing left.

Until Logan finally knew everything.

********** 1022, A.A.

“Okay, wait, so—familiars are human?”

Logan laughed—one of the greatest sounds in the world, as far as Roman was concerned. It was rare as diamonds, soft as a whisper, and always so filled with bright, gleaming emotion that it made him happy even if he was having the worst possible day.

Roman lived for his laugh—among other things. Logan's eyes, Logan's intelligence...Father called it that 'special age,' told him that he'd started noticing how certain boys made him feel when he was thirteen, but this wasn't just...

Logan was younger than him by two whole years—it might as well be decades. Besides, Logan probably liked girls, and oh yeah, he was a Weaver. Being one of the Necromata was one thing, but Weavers were revered among his people. Even if liking a necromancer wasn't a crime, Logan's family wouldn't want him to have anything to do with an outsider like Roman. He'd learned that much in two years of friendship with him.

Two years of hiding how he really spent his afternoons away from the tutors. Two years of learning the truth about how good and kind and generous the Necromata were...how good and kind and generous Logan was.

“Yes, familiars are human.” Logan replied, sweeping the flat stone marker of the grave they were tending. “Virgil—my little brother, the one I call Stormcloud—is my Spider, the keeper of the Loom of Memory.”

Roman risked peeking out from under the hood of the cloak hiding his face to follow the tilt of Logan's head to the eight year old boy on the other side of the open field. He was small and slight, with a shock of black hair like Logan's, save that his gleamed blue-black in the sun where Logan's shone with the most subtle red-brown hints of dark cherry wood. When he faced them, beaming up at the massive redhead that Logan had identified as their grandfather, Roman could see that Virgil's eyes were dark compared to Logan's startling blue.

Over the last couple of years, Logan had gradually shared the True Names of his whole family with Roman. Outlaw was his grandfather, Josiah. Rainbow was his pari, Talyn. Joan was his geni, Elliot. He'd trusted Roman with that knowledge...but Virgil, his little brother, the person Logan loved more than life itself (and possibly more than jam tarts), he'd protected.

Until now. Now, he'd let Roman in all the way—in more ways than one, given where they were.

While Logan finished sweeping the headstone clean, Roman watched the countless other families among Logan's tribe attending similar areas just like they were. Some were cleaning other graves, others were scouring the ground for signs of unmarked ones, others still were tending the trees in the open field that needed pruning or fertilization to grow healthy and strong over the graves they stood as markers for.

The Festival of the Forgotten that came every autumn was a day Roman had only ever known as one of solemn remembrance for those who had fallen to the Animator's slaughter a thousand years ago. He got dressed up in his formal attire, stood by Father's side while he gave speeches at the palace memorial, and basically spent the day being as quiet and unobtrusive as possible.

Logan had treated the whole thing with open disdain and offense when Roman explained it to him—then told him what the real Festival was all about.

The Festival wasn't happening for a week yet, but the Necromata were already preparing. For Logan's people, it was a week long celebration of the dead that involved hard work and loving attention. The field they were in had once been a graveyard in the time before the Animator, and many of the dead who lay in repose below the earth had been lost to time. Some had no names to be remembered, others had no lineage to go after them, still more were buried carelessly without even a marker to their name.

The Necromata took custody of these dead, trying to give them remembrance even if they couldn't give them names. All week, they carefully cleaned the field up, tended what few graves they could identify, looked for others—and at the end, had a giant party full of food, music, and drink. They decorated graves, left offerings for the departed, and kept the forgotten souls company with laughter and song. They would soak the earth and the air with enough joy and celebration to ensure that these lost ones would have comfort enough to take them through the year, when they would do it all over again.

Roman had been humbled by the true story of the Festival—and so Logan had invited him to attend. Both the party, and the stewardship of the dead.

“Familiars enhance the power of their necromancer in different ways.” Logan continued once Roman had given him his attention again. “A Black Dog has their Wolf, who acts as their spirit guide through their visions. A Reaper has their Raven, who helps them take the pain away from those they heal or release—and a Weaver has their Spider, who spins the fibers for the Loom of Memory. When a Weaver reaches the Loom, it's very much like the real thing: a visual representation, where a soul to be resurrected is mounted like a half finished tapestry, and the Weaver completes it with the connection he has to his Spider.”

“What does the fiber represent?” Roman asked as Logan stepped back, dropping his broom and moving to crouch before the worn headstone while Roman quickly followed suit. “The fiber your Spider spins?”

“Focus. Virgil gives me his focus to aid me in retrieving the memories I need to restore the soul to life. With his mind working in tandem with mine, it's like I'm weaving with a shuttle wound in spider silk, and it allows me to finish my work much more quickly. It ensures the tapestry lasts longer once it's taken off the loom before it unravels...before the soul I raise to life slips away again.”

Roman didn't like the way Logan's features fell a little at that. Ever since his Warping, Roman knew that Logan was troubled by the idea that there were people he couldn't fully resurrect—those not meant to die, he could save, but those whose soul had slipped through the opening in the Barrier carved for them at the moment of their death? Those were temporary—and the few times he'd half restored a soul like that as part of his training lingered with him.

Knowing he could say nothing to comfort him, instead Roman turned his attention to the smooth granite surface before them.

“You said this grave was new, right?”

Logan nodded, shifting to kneel while Roman remained in his crouch—and with hardly a care, rested an arm on Roman's knee so he could lean forward and peer at the gravestone. The touch made Roman's heart flip in his chest, but he tried to focus on the task at hand.

“Grandpap discovered it last year while they were digging out the roots of a dead tree. We replanted it over there to better mark the site because the stone's been worn so flat.”

Roman frowned, reaching down to run his fingers over the stone. “This poor person will never have a name now.”

“Sadly, no.” Logan agreed, reaching down to lay his hand against Roman's atop the stone. “Whatever epitaph was on this stone was worn away hundreds of years ago—“

“What's that?”

Roman, reluctantly, slid his hand out from under Logan's to run his fingers along the base of the stone.

“See this ridge? There's something beneath it...here, help me...”

The earth was damp, and for a moment Roman was left to dig on his own, fingers sinking into the loamy earth at the base of the stone. In truth, it was fun—feeling the grit under his fingernails, the ache of muscles as he clawed at the dirt.

Only when he started to uncover a broader base on the stone did Logan move to start helping him dig.

After about five minutes, they had exposed a second, broader slab beneath the stone. This one, heavily covered by dirt, seemed to be part of a larger piece that appeared to just...keep going.

“This isn't a headstone.” Logan realized. “It's a burial vault.”

Roman nodded. “I actually know what those are—big boxes for dead bodies, right? So they don't rot in the dirt. For the coffin to sit in!”

“Correct.” Logan murmured. “What's more, it's not buried all that deep. Perhaps, once upon a time, it wasn't buried at all.”

Roman thought about the last burial vault he'd seen—that of an adviser in his father's court council. He hadn't been buried in the royal mausoleum, being of common birth, but he'd been given a special place in the surrounding cemetery: an above ground burial vault, bearing the royal seal and just beneath it...

“This isn't a headstone.” he realized aloud, furiously going back to digging.

“That's what you said—”

“No, I mean this part! The crest of the royal family sits here, not the epitaph! We have burial vaults like these in the palace cemetery, and the name is always under this piece! Help me, Logan—we can find out who this is!”

Glancing to the side, he was pleased to see Logan adjusting his glasses, a restless sign of pleasure as he crowded closer to Roman's side.

“If the name was not exposed to the elements before it was buried, it might still be preserved.” he agreed.

“So we can help them?”

Logan nodded eagerly, making Roman grin. He was so happy, and it warmed Roman's heart—but so did the fact that they might actually be able to give some poor, forgotten dead necromancer back their name. The fact that Roman, himself, was helping to do this thing for one of the Necromata, an heir to the throne helping these good and caring and generous people that just wanted to make sure that the dead were remembered...

It gave him so much hope for the future. Logan gave him this hope by letting him in.

That was the moment Roman knew...

Refocusing on their new task, Roman began to dig in earnest. Logan shifted to reach for the broom, trying to scrape away the earth from the stone vault with the end of its handle. Gradually, they worked down a couple of inches until the edges of a very clear engraving became visible. First the frame, then what looked like...

“Numbers. These may be the dates of birth and death, if this person died Before Animator.” Logan murmured, jostling Roman in encouragement. “Keep going.”

Voices buzzed around them. The cool autumn air stung Roman's nose. His fingers were sore, cuticles caked with dirt. Logan was pressed securely to his side, digging tirelessly alongside him.

Time stopped. Nothing existed but the two of them, crowded close and digging, all heavy breath and exertion and movement, bumping and jostling in a strange rhythm that blurred the line between where one ended and the other began...

“...Roman.”

Roman blinked, shaking his head. He glanced at Logan, who'd gone ashen as he stared down at the inches of earth they had uncovered.

With a start, he realized they had finished. There, in worn but very clear lettering, was the epitaph of a forgotten corpse. Beneath the confusing dates of birth and death, there was a name.

Reading it, Roman could feel the blood leaving his face just as it had left Logan's.

“This...cannot be right.” Logan murmured.

“No, it can't.” Roman agreed softly, flopping artlessly back on his behind. Logan collapsed with him, half across Roman's lap, with Roman too stunned to fully take it in. “You said this was a burial ground for the Necromata.”

“It is.”

Roman met Logan's gaze, something sick and panicky forming a lump of ice in his throat.

“Then why, in the Seven Hells, is one of my ancestors buried here?”

**********

1033, A.A.

Few things in the world scared Remus—but that scrawny little necromancer fucking terrified him. The cadet wasn't much better, mostly because they were brothers.

Remus was smart. It was a problem, had been his whole life. For all that he knew, easily and quickly, there were few things he really understood, important things like personal boundaries and courtesy and the difference between things that were fascinating and things that were disturbing.

Brothers, however, he understood. Which was why the cadet was so fucking scary: look at either one of them wrong, and the other would take your fucking head off to defend them.

So Remus stayed in the shadows, watching the pipsqueak stomp around outside Roman's suite like he wanted to get caught by some other member of the palace guard, cursing just loud enough to be heard but not understood, vibrating with tension and so furious the air seemed to ripple around him with heat waves rising from his skin.

“Why is your brother alone with mine?”

Scary as the situation was, Remus found some deeply satisfying pleasure in watching Virgil Storm leap about six feet into the air with fright, choking on the scream he fought to stifle.

“Shadow's Balls, you miserable son of a bitch, what the hell are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack?” he spat, clutching his chest with both hands.

Remus shrugged. “Hey, not my fault if you don't have the nerves for guard duty, toy soldier. Should've tried hiding in the kitchens instead. The wash boys bring the dungeon prisoners their daily meal.”

“I'm not guarding anything.” Virgil shot back, turning to glare at the closed door of Roman's suite. “I was sent away. By my own damn brother—doesn't remember shit, and he's still treating me like a little kid.”

“He's your big brother—that shit doesn't change with age.” Remus huffed. “Ro Ro's got a half life on me, and he makes use of ever second of it.”

Virgil looked at him strangely. “A half life? I thought you were twins.”

Remus shrugged. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

“Can you speak in anything but sarcasm?”

“Can you address the crown prince with a little respect?”

“Not when I've seen the kind of people you sneak around with. Cadets pull a lot of graveyard shifts.”

Damn—the game of questions was just starting to get fun. The toy soldier wasn't just cute, he was feisty and totally lacked any fear of the throne. That was a problem, because Remus was actually starting to like the little shit.

“You're lucky I'm into that.” Remus quipped, but finally rolled his eyes and leaned back against the opposite wall of the corridor. “Fine: we're half-twins: identical, born one hour apart on the cusp. Roman came at eleven and I came at midnight. We celebrate our birthdays on the same day to hide that fact.”

Virgil went eerily still—and Remus's estimation of the kid went up a couple notches because of it.

“You do remember I'm Necromata, right?” he asked slowly. “Everyone in this castle knows you and your brother are both well versed in the ways of necromancy. You know what we can do with half-twins.”

Remus sobered, wondering for one irrational second if he'd been wrong. Wrong about the scrawny necromancer, wrong about the toy soldier, wrong about the limited amount of sense Roman had in his thick skull...

“Does anyone else know?” Virgil asked in the silence of Remus's brain spinning away from him.

Remus shook his head. “No, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“...you gonna kill me, Highness?”

Remus rushed him then, pinning Virgil to the wall with a hand wrapped around his throat.

“Only if I have to.” he warned quietly. He could hear his own heart beating in his ears, but it was slow, steady, far too calm. He could already imagine those gleaming dark eyes going flat and dead, that lovely pale skin going ashen as he choked the life from him, hear the bubble from his lungs as they gave up their last breath...

He'd do it. He'd sleep easy. He wouldn't regret a thing.

Not for Roman.

“I'm a little brother, too.” Virgil reminded him quietly, breathlessly—and for one split second, as Virgil reached up to wrap his hand around Remus's wrist, gentle but firm, he was kind of breathtaking. His pulse was jumping in his throat, every exhale was shaky and his lips were parted as he sucked down oxygen...

Remus let him go, but he didn't move away. He couldn't quite make himself, not when he suddenly felt like swallowing the terrified little spider whole.

“No one can know what Roman really is.” he whispered. “No one.”

“Make you a deal,” Virgil shot back, “you protect my big brother, and I'll protect yours.”

Remus narrowed his eyes...but it was what he wanted, after all, so he offered Virgil his hand to shake.

“Mutually assured destruction it is.” Remus agreed. “Can't trust a royal and all.”

Virgil had just wrapped his hand around Remus's when he blinked, startled. “I...yeah?”

Laughing, Remus shook his hand firmly, and let the world fall away for just a moment. His grip made it easy: firm, warm, strong.

“You're right about us, toy soldier: Roman and I? We're both pretty into necromancy. That means we know more than most about the royal family—at least I do. Roman...I'm not quite sure what he remembers anymore.”

“About what?” Virgil asked.

Remus released Virgil's hand, then sighed and shifted to press his back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the ground.

“Park it, Storm. There's a few things you need to know about my brother...and yours.”

**********

1022, A.A.

“It has to be a mistake.”

“It's not.” Logan insisted, reaching up to tug at his mask—he would have adjusted his glasses if he'd been wearing them, but he couldn't with the domino that covered his features, heavily adored with thick black feathers. Roman reached up to stop him before he could remove it.

“Can't be rude to the dead, can we?” Roman chided gently.

That got a smile out of Logan, despite the circumstances—almost as good as his laughter, and once again the spirit of the evening swept over him.

Five days had passed since the discovery in the graveyard. Earlier in the day, this day, he'd done his duty: donned his formal dress, stood beside his father, pretended to be solemn and respectful while, all the while, he'd been vibrating with excitement for this.

The final day of the Festival—the final night.

The real Festival, an actual festival with music and food and costumes. The Field of the Forgotten was now clean and well cared for, lit up with torches and free floating luminaries. There were tables laden with food and drink and plates and cups—large for the living, smaller ones for graveside offerings. It was a celebration of life lost, a gift to the dead.

And the costumes—they were so much fun, and yet even these carried meaning. Roman hid his face behind a domino adorned with white feathers to Logan's black, and rejected his name to call himself Muse for the evening. Because these souls they honored no longer had names or faces, forever lost to time, the living hid their own with masks and costumes, gave up their true names and identities for the night out of respect.

It was magical, all of it. He enjoyed himself, drinking sparkling cider and eating meat skewers, burning his mouth on sweet-searing phoenix taffy, wrapped in wax paper printed with tiny black skulls. He even pocketed some for later, vowing to enjoy them slowly and remember the forgotten as he let the cinnamon tingle sting his tongue.

He celebrated instead of mourning, gave his own joy to the forgotten dead for a year, and for the first time dreamed of being king one day instead of crown prince so he could show this to the citizens. After all, they would understand if they knew—how much the Necromata cared about the dead, how hard they worked for those who were gone because it made things so much better for the people that were still here.

They weren't messengers of death, they were guardians of life, and one day Roman would set them free. He'd show everyone...he'd watch Logan stand beside him before the whole kingdom and smile when he realized that he was no longer feared, but loved. Just as he deserved to be.

Smile like he was smiling now. At Roman, because he stopped him from removing his mask, and for one really stupid second, Roman almost hoped Logan would...maybe reach for his hand or press against his side like he had earlier in the week, huddled before the final resting place of Thomas Roman I.

Roman's namesake. Roman's ancestor.

“Can we be sure?” Roman asked, the brief euphoria stolen from him as they walked side by side, trying to be discreet about returning to the grave in question. “I mean...what's the likelihood that a necromancer would name their child after a king? It's done, you know.”

“Not among our people.” Logan insisted with a shake of his head. “The royal family are our oppressors, have been for generations. As much as it pains me to say it, my people view the royal bloodline much as the population at large view necromancers. They are cutthroat, bloodthirsty, power hungry demons that will stop at nothing to see every single one of us destroyed. No parent would ever do that to a child.”

Roman felt a little like he'd been punched in the gut, but he said nothing. Logan wasn't great with feelings—better, a little, since his Warping, but it always made him squirmy to try and confront them, in himself or in anyone else.

“I want to change that.” Roman replied quietly, vowing he'd say no more on it.

“Falsehood.”

“What?”

“Falsehood.” Logan repeated, as if he hadn't just called Roman a liar. For a second, Roman wondered if he'd done or said something that...oh, gods, did Logan know how Roman felt? Was it bothering him that badly? Were they—

“You will change that.” Logan pressed on before Roman's thoughts could spiral any further. “This is simple fact.”

“Lo—er, Starlight, I appreciate that you have so much faith in me—“

“It's not faith, Muse. It's fact.” Logan insisted, stopping in his tracks. “This revelation is confusing, life changing...dangerous for what it could represent, but the facts are thus: your ancestor is buried on sacred Necromata ground. For generations beyond the Animator, we have taken great pains to ensure that no outsider has ever been interred among us for the simple reason that necromancers cannot be resurrected because we have no souls—it would be sacrilege to allow a resurrection to disturb the rest of our dead. This can mean only one thing: the royal family is either of our tribe, or of theirs.”

“Whose?”

“The Lazari.”

Roman's stomach dropped clear through his shoes and into the sacred ground of the Necromata. “Seven Hells, do you think that's truly possible? W-w-what about the Animata?”

Logan shook his head, then turned to keep walking. They were nearly at the grave—the pair of them had hastily covered up the name they had unearthed, pressing the dirt flat and scattering some leaves to make it look like nothing had been disturbed.

“The Animata are not necromancers—not all of them were even fully human, given their twin souls. It would be easy to resurrect one of them. No, the only other creature it could possibly be is a Lazari.”

“But they're a myth—they're not even real.”

“Myth to you, theoretical to us.” Logan replied as they reached the grave. Sitting in front of the tombstone, he beckoned Roman to join him. “The Lazari are, essentially, an evolution of Weavers. They cannot merely recall the dead to life, they can change the fate of the dead. Their power is such that they can weave a soul not from memory, but from the Spider's Thread. They can change fate.”

Roman fell silent, staring down at the careworn tombstone before them. Reaching out, he ran his hands over the smooth stone that once likely bore a royal crest—the crest of his family, above the name of his ancestor.

“How can you change fate?” he asked softly, forcing himself not to look at the boy beside him. Not when he felt so...weird. So full, like his lungs were being crushed against the inside of his ribcage by his heart and his soul, and everything he was feeling.

He wanted to not be of the house of Sanders. He wanted Logan to not be of the Necromata. He wanted to live in a world where nothing separated them, where one day he could court Logan as proudly as his own father had courted his dad, as proudly as his dad had courted his mother...

Roman wanted, wanted, wanted in that moment, and he was afraid to look at Logan...suddenly afraid of what would happen if he did.

“Knowledge.”

Logan's quiet utterance nearly stole his resolve, his head twitching, but remaining down as Logan continued.

“Knowledge is how. It is an incomparably valuable, multi-purpose tool that is instrumental in identifying and solving any problem.”

He paused—then Roman felt his hand on his shoulder.

Don't don't don't don't don't...

Roman looked up, and found Logan meeting his gaze with a look that briefly stole his breath.

“If you're worried about getting hurt? Then seek knowledge. It is our greatest weapon...and our greatest defense.”

The words felt oddly weighty, like he was trying to make Roman remember something for later. That, or...

He couldn't give the feeling words, and so he didn't. He held it inside himself, embraced the crushing weight against his lungs and the way his entire body felt too small for his bones.

“And the Lazari would be a pretty powerful weapon—especially if they were members of the royal family.” Roman mused softly.

A necromancer on the throne—if it was true, it could destroy his family. However...

It could save Logan's people. If the world knew that one of the royal family had been a member of his tribe? Maybe the Necromata could finally be free to live in the open, free and unafraid.

Looking into Logan's face, Roman realized there was no decision to make.

“Where will we find it?” he asked finally. “This knowledge...the knowledge we need to prove it, one way or the other?”

Logan fell silent at that. He still had that strangely intense look in his eyes, high color in his cheeks—and at some point, his hand had found its way off Roman's shoulder and down to mesh with Roman's fingers.

Roman's face felt warm, and the world felt kind of spinny.

“We start with the king.”

**********

1033, A.A.

“What're you thinkin' about, Janny?”

Janus drew a deep breath—not quite a sigh, but very close to it, not over Patton's question but his own inability to function properly.

He should be looking over the shoulders of his lieutenants, currently investigating the king's death. What he was doing was walking through the North Gardens in the dark with Patton, their hands firmly linked together between them. Patton even went so far as to swing them occasionally, making something deep in Janus's core twist in a manner that made his baser impulses nearly impossible to control.

“Nothing I can discuss with you.” he replied.

“Oh, wow. You're telling the truth—it must be bad.” Patton breathed.

Janus squeezed Patton's fingers, uncertain if he was trying to reassure Patton or himself.

“You have no idea,” he admitted softly, “and if I get my way? You never will.”

There was no immediate answer as Janus scanned their surroundings, double and triple checking to make sure they weren't being spied on. He was well aware of the fact that Logan had already absconded with the cadet—his brother, now that was never going to stop being funny to Janus—and could give a damn. He knew Logan well enough to know he'd be careful...he had to admit, reluctantly, that Storm was a damn capable soldier...and by holding up the pretext that the prisoners were safely ensconced in their quarters...

He could steal this time with Patton. Stealing, sneaking, taking things he had no right to, things that didn't belong to him.

“You're gonna ask me things again, huh?”

Janus stopped dead in his tracks, looking at Patton sharply. Patton, the gods love him, was just smiling that smile he always had when he told Janus things that Janus didn't ask for, much less the things Janus did make a point of requesting.

“That's not why we're out here.” he replied instead of rebuffing Patton's assertion. It felt more important, even if it wasn't...

It wasn't.

Patton giggled—actually giggled at that—and wrapped Janus's hand in both of his.

“Janny, I asked you to spend some time with me, remember?”

How could Janus forget that desperate plea, wide eyed and beaming through the tear tracks that lingered on his cheeks after he was done crying in Janus's arms earlier, done warning Janus about what was happening to Logan in another part of the castle? How could Janus have ever said no?

How could Janus admit that, even if Patton hadn't asked, Janus would have come anyway—just because he couldn't stay away?

“You couldn't possibly know I wanted to...ask you things, as you put it.” Janus pointed out.

Patton stepped closer, looking up into Janus's face from his diminutive height. The moon was nearly gone, but its few stray rays caught his mop of curls, forcing Janus to ball his hands into fists to resist the urge to touch one.

But, of course, because Patton still held one of his hands, he only succeeded in holding on tighter, sending a ripple of warmth and softness through Janus that ought to be more troubling than it was.

“I always know.” Patton pointed out gently. His dark blue eyes were black in the low light, his face shining and open and so dazzling it made his very bones hurt with the primal dragon's urge to grab him and hide him and claim claim claim mine mine mine...

Patton sank to the ground, tugging gently on Janus's captive hand. Janus followed—but rather than sit on the ground as Janus did, Patton got to his knees and immediately deposited himself in Janus's lap with a merry giggle that Janus swore lit up the garden if only for a heartbeat.

Janus let go Patton's hand, wrapped his arms around his waist instead, and felt the dragon in his bones settle back to sleep.

“You always know.” he finally echoed with a sigh and narrowed eyes that did nothing to taint Patton's bright smile. “Fine, I want to ask you things.”

Visibly pleased with himself, Patton rested his hands on Janus's shoulders, shut his eyes, and took a slow, deep breath.

“Okay. I'm ready.”

Janus gave Patton a gentle squeeze, taking a deep breath of his own.

“I need to know how to kill the necromancer.”

Patton didn't move or speak for a long time. Janus just held on, waiting.

His eyes slammed open—solid, pale sky blue and glowing faintly in the dark instead of the impossibly dark shade Janus knew so well.

In hushed, faraway tones, Patton spoke...and Janus listened closely.

#logan sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #sanders sides #necromancer au #fic #my name is liz and i swear to god i'll fic again #this is all the artist's fault i'm just a hapless writer that stumbled across it

[themagiciansreccenter]

Author Spotlight: @ceeainthereforthat​

Every week we interview a writer from The Magicians fandom. If you would like to be interviewed or you want to nominate a writer, get in touch via our ask box.

First things first, tell us a little about yourself.

THE DREADED QUESTION! I'm a novelist, in my public persona, and so I literally write all day long.

How long have you been writing for?

For years, but it was off and on until 2014, when I suddenly just started writing all the time. I started with fanfiction, I wrote original stuff, and I've recently come back to fanfic after being on hiatus for a couple years.

What inspired you to start writing for The Magicians?

I got into the fandom late--my first live episode was 4.11--and I never saw a season finale that so desperately needed to be erased by as much transformative fiction as possible. I was so upset. I went into reading fanfiction to help me move away from the heartbreak of 4.13.

And fic is infectious. Once I started reading stories, I started getting an idea for one. And one day I just dashed off a really short scene of queliot thirst, thinking, I'll just get this out of my system. But it didn't work that way, and now I have a universe alteration timeline 41 story set in an alternate first year at Brakebills that's pushing 70k and it's not done yet.

Who is/are your favourite character(s) to write? What it is about them that makes them your favourite?

I am really torn. Do I love writing Quentin, who resonates so deeply with the part of me that doesn't realize that getting out of bed every day is an act of bravery? I love writing Quentin, because I feel like his headspace is so familiar--but since I'm in control of writing it, I can write these moments where Quentin comes up against his monsters and persistent feelings of self-doubt and show how he resists them by having faith in the people around him.

...Or do I love writing Eliot, who resonates so deeply with the part of me who went through growing up with people who were hostile to who you were, who you loved, how you were different, and how he walked away from all that bullshit and never looked back, and made himself what he wanted to be? I want to clutch Eliot to my chest because he seems like the typical queen bee meanie at first, and he's good at saying, "I don't care" while at the same time doing things that show that no, he cares a hell of a lot, but he's not going to get hurt again if he can help it--but since I'm in control of writing it, I can write these moments where Eliot walks up to what he fears most, and instead of slaying the monster, he embraces vulnerability and the risk of hurt in hope of something incredible.

WHICH DO I PICK? HELP

Do you have a preference for a particular season/point in time to write about?

So far I have been writing about the very beginning. First year. Season One. Where it all started, but different. Writing for The Magicians is a surprise for me because I'm usually writing Alternate Universe RomCom fics, but all my ideas are much more closely related to the Magicians TV universe than I usually ever write.

Are you working on anything right now? Care to give us an idea about it?

Oh boy. Two things! The first one is Enfleurage, the story that was supposed to just be a little flash/slice of (horny!) life between Quentin and Eliot,  but wound up exploding into this plotty epic fantasy. I didn't know what it was going to be when I started it, and so it starts out feeling like a flirty romance fic, and then I found the plot and went, "oh well, I guess I'm writing a longfic."

The other is a series of incredibly porny short stories. The series is called Hedonism for Beginners, and like Enfleurage, it was just supposed to be this simple one-shot. And then I wrote a sequel. And now i have a short list of stories that happen next in the series. I started working on a new story really recently, and ... it seems to want to have a plot. But I think it can progress gradually with each story I write.

How long is your “to do list”?

That's it. I don't have any more ideas for Magicians fic. *knocks on wood*

What is your favourite fic that you’ve written for The Magicians? Why?

Enfleurage and Hedonism for Beginners are the only fics I've written for the Magicians. I think I'm always going to be fond of Enfleurage, because it came in a time in my life where I needed to prove to myself that I know how to write a story, and I can trust my characters and my own sense of story to tell something that will keep people entertained.

Many writers have a fic that they are passionate about that doesn’t get the reception from the fandom that they hoped for. Do you have a fic you would like more people to read and appreciate?

There aren't as many hits on Hedonism for Beginners when you compare it to the audience for Enfleurage. I know that's partially because I locked the series away so it can only be seen by logged in members of the archive, and that a lot of people who enjoy the fic on Ao3 don't actually have accounts there. I think it might also have a narrower audience because the sex is explicit and the story really revolves around writing the smuttiest smut I can manage, ha! and so that probably limits the audience too.

What is your writing process like? Do you have any traditions or superstitions that you like to stick to when you’re writing?

My writing process is all over the place, and it depends on what i'm doing. Usually I outline but for the Magicians fics I've worked on so far, I've been working without much of an outline at all, just seeing where the characters and my understanding of stories takes me.

For tools I use a combination of scrivener and google docs. I'm really nuts about scrivener and I have an elaborate project setup complete with color coding and other bells and whistles. I write the first draft of a scene in Scrivener, and then I copy/paste it to google docs for alpha/beta reader feedback and do editing on it there.

I also track wordcount - I don't try to make a wordcount goal every day; I'm just tracking the work I actually did that day so when I feel like I've been wasting time doing nothing I have proof that's not true.

Do you write while the seasons are airing or do you prefer to wait for hiatus? How does the ongoing development of the canon influence and inspire your writing process?

I didn't start writing these stories until hiatus (and i don't know if I'm going to keep watching for season 5, I'm still really angry) but I think If I was still in progress on a long fic and the season started again, that's cool, but I'm writing for what inspired me at the moment of that first spark of an idea. Maybe something in the new season will be pertinent and maybe it won't. I guess I'll know when I get there.

What has been the most challenging fic for you to write?

The stories in Hedonism for Beginners are the more challenging stories to write. I don't precisely shy away from writing sex scenes, but I did kind of gloss over them a little, and I really felt like I wasn't bringing everything to the page that I could. I'm talking about the more frank descriptions of the action going beyond metaphor and feeling cues into exactly what they did with the envelope (and getting more adventurous with the kind of sex i'm portraying,) but I'm also talking about getting more intimate with the person whose point of view we're experiencing while reading--trying to get into the skin and mind and heart of the character, so we can see how that sex scene changes things for them.

It's been beneficial already. I can see that they've improved me as a writer in general--that working on writing better sex made me use skills that apply to everything I write.

Are there any themes or tropes that you like particularly like to explore in your writing?

I think I'm not good at seeing the recurring themes and tropes in the things I write. But I haven't ever written a story where nobody in the story falls in love. There's always a romance in everything that I write, even if it's not the main point of the story.

Are there any writers that inspire your work? Fanfiction or otherwise?

I think I gain inspriation from everything I read lately. Fiction, fanfiction, essays, non-fiction--it all helps to fill the well and inspire me.

What are you currently reading? Fanfiction or otherwise?

I'm not reading much fiction right now - I'm currently reading a book about city planning and how states try to make living spaces according to the ways in which they have attempted to make their citizens legible, through census data and other records, and how it doesn't always work. After that I'm going to read a book authored by a member of the Black Panthers during the Black Power movement (it's for a book I'm writing)

I'm having decision paralysis on my next novel to read. I'm really behind on novels, it's really quite sad.

What is the most valuable piece of writing advice you’ve ever been given?

Don't hoard your best ideas. Use them right away, and clear up your brainspace to make room for another mind-blowing awesome idea. Another one will come - and the more you use your best ideas, the more excellent ideas you will get.

Are there any words or phrases you worry about over using in your work?

I'm overly fond of the word fingertips. I don't know why.

What was the first fanfic that you wrote? Do you still have access to it?

um. I think it was for the vampire lestat? and I don't have access to it any more.

Rapidfire Round!

Self-edit or Beta?

Both. Betas are really, really important.

Comments or Kudos/Reblogs or Likes?

I love getting comments on Ao3, and I love getting reblogs with tag comments on tumblr. Likes/Kudos are nice.

Smut, Fluff or Angst?

Can't we just have it all?

Quick & Dirty or Slow Burn?

Both. Yes, both. both is good.

Favourite Season?

Season Three

Favourite Episode?

the same as everyone. 3.05!

Favourite Book?

Haven’t read them.

Three favourite words?

petrichor, somnolent, euphoria

Want to be interviewed for our author spotlight? Get in touch here.

#the magicians rec center #author spotlight #author spotlight: ceeainthereforthat

[illusivexemissary]

It’s taken months to perfect the practice of these younger yet  darker, petrichor-reeking magical currents on this earth.  It’s taken quite an infuriating time to find a genuinely willing vessel, a small but physically robust man, a mutt of Lombard, Saxon, and Norse blood, training for the cloth, and a rare literate, aspiring to transcribe the words of God into beautiful illuminated manuscripts.  A young, unmarried man with golden curls and the profile of the Golden Eagle Gavri’el once loved. Easy enough, to come to him in dreams, and converse with him about the manifold mysteries of the Word; then the revelation that there is a god who recently vacated the area, a notorious Trickster God, called Loki, fleeing the encroaching forces of the new Roman religion.  It’s spread to Byzantium, to the Merovingians, and North as well.  Only the Vikings resist it now, slaughtering or otherwise marrying into Anglo-Saxon families, and it’s to the Vikings Loki’s gone, for some semblance of supplication. Vanished.  Long ago. And very few remaining mortals, and very few spirits in this land, can even recall what he looked like.  So Gavri’el dons the name of Loki, and the vessel of the learned novice he simply calls The Lærer.  And Gavri’el edges North as well. North, and far, far East, to India, ducking away from the angels who will know him through Islam, back to Africa, slipping past the Moors, back up through Egypt, West to the virginal wilderness not yet dreamt of, East and North again, accruing  allies. Kali, Anansi, Coyote, and so many others, who have never seen Loki firsthand, and believe at once that this dimpled Trickster is he.  

Building a new family.  

But today, he returns to the conundrum of conjuring a bird as a familiar, and having it still appear a Bald Eagle, instead of what he’s aiming for: a magpie.  That, and the awful itchiness of the sackcloth that he wore all the way back up the eastern cusp of the Frankish empire.  Thank the God who abandoned his entire warring family that he managed to trade his torc and vambraces for an olive green tunic, burgundy cloak and garnet millefiori clasp covered in roving ravens and knotted serpents.  The Lærer chides him inside his mind for his hedonism, but  Gavri’el croons to his vessel gently, and finds him falling more and more into a truly peaceful, truly contented slumber.   But Gavri’el is hungry, even though he needn’t eat. This has always been a weakness of his. Still he must master this spell, or none will believe that the golden haired fox faced dimpled Archangel in hiding is really Loki. 

There’s a sound in the bushes behind the guised Archangel. 

           “Fortuitous. I was getting a little lonely. Hello?” 

#ic #open #V: Loki days

[shipbuildings]

WE ALL HAVE STORIES TO TELL.

But this much I'm certain of: it doesn't happen immediately. You'll finish reading and that will be that, until a moment will come, maybe in a month, maybe a year, maybe even several years. And out of the blue, beyond any cause you can trace, you'll suddenly realize things are not how you perceived them to be at all. For some reason, you will no longer be the person you believed you once were. But you won't understand why or how. You'll have forgotten what granted you this awareness in the first place.

Then no matter where you are, in a crowded restaurant or on some desolate street or even in the comforts of your own home, you'll watch yourself dismantle every assurance you ever lived by. And then for better or worse you'll turn, unable to resist, though try to resist you still will, fighting with everything you've got not to face the thing you most dread, what is now, what will be, what has always come before, the creature you truly are, the creature we all are, buried in the nameless black of a name. And then the nightmares will begin.

This is not for you.

Six years ago, a class of fifty walked into a forest in BC. A group of university freshmen much like any other; there were the prerequisite jocks, cheerleaders, loners, partiers, technology junkies, etc. etc. Every cliché one could possibly imagine was represented in this group. Ecology 123, after all, was a gen. ed. So its student population was rather varied.

As they often are.

But the point is as follows: out of the fifty that entered that forest during that fateful summer, only three walked out alive. As for what happened in-between – well. That is a bit of a subject of debate.

Again. As they often are.

The official story of what happened is this; some of these students found a rather large patch of Psilocybe semilanceata. Use of these so-called ‘ magic mushrooms ’ quickly spread throughout the group. And under the influence, a student ran off a cliff. Which proceeded to happen forty-six more times. Question further and you’ll get vague references to the Mumbai ‘ sweet ‘ seawater incident, the Tanganyika laughter epidemic, and the Dancing plague of 1518. A horrible tragedy, said the University. Or so I would like to think. There were settlements. Non-disclosure agreements. Each family was well compensated.

Including my own, in case you were wondering.

But what really happened is slightly more … disturbing. And possibly the reason why that official account is so laughable, but never challenged. Sometimes the truth is simply much too terrible -- terrible to the point that a lie may seem like a kindness in comparison. In that way, those who lost their lives are immortalized; now martyrs, now victims, pretty little packages wrapped up in a name, their sins buried along with them and long forgotten by the living left behind. 

As I’ve said before. 

The story with the animals is always the better story.

But those words aren’t mine. They don’t belong to me. That observation was made by another -- a long, long time ago, much before I had realized that there was never a tiger hunting us down, picking us off, and there never had been.

His name, in case you were wondering, is Richard Battle. He lives in Toronto with his boyfriend, Elliott Broodmoor, and bartends at some needlessly trendy restaurant chain mid-town. They are some of the only survivors. And we haven’t spoken since I left them for dead and joined an Organization populated almost exclusively by psychopaths to save my own skin.

It’s a long story.

But I digress. If I wanted to speak with Richard to find out what he knew and when he knew it, I realized I’d have to confront him face-to-face. He wouldn’t take my calls, after all. Or answer my increasingly desperate emails.

So that’s how I found myself at 1090 Don Mills Road, drinking some ‘ Artisan ’ craft beer that was probably cut with Budweiser behind the counter.

* * * 

It’s a quiet night, the bar mostly populated by people pecking away at smartphones and laptops, noses buried in the blue-grey light of whatever so happened to be currently catching their interest. As for me, I kept my book bag slung over my shoulder and my notebooks packed, making sure I had a clear sight-line to the nearest exit... and a clear footpath. I may have been desperate for answers, but that doesn’t mean I was stupid. Or no more stupid than usual, anyways.

“Mmm, drinking alone, huh? Did your date stand you up?”

When I turn to face him, the glass he’s cleaning slips out of his hands and shatters on the faux-marble tiles.

Nobody so much as flinches. But the look on his face... well. It probably shouldn’t be graced with a description for both our sakes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Just got caught off guard, is all. Can you sweep that up? I’m going out for a smoke.”

He shimmies out from behind the bar and I silently stand, downing the rest of my pint and the shot belonging to the distracted businesswoman sitting beside me, slapping a fifty on the countertop before I finally follow.

Not my finest moment, I know. But in my defence, I was reasonably sure he was going to punch me.

Since it’s summer, the sun hasn’t set quite yet despite the fact that it must be just past nine pm. Children play in the park across the street, their parents eating overpriced gelato from stale waffle cones as they watch their charges splash through fountains and dart about on fresh-cut grass. Richard stiffens as I stand beside him, a cigarette perched between his deft, nimble fingers, work apron slung over his shoulder.

“You smoke yet, Philososhit?”

I nod, no, as he watches me from the corner of his eye.

“Damn shame. Maybe it would help keep your mouth occupied, instead of it spewing all the garbage it normally does.”

His expression is humourless as if he is a man walking to his own execution.

“Hello to you too.” I reply quietly, keeping my voice low. “Glad to see not much has changed since we last spoke.”

“We still wouldn’t be speaking if it was up to me.”

“As I’m well aware, but I couldn’t just let this go. And I think you understand why, despite how much you despise me.”

There’s a lull for a time -- me, wishing I was unaware of the gravity of what is taking place right now, and him, mouth drawn in a thin, grim line.

“You shouldn’t’ve come here.” He finally says. “No good comes from chasing ghosts, bookman. You should know that by now.”

“And yet you’re here, alive and well. Unless I’m mistaken, and we’re somehow conversing from beyond the grave.”

That manages to illicit a slight upwards turn of his lips.

“A joke? That’s pretty unlike you.”

“And the domestic life isn’t unlike you? The Richard Battle I knew was obsessed with heroics, and I can scarcely recall a time when you didn’t have your switchblade in your hand.”

He snorts dismissively.

“One: don’t you know it’s the tragic hero that always dies in the end? And two: the whole knife-nut thing kind of came with the territory of being trapped in a living nightmare with a bunch of psychos formerly known as my friends.”

“So are you saying that the Richard I knew is effectively gone?”

“All that shit went down years ago. Even if it hadn’t happened, he’d be gone anyways, just like how your dramatic evil alter-ego --”

“Oh god, don’t remind me.”

I groan, burying my head in my hands, and he laughs, smiles.

It looks good on him.

“Okay, okay, I think I’ve put you through the wringer enough. So, what brings you to my neck of the... town?”

Nice save. He taps ash from the rapidly advancing line of glowing embers, watching them, his shoes, the passing cars being parked by the valet... anything but me. But now that I finally have his attention, I’m not quite sure what to say. Countless questions rise and die in my throat within the period of a second, then two, tasting of bile and hops.

“I wanted...” I start, then stop, quite possibly speechless for the first time in forever. He doesn’t interrupt, though, and eventually I finally manage to speak of the unspeakable.

“Richard... how did you know? How did you know that what we were seeing, what we thought was happening, it wasn’t --”

“Real?”

He laughs again, but this time the sound is bitter. He grinds his cigarette into the pavement with the heel of his sneaker with more than a hint of prejudice.

“You’re littering.”

“I know.”

It is his silence, not his answer that speaks volumes. The way his gaze looks through me, but doesn't really see me, the way he suddenly seems to be very, very far away tells me everything without him having to say a single word.

Sometimes the truth is simply much too terrible 

“...if you really gotta know? We were all starving, dehydrated, half out of our minds with grief and god knows what else.”

Terrible to the point

“I didn’t know what I was saying. Just like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

That a lie

“Sorry you came all this way to not find what you were looking for.”

May seem like a kindness in comparison

“... I suppose some mysteries are best left unsolved.”

As per usual, Mr. Battle can be read as easily as Dr. Seuss; he can’t hide the relief that washes over him, relaxing the tension in shoulders. But now I know, just like he knows. And he was right.

I really wish I didn’t.

This is his revenge, I suppose. Any sort of violent retribution he could direct towards me would have accomplished nothing. No one would mourn me. In fact, it’s doubtful anyone would even notice I was gone. Perhaps after a few weeks of no word my colleagues would finally send someone to look for me -- the police only called when the door of my apartment seemed to be holding back the scent of petrichor and rot and pennies. And my death, I imagine, would be ruled a suicide, a result of long-repressed trauma that I spoke of sparingly. Such a shame, would say my professors, my peers, and under their breath they would mutter good riddance. But that sort of ending would be too good for me. No, what Richard will instead kill me with is the little-death, the death that brings total destruction. It is the death that comes not from knowing too much, but rather that comes from knowing just enough to make you wonder.

It is the echoed question: what more could I have done?

It is the echoed question: why didn’t I save them?

It is nothing I don’t deserve, and it is nothing I would ever blame him for. This is how a life is taken; slowly, gently, deliberately, with feeling. And this is how justice is served when your crimes go unpunished: an eye for an eye for an eye.

Richard looks at me oddly, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m smiling.

“You okay, Walt?”

It’s the first time he’s called me that since I left him for dead, and I didn’t realize until now how much I missed it.

“... no, I’m not. But I think you will be, one day. If you aren’t halfway there already.”

“Huh. I guess some things don’t change, ‘cause you’re right on the money. I mean, as always.”

He reaches into his pants pocket and holds up something at my eye level, a small black box nestled in his palm. I stare, and after an awkwardly long moment he finally opens it.

It’s a ring. Simple, honest. For all I know it could be platinum, white gold, silver, steel. But I have a feeling that’s not what matters.

“I figured Elliott would call me a sap if I got anything more, uh, complicated. Plus, all my tips can only really get me so far...”

“He’ll love it,” I reply without hesitation. “In his own typical Broodmoor way. Expect teasing of only the half-good natured sort.”

“Wouldn’t count on anything else.” He snaps the box shut, the clack emitting an air of uneasy finality. “Maybe we’ll even make it official one day; file with a justice of the peace or somethin’. I’d invite you to witness, but. You know.”

He shrugs noncommittally as I shuffle from one foot to the other, shifting my weight in an attempt to make my focus follow.

“No, I...” I sigh, frustrated by my two word strong vocabulary. “I understand. I never expected to be forgiven --”

“Ding-dong, you are wrong. Guess there’s a first time for everything.” Richard looks at me from his sidelined gaze, eyes moving over me from head to toe. “It’s not that we can’t forgive you, or that we haven’t. We were kids, you included, and we all made choices we’re not proud of. But we can’t keep looking back like you do, like you have to...”

His voice goes low, an accusation almost as much as a confession.

“The way you are now, after everything... you probably would’ve been better off dead.”

A small semi-circle of dark grey appears on the pavement. Then another. Then another. 

“... Yes, I believe so.” I answer, staring bleakly at the sky. Droplets gather on the lenses of my glasses, leaving wet trails where they existed once, and have existed, but do not exist anymore.

We stand there, alone together, lost in reverie, or perhaps just watching the world pass us by as if nothing has happened.

“I should get back to the bar.” Richard finally speaks, voice level and quiet. I try to memorize every dip, every peak and valley with what amounts to reverent worship, but I’ll likely soon forget them just as I did once before.

Life is very long.

“Ah, I see. Well, it was a pleasure, Richard, even if you can’t say the feeling was mutual.”

He stops, pausing. For a moment I think he’s going to hug me, and I almost recoil in revulsion.

But instead he slugs me right in the face, a perfect right hook that I would’ve never saw coming even if I had been prepared for it. Which I wasn’t. 

Obviously.

“Yeah, it was.” He says with a grin, knuckles raw and cracked and bleeding. “Take care of yourself, Walter. You owe it to them to do that at least.”

And that’s how he left me; sprawled on the pavement, glasses askew, nose bloody, a nasty shade of purple and sickly yellow-green blooming on my skin.

* * *

I suppose now you’re wondering -- why did I write this?

Telling you this story accomplishes nothing. I accomplished nothing. The only thing I learned was something I already knew. But perhaps that is what I needed all along. Perhaps I needed to share it with you, too. And while I know it is exceedingly unlikely that anyone will read this -- and even more exceedingly unlikely that you will understand it -- ultimately, we do not write for the sake of others. We do not write because we expect it to be read. The very act of putting words on a page is akin to shouting in a canyon; the only thing you hear back is your own echo. But that does not mean you can fight the compulsion forever.

Writing about writing only ever happens in the epilogue.

I know, however, that there are no happy endings. There will be no marvellous, touching reunion where the past six years are revealed to have been an elaborate hoax, no cathartic cry-session where my soul is magically cleansed. As time passes, I have grown no stronger, no wiser, no better than I was when part of me was cleaved from myself. I will have to bear the scars forever. And I will have to carry the weight of what i’ve done with me until I die.

So I ask myself: Did I do any good? That question, it seems, comes up a fair deal. It follows me endlessly, the Shadow casted over my every action.

But maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe what I’m really asking myself is: Did I do enough? 

And my answer, of course

is a quiet 

resounding 

no.

#[ story ]