#so many shuttered looms

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

following At the Front’s product catalog for the last fifteen years or so has proven an interesting lesson in the global economy and, perhaps more importantly, on the ephemeral impermanence of life and circumstance

#so many discontinued products #so many shuttered looms #so many price increases

[toshidou]

woe to the deer who is courted by the wolf . . .

pairing // könig x f!reader

word count // 7.2k

tags // 18+ ONLY, afab reader, vampire!könig, predator/prey kink, mentions of blood and injury, minor elements of horror (very minor), slightly misunderstood lonely vampire könig, unprotected sex, stomach bulge, rough sex, creampie, biting, blood sucking, blood play

an // after battling with writers block for over a month, who would have thought it'd take a blood sucking giant to free me from the shackles of having no inspiration? anyway this is the most i've ever written in one day, which is only slightly concerning. bone apple teeth!

thank you to @erosology for beta reading this, and forever being my number one hype man ;-;

Pale moonlight peaks through a frame of eerily still clouds, reflecting off the polished black steel planted in the ground at your feet. You can hear the whispers of your friends behind you, a little too old to be snickering and giggling behind the palms of their hands, although you’re entirely too old to have taken their bet in the first place. 

It started off as a simple reunion between old friends, a short trek into once familiar woods to the spot you used to set up base for the night, roasting marshmallows over a concerningly large campfire, sharing cliche horror stories whilst swaddled in blankets. This very night had gone about the same, until someone brought up the old manor. An imposing house that watches over the village that surrounds it, well kept and suspiciously pristine, withstanding the tests of time despite the fact that not a single soul has ever been seen to enter or leave the premises. 

It had been a longstanding dare, an easy way to get someone to down their drink, ‘I dare you to jump the fence and knock on the door’. No one has ever been stupid enough to go through with it, a couple tried, but got as far as the black iron that surrounds the perimeter before they gave up. And yet, here you stand, too many years later, an individual who should be both older and wiser than to commit several crimes for the sake of a stupid bet and childish curiosity, staring at that very same railing. 

You can hardly hear the whispered words of your friends from where they cower behind you, your eyes transfixed on the looming building that seemingly stares back at you from where you remain fixed at the bottom of the hill. Mahogany brick unblemished, barely touched by weather, towers three stories high, trimmed ivy crawling up the walls as though attempting to reach out to the moon that watches over it. Each window is blocked by scarlet wooden shutters, an old-fashioned touch for a house surrounded by new builds; looking at it now feels like taking several steps back in time. 

Not a single spec of light leaks through any crack in the shutters, each room bathed in darkness, the same way it always has. Surely, you think to yourself, surely no one can possibly be in there. Your theory has always been that the house is long since abandoned, its previous owner having died, looked after by a previously employed caretaker who hated to watch a building they loved go into disrepair. And although that doesn’t explain the suspicious lack of activity, it’s the only sane thought that you repeat to yourself as your fingers curl around sturdy black bars, and you begin to haul yourself over the iron fence. 

A moment later, and the dull thud of your feet hitting neatly trimmed grass breaks tense silence, your eyes meeting with several widened pairs through steel bars. It’s the furthest anyone’s gotten, and even now, you feel like you’ve gone far enough. It’s certainly not too late to change your mind, to do the sensible thing and throw yourself back into safety, and just as you’re contemplating backing out of the bet, you feel the hairs on your nape stand on end, a chill down your spine so sharp it causes a physical flinch. When you turn around, you’re met with the very same house, not a shutter or brick out of place, yet something, somehow, feels different. 

It’s like a siren call, luring you from the safety of your friends that remain frozen on the other side, hardly breathing as though they daren’t make a sound, apprehensive eyes focused on your shadowed form as you slowly make your way up the hill. It’s more daunting up close, no longer a silhouette against a twilight sky, now you can see details the distance has never gifted you, the way the wood shutters that plaster the windows are carved with swirls and intricate patterns, how the ivy hides bloomed flowers amongst pointed leaves, speckles of pink and purple that ease the tension that coils your muscles, only bolstering timid curiosity. And now you’re standing within feet of the house, you’re left in awe by the sheer size of it. It never seemed particularly small, not even from the gate, but the front door alone has you gulping down nothing but frigid air. You take a few tentative steps, eyes raking over the magnificent details carved into thick black oak, the centrepiece that catches your gaze being the solid gold knocker that sits just above your head, halfway up the door. 

Two hollow eyes stare back at you, a skull with two rams horns that curl from golden bone, and between its bared teeth lies a ring that rests against ebony wood. It stands out from every other detail of the house, a spine-tingling reminder of where you stand, echoes of the myths that surround this house whispered by your trembling conscience, and yet shaking fingers reach for the ring, curling around cooled metal before lifting it, preparing to knock. 

But you never get the chance, because in true horror movie fashion, you’re met with the slow creak of old hinges as the very door you stand before begins to open, and in the void of black it reveals, you swear you see two pinpricks of red that greet you in the darkness. Your entire body goes stiff, still clinging on to the gold loop of the knocker as though it’ll somehow ground you, yet it does nothing to chase away the overwhelming sense of impending doom that screams at you to turn, to run, to get as far away from this wretched place as your legs can take you.

You turn just in time to hear the worried calls of your friends before the door is yanked wide open, dragging you over the edge of the premises with it and sending you careening onto the floor, sliding against wood and scrambling up only to watch that very same door slam in your face. 

Frozen. Every single part of you remains stock still as you try to adjust to the darkness. Not even the moonlight dares follow you inside, leaving you alone to dart your eyes in the pitch black, searching for some semblance of light you can latch onto. Yet the house offers you nothing, and you can’t help but see red dots every time you dare close your eyes. In the moment of still you’ve been given, your brain reels as it tries to think of a logical explanation for the door seemingly dragging you into the house with no human in sight to operate it, and in your panic, you can’t help but pray that you’ve fallen asleep by the campfire, and this is all an elaborate nightmare you’ll be able to laugh about when you awake.

A creak from behind you sends you hurtling back into reality, a sure reminder that this is no nightmare, not one you can wake up from, at least. Your head whips to the side, terror freezing your muscles solid as you lock onto crimson orbs once again, so bright they can be seen even with the absence of light to reflect off them, your blood curdling in your veins as they remain fixed on you, unblinking. You scurry backwards, the sound of your back slamming against the solid wall behind you echoing through the dark, fingers curling against peeling wallpaper in a last-ditch attempt to find the door handle. 

Your pathetic scrabbling is interrupted by the harsh sound of a match striking against rough material, your eyes drawn to the responding flame it produces, but moreso, the large fingers that dwarf the stick they clutch. 

“What a curious thing you are.”

Each syllable rumbles through very walls, practically shakes the structure of the house, a low timber steeped with an accent you can’t quite place, but certainly isn’t local. You daren’t breathe, let alone move, not even when the ground creaks and shakes with every purposeful, creeping step the stranger takes towards you. The flame grows as the match is brought to a wick, the flame whittling away the wood until all that remains is twisted charcoal, before transferring to the candle, the dying fire roaring back to life, casting a flickering golden glow onto the one holding it. 

You’re met once again with red, but now you can see bleached tear tracks running from shoddy holes cut into black cloth, a mask fit for the monster that wears it, and as they stalk ever closer, you belatedly wonder how they’re going to navigate the stairs that must separate the two of you, certain that even someone familiar with a house must need more light in order to not fall. But they never begin their descent, and it’s only when the flame lies mere feet from you, yet so far out of your reach, you realise there are no steps. You’re face to face with a giant. 

Adrenaline douses you like a torrent of water, your widened eyes alert and stricken with obvious fear, yet you didn’t expect the gentle touch that encircles your wrist, lungs sucking in a stuttered breath as you stare into the hollow red of its eyes. Large fingers draw your arm upwards, moving your frozen limb with ease, until it’s stretched far above your head, your fingers bumping against the smooth wax of the candle the giant passes off to you. Your brain scrambles for words, screams against the shackles of your fear-addled mind, waiting to release a slew of incoherent pleas for your freedom, yet your lips remain firmly sealed.

You feel a weight in your trouser pocket, eyes darting down to see his fingers pushing a box of matches into the gap of the material, only for your gaze to snap back to him as he hunches down, the material of his mask flowing down as his torso towers over you. You’re left caged against the wall, nowhere to run as his face levels next to your ear. It’s silent for a few horrific seconds, until that same spine-chilling voice purrs one single word. 

“Run.” 

It’s as though all your body needed was the instruction, responding immediately as you tear away from him, feet slapping against hardwood flooring as you careen towards what vaguely resembles an entrance way. The flame flickers dangerously, threatening to leave you in the dark once again, your fingers curling around the candle, whispering prayers that it doesn’t snuff out, that it doesn't leave you alone with whatever stalks you in the pitch black. 

You don’t stop running until you reach a hallway, sprinting down the claustrophobic corridor until you finally reach an open door, rushing inside and pushing hefty wood until it clicks in place, sealing you within, safe for now. You hold up the candle to illuminate more of the room, watching as the soft glow bounces off a glinting gold frame and painstaking strokes of oil paint. An obscenely large portrait hangs on the wall in front of you, the image of a handsome man draped in fine purple robes, shoulder length brown hair pushed back with a crown of golden leaves. He sits in a chair, grand and crimson, lined with bronze, legs spread over the expensive velvet, one large hand curled over his thigh, the other propping his head up, his elbow resting against the arm of the chair in a way that can only be described as unbothered, and unamused. But the thing that has you utterly transfixed are the two red irises that stare right back at you, playful and taunting, and hauntingly familiar. 

Surely this isn’t the man under the hood, the one who dragged you into his house and watched you scramble out of his grip the second he told you to flee. Because why would a man so handsome hide his face? Why would someone who looks so young own a house that has stood at the centre of your small village for far longer than you’ve been alive? Nothing seems to make sense, not a single aspect of the past 10 minutes feels real, and you can only hope your friends saw what happened and ran to get help, because you’re not sure there’s a way for you to conquer this man alone. It’s as you’re floundering for answers that you hear a noise from outside the room, instincts taking over as you quickly hide under a small dining table and blow out the candle, praying you haven’t given yourself away. 

You’re not entirely stupid, you know the meaning of red eyes, and although you could attempt to soothe your psyche with whispered lies about contact lenses and make believe, you know better. The thing that chases you is no man, and certainly isn’t human, at least not anymore. And as terrified as you are, there isn’t a chance in hell you’re about to let yourself become this monster’s dinner. 

You sit in the darkness, clutching the smouldering candle to your chest, and wait. Ears alert as you listen for the slightest sound that might give away your hunter, a breath, a sigh, a scratch, you do little more than hope that your hiding spot remains occupied by you, and you alone. 

After a tense few minutes, picking up on no other sounds than the thrumming of your own heart, your fingers slowly make their way to your pocket, gingerly plucking the box out and pushing the case off. Despite the lack of light, and the trembling that consumes your body, you manage to fish out a match, and strike it, holding the newly lit flame to the wick of the candle. 

Bleached tears. Red eyes. Large fingers. Looming body.

“Boo.” 

The scream rips from your throat before your brain can catch up, the candle abandoned as it’s flung towards him in a last ditch attempt to throw him off, knees and hands protesting as they’re dragged along grooved wood, leaving grazes in their wake. The momentary pain isn’t enough to stop you, however, lungs heaving as you tear out of the room, clumsily bumping into walls and ornaments, impeded by the dark, motivated by sheer determination to live. 

Your decision to toss away the candle comes to bite you firmly in the ass the second you find yourself tumbling down a set of stairs, and in a move of sheer instinct your hands attempt to slow your fall, only for the skin of your palm to get caught on a loose nail, slicing the flesh and leaving you wailing as your body finally slows to a stop against the cold stone floor you now find yourself lying on. Every bone in your body hurts, aches, but is overshadowed by the sharp sear of white hot pain as you cradle your torn skin to your chest, warm rivulets of blood oozing down your wrist, tracking rivers of red down your forearm until you hear the steady drip, drip, drip of your blood hitting stone.

A light appears above you, a halo of pastel yellow emanating around black cloth, and within a second, the fight leaves you, slumping further into the floor as you accept your death, hoping none of your friends were stupid enough to follow you only to meet the same pitiful fate. 

“Please,” You mumble, voice finally found, entirely too late, “Just make it quick.” You hear little other than a hushed chuckle in response, a cat toying with its food. 

“I imagine it looks worse than it is, kleine maus.�� 

You pause at that, curiosity ebbing through once more. You may not have paid enough attention to languages at school, but even in your state, you know enough to recognise those words.

“You’re German?” You mumble, fear forgotten in your shock-ridden state. The man shakes his head as he crouches next to you, extending his free hand towards the injured one you have secured to your torso, tittering again as you flinch. But you have little other choice than to let him pry your hand away, watching with wary eyes as he examines your sliced skin. He holds the candle closer to the wound, a soft tut passing his lips before he holds the candle towards you, urging you to take it with a gentle nod. 

“Austrian. But close.”

It all feels strange, foreign, as though you’re being lulled into a false sense of security just so he can tell you to run once again, laughing maniacally as he watches you bleed over his floor. The fear returns once you have the candle securely in your grip, eyes locked on the way his fingers curl around the material that hides his face, and begin to remove it. Inches of once cloaked skin is revealed, a defined chin melts away to pursed lips, a smattering of dark facial hair that frames his mouth and curls up his jaw, the material pulled further only to reveal a hooked nose, and two narrowed eyes that reflect the candlelight in a way not dissimilar to precious gems, rich and vibrant. Maybe it’s the shock, or limited blood loss, but you can’t help but marvel at just how pretty he is.

Of course, it doesn’t last much longer, not when survival instincts kick in, the realisation that your bloodied hand is now near the mouth of a creature that lives entirely off the thing that keeps you alive. But the grip on your wrist is ironclad, strong yet not uncomfortably so, a strange juxtaposition between monster and man as he cocks his head at your wound. With a nod, seemingly more to himself than you, you can do little more than cry out as you’re hauled over his shoulder, his arm secured tightly around your waist, the hood forgotten in a small puddle of your blood on the stone flags. 

It’s mere minutes later that he places you down on soft sheets, your body sinking into a plush mattress, left to watch him as he ambles around the egregiously large room, muttering foreign words under his breath as he roots through an ornate chest of draws. You must be in a fever dream, unsure how you went from running for your life, to being patched up by the very thing you were certain would kill you. And yet, here you are, watching as he almost awkwardly sidles to your seated figure, and kneels in front of you, once predatory eyes unable to hold your gaze as he sets out various medical items by your feet. 

“Your hand, may I see it?”

You present your palm to him, watching as his eyebrows knit together, giant hands placing tentative touches against your skin as though he’s concerned about hurting you, the thought of which does nothing to aid your spiralling confusion. But you say nothing, you simply watch as he takes a damp cloth and begins cleaning your cut, fixated on the way his eyes snap to you with every pained hiss and suppressed whine, picking up on the way he ensures each subsequent touch is a tad gentler than the last. It’s not too much longer until he’s wrapping your hand with bandages, making sure the gauze is tight enough to keep your blood in, but not enough to cut off circulation, the type of gentle care you never would have suspected from the giant at your feet. Your curiosity has increased tenfold, not a trace of fear left to lick at your nerves and render you speechless, replaced only by the overwhelming need to know more, to learn everything. 

“What’s your name?” 

It’s his turn to freeze, ruby irises briefly flitting to yours, rounded with surprise, before they snap back down, making himself busy as he gathers up a scattered array of bloodied cloth. 

“I… I have had many. The one most people knew me by was König.” It’s strange, the croon of his voice sounds almost nothing like the one whispered to you in the dark, from low and horrifying, to gentle, almost timid. You’re nothing short of fascinated, leaning forward as you scan over the contours of his face. 

“Why’d you drag me into your house and tell me to run?” 

“Why were you trying to knock on my door?”

Touché. 

Heat licks at the skin of your cheeks at his brazen reminder of your attempted trespassing, your uninjured hand coming to rub at your neck in lieu of a response. After a moment of silence, he sighs, deflating into the plush carpet below. 

“It has been a while since I last had any visitors. Your arrival was… Unexpected. You caught me off guard,” He pauses for a moment, pupils dilating as his fingers curl around the rags he holds in his hand, covered in your blood, “It has been even longer since I have been around fresh blood.” It feels surreal to have it confirmed, that the creature that sits before you is one you’ve seen only in movies and read in far-fetched romance novels. Yet, you feel no fear, that emotion all but vanished the second he halted everything just to care for an intruder's wound.

“My friends dared me to knock.” He cocks his head at that, a single eyebrow arching, bemused at your admission. “It’s been a dare for years, no one ever actually had the guts to do it.” 

“Until you.”

A pause, your head dipping forward in an unsure nod.

“Until me.” 

He’s staring at you unabashedly now, your eyes wandering over the rich details of the bedroom you reside in as an excuse to save yourself from his piercing gaze, an unreadable expression swimming in carmine eyes. 

“I am glad it was you.” 

You hate the embers of arousal that spark at his words, perturbed by your body’s reaction to seemingly innocent words spoken from a man you were sprinting away from less than an hour ago, and yet his eyes do nothing to put out the fire, intense and smouldering. You can’t bring yourself to look away, nor to quash the way your heart flutters as his torso leans closer to your thighs that subconsciously part to make room for him. The action doesn’t go unnoticed, nostrils flaring as sharp eyes zero in on the way your legs spread against silk sheets. 

“And why is that, König?” 

It’s as though you uttering his name opens the floodgates, black engulfing vermillion until only a sliver remains, thick fingers circling your shins as he leers further into the gap your parted thighs created, that same ravening stare that once sent fear trickling down your spine now leaves you gasping for breath for an entirely different reason. 

“Because I haven’t seen something as pretty as you for a very long time, and I don’t know if I have the strength to stop myself again, maus.” 

You couldn’t prevent the whispered whine of his name if you had tried, eyelashes fluttering as you move to curl your fingers in his shirt, giving pathetic little tugs to the soft material of his silk shirt, eyes dipping down to where loose material tucks into black pants. Your back arches, a shameless display of desire as you slide your body closer towards the edge of the bed, and further into his touch.

“Who said anything about stopping?”

Your words remain suspended in the air around you, two sets eyes locked onto each other, blown black with barely-suppressed lust, and yet you don’t dare to make the first move, waiting, wanting for him to shed his timid skin and swallow you whole, become the beast that stalked you through rooms just to feel the thrill of the chase. His hands leave your legs, instead balling up into tight fists against his own thighs, the skin around his knuckles taut as though restraining himself. For a mere moment, you fear he may have changed his mind, that is until he utters the word you craved to hear.

“Run.” 

You ignore the lingering ache in your joints, your thighs burning as you dash from the bedroom with renewed purpose, fuelled by the all-consuming thoughts of what’s to come, excited to finally be caught, a far cry from the unbridled terror that sent you scrambling before. This time, he makes no effort to prowl in the shadows, your heart beat soaring as the loud thuds of footsteps echo from behind, the floorboards quaking under your feet from the force of his steps. 

You know there isn’t a chance he’s running at full speed, but even then he catches you almost embarrassingly quickly, built arms encircling your waist and crushing you against his torso, bringing you to the floor in an instant, leaving you to writhe helplessly between his body and the floorboards. You don’t give in, however, limbs thrashing, nails clawing against whatever they can reach, whether it be the arms that pin you down, or the wood underneath you, feigning an attempt to escape. 

That is until you feel two sharp points dig into your nape, not enough to break skin, but the threat of it leaves you frozen under him, a doe caught in the wolf’s jaws. But you don’t fear the bite like wild prey would, somehow, you crave it, to feel his teeth sink into you, to let him lap at your blood and drain you near dry, anything just to feel like you’re his. 

The pressure of sharpened canines begins to lessen, his teeth slowly peeling back from your skin, although anticipating your body to begin thrashing once again. But you remain subdued, the embers now engulfed by crackling flames that lick at your nerves and set your skin alight. It’s only when his hips shift do you feel the tent in his pants pushing against the top of your thighs, your eyes fluttering shut as you push your ass down to grind shamelessly against his cock. 

“Temptress,” The word is almost incomprehensible through the growl that reverberates through his throat, a sound that gives away entirely how affected he is, rough and wanting. “You should be trembling beneath me from fear and yet…” 

His words trail off, a stuttered gasp replaces your heavy breathing when you feel sizeable fingers trailing down your sides before sliding under your body, cupping your inner thigh. Your heart hammers against your ribcage from the chase, now bolstered by the scandalous touch as his fingers skim past your clothed core, only catching onto the way his fingers curl into the material until it’s too late, hardly leaving you enough time to yelp before he’s tearing you bare below him. The tattered remains of your pants are haphazardly discarded, joined soon by the threadbare silk of your ripped panties, one of your favourite pairs torn in half with hardly an ounce of effort. 

“Yet here you are, schätzchen, quivering with need, dripping for the cock of the one that hunts you.” 

The rough pad of calloused fingers swipes against your exposed cunt, unable to suppress the heady whine that leaks past your agape lips, your forehead meeting the hardwood floor with a soft thump. That single touch renders you limp, muscles going lax as you melt into the glide of his fingers as they tease your folds, slowing on every up-stroke to rub slow circles against your clit. It’s maddening, the pace in which he picks you apart, leaving you to grind on his fingers like a wanton whore just to feel the surmounting pleasure that builds in response to his touch. A tut sounds from above, heavy breath cascading over your nape as his head dips down, lips dragging from neck to the shell of your ear.

“What a desperate little thing you are, maus, you know what we call things like you in my native tongue?” Your head shakes, a breathy ‘no’ muffled into the floor, “Schwanzschlampe, cock slut.” Embarrassment mixes in equal measure with arousal, curling one of your arms under your head to hide your face, the action short lived as strong arms flip you onto your back, one large hand gathering both your wrists together and pinning them above your head, exposed before him in every way. It’s undeniably more intimate in this position, your eyes given little other option than to lock onto his as his other hand continues to tease your dripping cunt, carmine swimming with unrestrained desire pinning you to the floor as effectively as his near crushing grip on your wrists.

“You can’t hide your pretty face from me, liebling, I want to see how much you crave my touch.” He presses his forehead to yours, low candlelight from lamps that line the corridor walls glint off the two long fangs that peak past reddened lips with every word spoken. And it’s seemingly your turn to catch him off guard, your head tilting upwards to push your lips to his, swallowing his surprised gasp down greedily, arching your chest to push against his. The kiss is desperate, messy, a combination of saliva drips down your chin, moans and rumbled grunts creating a symphony that drifts down the winding halls of his home. With a nudge, you ensure his eyes are locked to yours as you part your lips, your tongue curling over his teeth before brushing over the point of his elongated canine. 

With a push, you feel the sting as his fang just barely dips into soft flesh, a drop of blood beading at the surface before you push the muscle to his, locked onto the way his eyes roll to the back of his skull, the growl momentarily starting up again before his lips lock around your tongue, sucking at every morsel of blood that springs from the pinprick cut like a man starved. A man that has most likely been starved of blood directly from the source for more years that you’ve been alive. 

If you thought that you’d unlocked the beast within him before, the taste of your blood brings out an entirely new side. His lips part from yours, the crimson in his frenzied eyes transforming before you, as though enriched from just a taste of warm iron. You watch as his pupils dilate and constrict, each push and pull between black and red prove hypnotic as his eyes slowly begin to refocus, the colour to his irises seem dull in comparison to the bright vermillion flecked with gold that peers down at you, still wild with hunger, driven by need. 

The moment is broken mere seconds later when his head drops to your neck, sharpened teeth dragging along the throbbing pulse at the base of your throat, and just when you expect the bite, you’re left gasping for an entirely unrelated reason as your shirt comes apart against sharp enamel, shredded where it surrounds your naked torso, leaving you entirely bare. Yet all it takes is a singular glance to realise he remains fully dressed, not a single article shed. 

“König,” Your voice comes out strained, practically whining as though prepared to beg, “Let me undress you?” 

He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking up to you from under his lashes before the grip on your arms lessens, his legs folding under him as he rights himself into a kneeling position over your body. He suddenly seems unsure, maybe a little self-conscious as you lean up brushing your fingers over flowing pristine white silk, taking your time as you unfasten each button, never once letting your eyes stray from his. And despite the hint of bashfulness, he keeps his gaze pinned to you, a wary lion caught off guard by brave prey. 

After the last button falls undone, you let the tips of your fingers trace up revealed skin, before pushing the shirt from his shoulders, and watching as it billows onto the floor, exposing a defined chest highlighted by a smattering of scars that tell stories you could only dream of hearing. He’s nothing short of ethereal, otherworldly in every sense of the word, a behemoth of a beast, with the face of an angel. 

“You cover up a lot for a man as handsome as you are.” Your disguised question prompts a flinch, solid fingers clutching into fists at his side, but before you can rush to amend your words, he slumps, resigned to your curiosity. 

“I have garnered a reputation I do not wish to catch up to me. It is safer to keep myself hidden, maus.” You make a mental note if you somehow find yourself in his company after this night to ask him more, a carnal need to know everything that makes up the being knelt above you. But you tuck them away for now, refocusing your attention to the waistband of his trousers, deft fingers wasting little time undoing the silver clasp and dragging down the zip until the front peels open. 

“Good thing you don’t have to keep hidden in front of me, huh?” Your lips tug upwards into a playful smirk, your hands planting on the solid muscle of his chest before you’re pushing him backwards, letting his legs splay out either side of your now free body before easing both his pants and underwear down the corded muscle of his thigh, marvelling at each inch of skin revealed to ravenous eyes. His trousers join the crumpled mess of clothes that lay scattered across the floor, giving him no time to adjust to his new found nudity before your head is ducking down, tongue flitting out to lick a long strip from the base of his cock to the tip. 

Your enthusiasm is immediately rewarded with a faltered whine, watching from under your lashes as his head lolls backwards, trembling fingers coming to cup either side of your face. He’s big, his cock twitching against the defined muscle of his abdomen, thick and long, and nothing short of daunting. Yet you choose to focus on the way your pussy clenches around air at the mere sight of it, overwhelmed by the knowledge that you’ll understand what it is to be split open by him, to be fucked by him. Your tongue darts out once more to press against the tip, the small cut on the surface only just healed over, your spine shuddering at the dulled sting that follows as you begin to take the head of his cock between your lips, mouth stretched almost painfully around the girth. 

It does nothing to dissuade you, however, tears clouding your vision of his blissed out expression as you swallow him down deeper, hardly taking more than two inches before your throat spasms around him in protest, coaxing a throaty whimper from spit-shined lips that has your hand darting down to your clit, fingers rubbing desperate circles into soaked flesh. 

The following whine that reverberates around his cock swiftly gives you away, crimson eyes focusing in on the way your hand disappears between your thighs, before flitting back to the way your watering eyes remain locked to his, hissing out several curses in German at the sight of your lips wrapped around his straining cock. 

“Your mouth… Gott, your fucking mouth,” strong fingers guide your head off his cock, your lips separating from the tip with a lewd pop, strings of saliva and pre-cum connecting your lolled out tongue to his cock. “Need to fuck you, schätzchen, I can’t wait any longer, verdammte hölle—” 

You’re not given any warning before he’s pinning your back to the floor, bringing your knees up to your chest and bending you in half, a feat you didn’t know you were capable of before his strong fingers moulded you into the perfect position to take his cock. Folded like this, you can’t help but feel like a doll in his hands, your height and weight rendered meaningless under the sheer size of the monster above you. Trepidation begins to simmer under the surface of your skin, trying to imagine just how your body could ever make room for him. 

But he doesn’t leave you much time to fret before his head falls to your thighs, thick fingers twitching from where they hold up your legs as his nose buries into your pubic bone. Long strands of brunette block your vision, startling as you register the feeling of something thick and wet pressing against your folds. 

“K-König!” Your cry prompts a responding groan from the man below you as his tongue licks firm stripes up the length of your cunt, glassy eyes drifting up to you as though intoxicated, drunk of the heady taste of your arousal. With a jolt, you’re left helpless to watch as one of his hands slides down your thigh, stuttering through another gasped moan of his name as you feel a single thick digit slide into the wet heat of your pussy, eyes watering at the stretch that merely one of his fingers provides. 

He doesn’t hold up, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking the second he feels your walls clamp around him, slowly easing your muscles into accepting a second finger, distracting you from the momentary pain by lapping his tongue against your engorged clit. But even so, taking two of his fingers feels like more of a challenge than any cock you’ve taken in the past, eyes rolling backwards as he begins to crook them within you, calloused fingers rubbing against the gummy walls of your cunt in a way that has you convulsing around him, warbled sobs hiccuping past your lips as you feel your first climax rip through your body. 

“One more, maus, I need you to take one more so I know I won’t hurt you.” 

Tears track down your face, still processing the intensity that just wracked your body, but you nod down at him anyway, rewarded with a gentle smile and whispered praise as he cautiously eases a third finger into you, pausing the second he hears a pained hiss after the first knuckle. He hums, placing tender kitten licks against your still throbbing clit, letting you push past tender overstimulation to help pull your mind off the burning stretch, refocusing your attention to the pleasure his mouth provides. 

“Doing so well, liebling, almost there…” His words are whispered against your glistening pussy, eyes firmly fixed on yours as he guides you through, until finally all three of his fingers are pushed to the hilt, cooed praise following immediately after. 

“König, need you, I need you inside of me, please.” Your sniffled plea evokes nothing more than a playful smile from him as he cocks his head to the side. 

“Am I not inside of you right now, maus?” His tone is teasing, words accompanied by a wiggle of the fingers that remain buried in your cunt, coaxing a depraved moan from your already raw throat. 

“Your cock, wan’ your cock so bad,” It takes a second to search for the word that sits on the tip of your tongue, your eyes sparking when it finally comes to you, “Bitte, König.”

It’s immediate, the way his fingers pull from your cunt and secure themselves back around your thigh, darkened rubies glinting with that same predatory stare you’re all too familiar with now. He wastes no time as the tip of his cock bumps against soaked folds, your fingers wrapping around his veined shaft as you guide him inside, mouth parting in a silent cry as the tip pushes past the first ring of muscle and leaves you breathless. 

There is no mistaking that three of his fingers gave you a mere taste of the stretch, belatedly wondering how on Earth he’ll fit amongst the tight walls of your cunt, and the other organs that surround it. But by some grace of God, he continues to move, inch after thick inch swallowed by your cunt as though it were made for him, a perfect match, the monster and his plaything, the predator and its ever willing prey. 

A rush of air finally fills your lungs once the dull slap of his hips meets your ass, unfocused eyes widening as you take in the protrusion of his cock, the bulge obscenely large where it stretches out your skin. 

“S’big, you’re so fuckin’ big, what the fuck—” 

Slurred rambles are cut off with a searing kiss, passionate and fiery as his hips begin to draw back, swallowing down frenzied curses as he slams back into you, setting a cruel pace right from the start. You never had a chance, you should have known, and yet you regret nothing as he pounds into your abused cunt, your cervix meeting the tip of his weeping cock with each forceful thrust, thick veins rubbing against the walls of your pussy and leaving you glassy eyed and cock-drunk. 

Mindless babbles flow from drooling lips, your neck drooping to the side as you hope your eyes convey your needs without resorting to incoherent words. But it takes little more than exposing your throat to him before his lips latch onto the flesh, sucking a line of bruises into your skin before finally settling over your jugular, the only pre-warning of the oncoming bite being the scrape of fangs before they’re puncturing skin, flooding your veins with a venom that has your toes curling, fingernails digging into the muscle of his back and dragging thick red lines against shuddering flesh. 

His pace never falters, hips still careening against yours as his lips suck around the two minute incisions, drinking down your blood with a thirst you’ve never witnessed. Whether it’s the subduing poison that flows through your bloodstream, or the shift of hips as his cockhead nudges the walls of your cunt in a way that has stars blooming behind your eyelids, you find yourself hurtling into another climax, whimpered cries and bloodied nails evidence of your earth-shattering orgasm. 

His lips finally part from your skin with a slick sigh, lips painted the most beautiful shade of crimson that drips down his chin, a line that marks your possession, evidence he’s consumed by you, drunk on you. And it’s as you lean down, your tongue dragging against the bloodied stubble of his chin, lapping up what remains of your scarlet ichor, that he finally succumbs to the pleasure, his cock jolting within you as he releases seemingly endless spurts of cum against your cervix, buried as deep within your body as biology will allow. 

Panted breaths intermingle as his forehead presses flush to yours, lidded eyes, now nearly entirely consumed by gold peers at you, an interesting mix of fascination and something that looks almost fond discernible in his gaze. You still have so many questions, intrigued and just a little bit obsessed with the man above you, yet it’s apparent that your feelings are far from unrequited, and one day, every question that burns at your tongue and begs for answers will be satiated. For now, you’ll bask in his looming presence and tender care, grateful to have found him in the first place, however unfortunate the initial meeting was. 

Just as his lips ghost against yours, the distant sound of creaking has you both freezing in place.

“H-Hello? You still in here?”

“... Scheiße.”

#none of these thoughts were in the bible #not a single one #and yet here i am #still sinning #KSDFJSLDF #anyway please enjoy whatever this is #könig mw2 #könig #könig modern warfare #konig cod #konig x reader #konig x you #konig x y/n #könig x y/n #könig x you #könig x reader #cod mw22 #cod x reader #cod x you #☁︎⋅writing

[k-germsworld]

Behind The Scenes

Sowon x M!reader

1.8k words

"Kach... Kach." The sound of the shutter in the studio rang continuously.  Surrounded by the uninterrupted sound of shutters, the main character is—Kim Sowon, who is also the cover character of this month's magazine.  Soon, she changed into a sports bra and leggings.  When she appeared in front of many staff members, all staff members stared at her dumbfounded.  Every staff member was attracted by her beautiful bodyline, and make everyone's blood boiled.

Numerous spotlights shone on Sowon's body, and her exquisite face and hot body were perfectly capture in the camera.

 "Ok, take a break for 30 minutes." The director shouted.  Sowon walked to the computer next to the director without haste, and bent her body in front of the computer and looking at the photos just taken.  At this time, the director sitting next to her glanced at her buttocks.  Just as the director's eyes were about to look elsewhere on her body, she stood up.  "I am very grateful to the director for taking such a beautiful picture of me." Sowon said gratefully and bowed to the director to thank him.  This bending made the director see her looming cleavage, and the director couldn't help but look at it for a long time.  It wasn't until she straightened his body that he replied to her.  "You're welcome, it's not my credit but because you are so beautiful and it's my job."

At this time, Sowon bent down again and said to the director's ear: "Oppa, just now I noticed that you looked at my breasts for a long time. Do you want to know more about me now?" The director's eyes widened after hearing this,  Eyes full of desire looked at Sowon and nodded. She using lips language to the director and said see you in the bathroom.  After she finished speaking, she walked towards the toilet without looking back.  Not long after she left, the director followed Sowon to the toilet.

 "PD nim, are you in love with my body?" She asked.  " Of course I fucking love it, " the director replied with satisfaction, while his hands restlessly began to touch Sowon's tits from behind.  The director's hand slowly moved from the tits to her ass.  The director's hand touched her butt and said: "I wanted to touch it so much when I saw it just now."

"PD nim, you are so lecherous. You want to touch my body when we just first meet today. Do you only want to touch my body? Don't you want to do something hot?"

 After the director heard it, he stopped moving.  Sowon turned around and crouched down.  She unzips the director's pants and pulls out the director's cock.  She took the director's cock with her hand and started stroking the director's cock slowly up and down.  The director's cock swelled more and more as she stroked it.  Sowon spat on his cock to lubricate the director's cock.

 "Sowon, suck my dick!"

 "PD nim, how much do you want me to suck your cock?"

 "I want it so much! I really want my cock in your mouth right now."

Sowon stuck out her tongue and licked the head of the director's cock.  The director groaned at the sudden move.  She takes the director's cock in her mouth with satisfaction after hearing the director's moans.  She started sucking slowly from the head to the base of the cock, stayed for a few seconds and then slowly pulled out.  She also started using her tongue to lick from the head to the balls and from the balls back to the head.  She sucks the director's cock like an expert

"Ah......Sowon ah.......very good......" The director moaned non-stop about her blowjob.

Suddenly, Sowon stopped her move.  "Oppa, do you just want me to blow your cum out? Don't you want to initiate?"

The director didn't understand what she meant.  To let the director know what she meant, she gently tied her hair into a ponytail with her hands.  Only then the director understand what she meant for the director to take the initiative.

The director picked up her ponytail with one hand and adjusted the position of the dick with the other hand, and stuffed the dick into her mouth.  Now, the director held her ponytail with both hands, and slowly pumped her mouth.  Soon, his horniness overwhelmed his rationality. He began to speed up the thrusting. Every thrust of him hit Sowon's throat hard, making she keep choking.

Sowon patted the director's thigh to let her take a breath.  When he pulled the cock out of Sowon's mouth, the director's cock was full of her saliva.

After panting, Sowon continued to stroke his cock so that her saliva could wrap around it.  At this time, she also spit abit on his cock.  Sowon pulled the bottom of her sports bra and put his cock between her tits.  Her boobs rubbed against his cock.  Sowon would stick out her tongue and lick his dick to double stimulate him.  He watching his cock rub against her cleavage, he got excited.  She squeezing her breasts and began rubbing his cock faster and faster. His cock feel very tight in her sports bra but it was even tighter this time as she pressed her hand to her breasts.  "Ah...so tight...so hot...." He wanna to cum very soon.

Sowon pulled out the director's cock and stood up next to his ear and said, "Oppa you still can't cum..... I still want you to fuck me."

"Sowon, you really took the initiative. The other artists gave me a blowjob and let me cum in their mouth and it's over. But you are different, you are the first artist who wants me fuck you so much."

Sowon didn't answer him, she just kissed the director, it was just normal lips to lips at first.  Afterwards, she started sticking her tongue into his mouth.  He didn't hesitate, sucking her tongue.  He also started sticking his tongue into her mouth.  The tongues of the two were constantly intertwined in each other's mouths.

He couldn't help but start kissing her neck, collarbone, until her tits.  He kissed them through the sports bra, squeezed and kneaded them with his hands, and licked her nipples.  Sowon's sports bra was licked by the director with obvious saliva marks.

The director took off her legging and touched her pussy through the panties.  His fingers kept touching her pussy.  "Sowon, your pussy is so wet!" "Ah... Oppa more..." After finishing speaking, the director began to lick her pussy through her panties.  His flexible tongue licked her pussy until he hit her clitoris, and slowly sucked her clitoris.  "Ah.... fuck... don't... stop" she let out a horny moan.  She was teased by the director and had already squirted so hard, causing her panties to be covered with her own squirt.  He touched Sowon's drenched panties, he took them off, and sniffed them vigorously.  "Ah...it smells so good." The director continued to suck her clitoris heartily.  His hands were not idle either, he inserted his fingers into her pussy and stimulated her quickly.

 "Oppa... I'm going to cum...." After saying that, she squirted second time.  Because he licked her pussy so selflessly that his face was full of her squirt.  The director licked the water from his lips and said, "It's so fucking delicious... the squirt of the beautiful women is delicious as expected." Sowon slowly calmed down from the orgasm, but he quickly carried she to the sink, he open her thigh wider.  "I can't hold it anymore." The director slowly began to thrust his cock into her wet pussy.  The director felt the tightness and wetness of her pussy when he first put it in, but soon his cock was able to hit her g-spot.  The director kept repeating these hard thrusts, letting Sowon to feel her pussy being pounded hard.

"Ah.....harder..... fucking me more harder...." Sowon seemed dissatisfied with the director's power and asked him to fuck harder.  Hearing this, he immediately raising his strength.  He began to fuck her with all his power. Since, Sowon just had an orgasm, her pussy was wet so his cock can coming in and out very easily.  He was dissatisfied with seeing the tits covered in the sports bra, so he took it off and hung it on her hand.  He grabbed her tits with both hands and played with her nipples, and his face stick to it and began to suck her nipples.  He keep playing with her nipples making Sowon moaning nonstop.  "Ah... Oppa is so good... I'm gonna cum again." When he felt the warmth of his cock, he realized that Sowon had squirted for the third time.  He looked at Sowon lying tiredly on the sink, and also looked at his own dick covered by her squirt.

 "Would you like to fuck me from behind, Oppa? My back is tighter than the front." The director immediately held her down and turned her around.  She is now supporting herself with her hands on the sink, while her ass is swaying and teasing the director.  The director spanked her ass and pushed his own cock inside.  She let out the loudest moan of the day from the sudden entry.

"It's so fucking tight."

He started to thrust her from behind. He can see her horny face when he is thrusting from the reflection of the mirror. His hand wandered to her tits and began to grabbed the tits.  The sound of the his thigh hitting her ass was loud enough to surround the toilet.  He kept spanking her ass.  Her ass has obvious red palm prints.  She let out her moan as the director's cock went all the way in.

 After fucking in this position for a short period of time, he finally wanted to cum.  "Sowon, I'm going to cum."

 "Not inside."

After saying, he pulled out his dick, and Sowon quickly opened her mouth and crouching in front of his dick. The director continued to stimulate his cock until a thick white stream shot into her mouth.  Since his semen is too much, some shoot on her face, some cum fall on her tits.  After a few seconds, he finally done his ejaculation. Sowon's face and mouth were full of the smell of the director's semen.  She opened her mouth to him and let him watch as she played with the cum in her mouth until it frothed before swallowing it.  She also put his cummed cock in her mouth to clean it up.  She licked the remaining cum off his cock and swallowed it into her mouth as well.

 When they're done, Sowon simply washes off the semen with water and wearing back her shirts.  After she put on her pants, Sowon took out a business card from her pants. He took the business card and found that it was a series of numbers.  "Oppa, this is my private phone number, call this number when you still want me, you can fuck me in any position you want." Sowon said seductively and left the toilet, the director looked at the phone number and then flashed a treacherous smile......

#gfriend smut #gfriend sowon smut #sowon smut #kim sowon smut

[plazmafields]

V's a living legend at the Afterlife, he's got a stylish new mansion, and his head is one consciousness lighter. And he's not handling it well. V knew Johnny had to go or they'd both die, but he wasn't prepared for how empty he'd feel. Emotionally and...physically? Psychologically? The turn around between Jackie dying and Johnny getting wiped was too quick, V hadn't had time to process all of it. Any of it, really. He could say he feels numb, but that's not right. He feels too many emotions all at once, but he can't express anything. "System overload" would be more accurate.

When a room is quiet for too long, V can almost hear Johnny's voice in the back of his head, an indecipherable murmur. When he's alone and hears a voice, he assumes it's Johnny's. He replies accordingly, often to the room's confusion. Sometimes he responds in his head, forgetting he has to move his lips and vocal cords for others to hear what he's thinking.

It's been a long and difficult adjustment, but Kerry understands. He remembers hearing Johnny's snide, critical remarks echo with every strum of a cord. He remembers staring at his guitar from across the room, listening to a repeating memory of Johnny's fingers on the strings. Distinct. Inimitable.

That doesn't mean it hurts any less when V calls him "Johnny" by mistake. After 50 years of trying to escape that Silver shadow that loomed over his life and career, and finally succeeding, it feels like a major step back. Kerry's been patient--something V has profusely thanked him for--but he's snapped more than once.

Kerry wonders if this is how V felt when they first met. He had such a hard time separating the two in his mind at first, despite being able to tell them apart easily. V's a rebel, an anarchist, an edgerunner to the bone, but not in the same way Johnny always was. V had expressed, when they started dating, that he didn't want to play second fiddle to Johnny. If there had been--or still was--anything between Johnny and him, Kerry ought to come clean. V tended to be a little sensitive to comparisons at the time, but since Johnny's removal, he hasn't shown any signs of insecurity.

Insecurity is now Kerry's burden to bare. He knows in the forefront of his mind that each time V uses the wrong name, it's simply an accident. The last person around him day in and day out was Johnny, so it follows that after moving in together, V occasionally uses the name of his previous "housemate." But Kerry's feelings of inferiority hiss and screech on instinct, like a bat brought to the light, each time he hears the late rocker's name. He's never held his tongue before, but he holds it for V. The marc apologizes ad nauseum each time it happens, and Kerry tells him it's alright.

And it is, he thinks. They've each gotten better; Kerry's reactions are less visceral now, and V is getting used to it being Kerry in his peripherals. Neither will ever be completely without Johnny, much to their dismay, but he's less a part of their daily lives now.

Life, as it were. They've adjusted well to living together. Both men are busy frequently; V's thievery is better done under the cover of night, and Kerry's shows run late due to multiple encores. But when they converge at home in the wee hours of the morning, the world stands still for them, giving them a precious moment to bask in what little time they may have left together.

V's still looking for a permanent cure. Kerry worries his lover won't outlive him. What an odd thing to hope for, he realizes, to die long before V. Before he finds his first grey hair; before he begins feeling the weather in his joints; before he starts groaning whenever he stands from the couch.

V's eyes catch on Kerry's from across the living room. He hadn't realized he'd been staring.

"Wha'cha thinkin' about?" V asks, inquisitive hazel eyes adjusting like a camera shutter around void-black pupils.

Kerry smiles as he replies without hesitation, "Thinkin' about how much I love you."

They haven't said it a lot, only when things get really bad. When V wakes up searching for Johnny, when he has nightmares of Jackie bleeding out and not being able to stop it. When Kerry gets another email from his custody lawyer, when he battles with his label to renegotiate ownership of his masters.

V rises from his seat and joins Kerry on the couch, kissing his forehead as he sits. "Everything okay?" He rubs his hand firmly up and down Kerry's thigh.

"Sure," Kerry lays his arm across the back of the couch, coaxing V to lean into him. "Just feel like I don't remind you enough, that's all."

V grins as he scoots closer. "Well feel free to remind me as much as you want." He grabs Kerry's free hand in his, interlocking their fingers and squeezing tightly, whispering as he leans in for a kiss, "I love you too, Ker."

#idk i just wanted some domestic shit #kerry eurodyne #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk kerry #cyberpunk 2077 v #male v x kerry #kerry x v #kerry x masc v #masc v #male v cyberpunk #kerry x male v

[finniestoncrane]

🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛ The Batman, by Jonathan Crane 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛

tis the season!! i wanted to do a little something extra for today, and it is his holiday after all so please, enjoy this retelling of The Raven, written by Jonathan Crane about a visit from another flying burden that plagues him

Once in Gotham city, dreary, as I studied, weak and weary,

Over many a strange and villainous study of my subject, fear

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, coming dangerously near

“Tis some visitor” I muttered “who has dared to come this near –

Edward likely, Edward’s here.”

Ah distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate thought that entered left my reason not so clear.

Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow, that nobody might appear

For the rare and radiant joy, perhaps, that no one would appear

Leaving me alone to fear.

But the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each orange curtain

Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt sincere

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“God damn Edward, that idiot Nygma, has decided to appear

So late at night, encroaching, he is bound now to appear

How I wish he’d disappear.”

Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,

“Ed” said I “dear Edward, though your habits usually queer

You’ve intruded on my plotting, focused on my latest toxin

Coming to me, late this evening, uninvited, you’re right here

So out of rage, I did ignore you” – I threw open my door here

Darkness there, stoking my fear.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream sincere

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token

And the only word there spoken were the whispered words

“Do you fear?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words,

“Fear… fear…”

Merely this, sounding so clear.

Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely” said I “surely that is someone at my window shutter

Let me see, then, what it is, and this mystery made clear –

Let my heart be still a moment, please, this mystery render clear –

It’s just Edward!” said with fear.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flap and flutter

In there stepped that cursed Batman, donning in all his foolish gear

Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he

But with mien of demon or deity, perched on broken chandelier

Perched, the hinges rusting, on the broken chandelier

Perched with dark, perpetual sneer.

Then this fiendish man beguiling my prior fear to smiling

By the grave and stern decorum of his serious veneer

“Though your presence here is looming, I assure you there’s no glooming

Ghastly Batman, bring no doom in, though you try to domineer

So tell me, what you think you’re doing, trying hard to domineer.”

Quoth the Batman

“No more fear.”  

Much I marvelled this ungainly man to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy here

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet could fight the power of my toxin, they adhere

Bird or beast upon this hallowed earth, cannot help but adhere

Yet for Batman, “No more fear.”

“Batman!” said I “thing of evil! Undecided man or devil!

By that city all around us, by that city filled with peers

Tell me that you really think this, that it is not just your wish this,

That I never will wreak havoc, or my horrors volunteer –

That those fools will not be ravished by the horrors, volunteer.”

Quoth the Batman, “No more fear.”

“Be that phrase our sign of parting, man or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting

“Get thee back into the skyline of that city of austere!

Leave no Batarangs as token of that lie that you have spoken!

Leave me here, no vial unbroken! Leave me never to reappear!

Take your boot from out my face, and then please never reappear!”

Quoth the Batman, “No more fear.”

And the Batman, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

Perched and crouching, waiting there upon my broken chandelier

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming, makes his presence oh so clear

And the truth of my sweet toxin and my failed plans, oh so clear

It is written – no more fear.

(divider by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more)

#this is such a silly thing but i got excited and wanted to post it just now!! <3 #finnie writes #jonathan crane #the scarecrow

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Fairytale

I feel like this might be another suggestion by MoonLord, hmmm...

Either way, have Fingon as Snow White (stealing his sister's epithet) and a subversion of a handful of fairytale tropes!

Characters: Fingon x Maedhros, Maglor, and the other punks

Words: 2 125

Warnings: diffuse sense of dread, a curse, fairytale elements...

Fingon had run for so long that he was now barely strong enough to keep walking—however, something dark and dangerous had taken over his kingdom and home, and he had thought it necessary to flee in search of assistance and council.

Of course, he felt considerably guilty about his younger siblings whom he had left at the mercy of whatever terrible power had encroached upon their realm, but he simply had not seen any other solution.

When he was ready to succumb to the paralysing weariness that had crept into his very bones and lie down, ultimately and irrevocably vanquished by the threateningly looming peril, he glimpsed a thin column of smoke in the distance.

Pushing through the ever-shifting, distinctly unnatural forest that seemed to watch his every tortured step, he strove towards that flimsy promise of sanctuary and salvation stubbornly; at last, he felt an echo of long-lost hope surge within him, and he was determined not to lose his way again.

After everything he had lived through, it was probably naïve to expect whoever had started the fire at the source of the hearteningly dense cloud of smoke to be a friend rather than a foe, but he could not let himself be discouraged now.

Everything had changed since his father, the King, had been overcome by a strange confusion that had fatally addled his mind and dampened his prodigious intellectual acuity as well as his physical strength.

As his son and heir, Fingon had to act—he couldn’t simply stand by as his land and people fell under the spell of the ruinous devastation that was assailing them with relentless fervour.

All but falling down a steep ravine, marbled with gnarled roots and poisonous plants, he finally found himself in front of a small cottage.

“Hello?” he called, casting caution to the wind, as he struggled to his feet slowly. He was tired and sore, his every muscle ached, and his heart clenched painfully at the thought of those he had deserted so callously.

Muted whispers resounded from behind the intricately carven door—the tone and speed of the unintelligible words told Fingon two things: first, there was more than one inhabitant, and second, they were just as surprised to have a visitor as he was to have stumbled upon such a beautiful building in the very heart of an enchanted wood.

Dread replaced the soothing sensation of relief that had assuaged Fingon’s many-layered suffering. Surely, he now considered, creatures who had to retreat so far from all vestiges of civilisation and company had something to hide.

Mayhap, they were monsters or worse who fed on exhausted travellers and lost wanderers—after all, if anyone got sucked into the compelling, merciless magic of the surrounding landscape as deeply as he had, it was highly improbable that they’d ever find their way out again.

Instinctively, his hand flew to his hip to draw the short dagger, dangling from his belt, that his father had given him for his name day a few years prior—he loved and cherished the weapon, and he trusted that he would be able to summon enough strength to take at least one or two of the unseen strangers along with him to the beyond if they were to attack him.

“You go,” someone hissed, and then a shutter was pushed open just a smidgen.

Fingon could make out a pair of flashing eyes, then another one, and another one, and his stomach dropped.

“He’s drawn a knife and all,” another voice, rough and impatient, resounded. “Maybe we should go out armed too?”

“You stay there! I shall go.” The finality in the melodious but stern voice made Fingon cock his head in visceral curiosity—his visions of horrifying ogres melted into images of alluring sirens, and he stepped back into the rapidly dwindling pool of fading light flooding the small clearing he had just crossed.

Shifting into a defensive stance, he raised his blade and waited.

When the door opened, he could not hold back the gasp of astonishment that burst from his throat like a sudden rain shower. No matter what vague ideas he had entertained in the torturous moments of ignorance, he would never have been able to foresee the blinding beauty of the being in front of him.

“You have travelled far; you must be weary.” Lifting lily-white hands, the man—for superficially, there was no indication of any kind of monstrosity or perversion—spoke in that self-same calm tone that had soothed and baffled Fingon previously. “My name is Maedhros.”

Fingon smiled graciously at that lie—he had been the King’s son for too long not to be intimately familiar with that minute shift in inflexion and stature that invariably betrayed a half-truth. He did not doubt that the name given was one that was used by the mysterious entity in front of him—shining like gilded marble in the warm evening light—but he was also certain that it was not the one he used for himself, inside his mind.

“Fingon,” he said, bowing low. If Maedhros was not willing to divulge his true identity and purpose, he did not see any reason to introduce himself with his official name and title either. “I must have gotten turned around somewhere.”

“Where did you want to go?” Gentle mockery lay in Maedhros’s voice now—he evidently was supremely aware of the pitfalls and elusive threats of his forest and had no qualms about letting Fingon know that he doubted the veracity of his words.

“Nowhere,” Fingon chuckled wryly. “I wanted to get away from…It doesn’t matter. You do not happen to know where I could find a sage or a witch perchance?”

Cocking his head slowly, Maedhros let his long hair cascade across his shoulder like a curtain of dancing fire as he pondered the question.

“No,” he finally admitted. “My brothers and I have lived in these woods, guarded by ruthless guardians of stone and bark, for many a sweltering summer and blistering winter, but we have yet to encounter someone fitting that description.”

His bright grey eyes gleamed with sympathy and something darker that reminded Fingon of bone-deep sadness. “I am afraid we cannot help you,” Maedhros went on, his feet already shuffling against the soft grass to turn back to the cottage. “You’ve found the wrong people if it is assistance and succour you seek.”

Flinching as his vague quest was summed up so simply by another, Fingon took a step towards the tall, handsome stranger and—in a moment of utter folly—took that long-fingered, cool hand into his own to keep him from retreating.

“Why are you here then? It is evident that you have divined my motives with disturbing ease, but you’ve also said that you and yours have been confined to this prison of isolation and regret for quite some time. Why don’t you leave?”

“Because we are cursed,” another voice resounded, and Fingon’s head snapped back to the cottage. In the impenetrable shadow of the gloomy hall beyond the open door, he could only barely make out the outline of another being—shorter but just as shapely as far as he could tell—and turned to Maedhros in alarm.

“How many of you are there?”

“Seven, me included,” Maedhros sighed and tried to withdraw his hand; when Fingon would not release it, he soon stopped struggling. “Do not let Maglor’s artful lamentations fool you—we have committed grievous misdeeds. It was to protect others from our reckless folly that we’ve been banished…”

His gaze was pleading now as he shifted as if to shield Fingon from the piercing eyes that flashed like gemstones in the darkness within the picturesque but vaguely unsettling home. “Save yourself…”

They had been banished, Fingon thought, but he had fled like a thief in the night, not even risking the hopeless, crazed fight against an unknown, menacing fate.

“Will you always stay here? Is there nothing you can do?” he asked instead. He and the man whose hand he was still cradling in his own broad palm were almost dancing now—Fingon tried to get a good view of the inside of the house while Maedhros seemed intent on denying him just that.

“There are stipulations,” someone called from behind, “but Nelyo refuses to let us even try to fulfil the conditions.”

Before Fingon could make the gorgeous ginger explain further, a shadow coalesced into the solid form of a man and floated towards them, an affable smile on his sensual, full lips.

“No matter how you feel about the terms,” the newcomer purred, and Fingon was struck dumb by how curiously full and rich his voice was, “this man is tired and hungry. Let him come in and rest—what harm could even we do him with a bowl of fresh stew? We are not monsters—at least, you are not—and we shall obey your words.”

A flash of pain and regret rippled across the pale, freckled face of his reluctant potential host while Fingon tried to suppress the desperate yearning that the flippant suggestion of warm food and a place to sit down in peace had awoken in his chest.

“Maglor, at your service,” the soft-faced siren spoke charmingly. “I promise that Curvo is a better cook than an entertainer, and yes, Moryo is always that morose—it’s not because he doesn’t like you.”

“Stop,” Maedhros groaned, but Maglor had already pulled Fingon away from him and towards the house. “Let me introduce you to the brood. You’ve already met Nelyo—he’s the oldest, and he was literally named for his beauty.”

Fingon had the strange sensation that he was being lulled by the potent spell of the charming words pouring from Maglor’s lips like sweet water, but—in his weakened state—he could not even resist the mellow, unceasing draw of the open door from whence a mouth-wateringly delicious smell now billowed into the quickly cooling air.

“Káno, I beg you,” Maedhros called. “He is…You don’t know what you’re doing…” He hastened after the retreating pair to wrench the clueless victim of the vindictive forest from his brother’s perfectly manicured claws.

Just beyond the threshold though, he was halted by two pairs of hands clamping down on his arms.

“Prince Findekáno,” one of the twins, the youngest and least fatalistically pessimistic of the brood, hissed.

“He could be the answer to our prayers!”

“No, he could not. Let him go!” Maedhros groaned, tearing himself free, and nearly lunged into the small kitchen to save Fingon from the terrible turn in his destiny that would inexorably occur as soon as he got himself entangled with these accursed exiles.

To his visible dismay, Fingon had been offered the best seat in the house and was already nursing a mug full of warm tea while eyeing a platter of cookies covetously—Maedhros knew that his brothers would have bitten one another for taking even a single crumb more than was allotted to any one of them, but they all seemed happy to let their unexpected guest eat his fill.

The scene—calm, domestic, deceivingly joyous—made Maedhros’s skin break out in goosebumps; he knew just how seductively charming all of them could be, and he was tragically aware of how lethal that magnetic charisma usually turned out to be for innocent bystanders.

“Fingon,” he called warningly. “Do not believe them—this is not safe!” He was condemning himself to a lifetime of solitude and misery, he knew, but he preferred to stew in his culpability until either his sorrow or his siblings ate him alive rather than add to the pile of ashes their indomitable fire had already amassed.

“No,” Fingon laughed and took another deep swig of his tea. “I don’t think I will—I think I’ve found exactly what I needed.” He knew not why he had said that, but—in his heart of hearts—he was sure that he had spoken true. Somehow, the unfathomable and quite possibly wicked magic of the forest had led him straight to this house, and he simply could not ignore such an intervention by superior powers.

“What are the terms?” he then asked quietly—the whole room seemed to petrify into a stasis of shock and solicitude.

“The usual,” Maedhros laughed mirthlessly. “True love, true selflessness, true sacrifice—basically, we have to overcome our wicked nature to help someone else without expecting or accepting any form of gratitude or payment. You do not know who we are, but…it’s as likely as to ask a pear tree to bear apples in winter.”

“Oh,” Fingon grinned sharply, “but I do know. We have been looking for you—where exactly is Fëanor now?”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #November #Nanowrimo2023 #Russingon #Maedhros x Fingon #Maedhros #Fingon #Fairytale #Fëanorians #curses #dread #possible redemption

[mad4turtles]

~misinformed~

(A ROTTMNT One-Shot)

In which an upset outsider doesn't have all the facts. Donnie intervenes.

(outsider POV. my first time writing in this style :D)

---

Your first mistake is thinking it'd be funny.

The mutant turtles—the Hamato's, your friends' supply—have been coming by Run of the Mill for about two years. Every time they show up, something happens, so much so that anyone not living under a rock knows who they are by word of mouth alone. Some of Hueso's newest customers come to see what spectacle the morons make of themselves this time. 

The normally straight-laced, no-nonsense bone man doesn't seem to mind. He'll roll his eyes and sigh whenever the Blue one loudly struts in like he owns the place, but he hasn't turned them away since that one time the purple one tried to flip a table and failed.

It's as if the owner has a soft spot for the freaks. You can't imagine why. Not when chaos follows them at every turn, dragging others into it against their will.

Like that time with the Shredder beast that tore up the surface. You could care less about the humans, but you almost felt bad for them once the turtles got involved.

And then there was the invasion.

You were on your way to class when rubble started raining from above. Tendrils of pink, slime-coated tentacles seeped through the cracks of the only barrier between the human world and yours. And you're a big freaking guy, a bull yokai that towers over most of your peers, and you were cowering in a corner until the shaking stopped, and the world went quiet after what felt like years.

You learn later that the fabled Krang had been released from their prison dimension by a group of human cultists called the Foot Clan. The turtles were right in the middle of it.

Some thanked the turtles for cancelling the apocalypse, saving the world in a feat of bravery and selflessness. Others, like yourself, who'd heard from the eyes and ears above ground about how the Foot Clan had released the Krang, wanted to wring their necks.

So when, after two months of no-shows, the Blue one shows up alone wearing an oversized blue hoodie, a brace on his left knee and that stupid grin, approaching the counter with a barely-there limp in his step, you and your friends grin.

Your second mistake is leaving your table.

You wait until Hueso leaves to get his order to approach the boy and tap him on the shoulder. He turns and cranes his neck to meet your eyes, smirk firmly in place as he leans against the counter. “Can I help you?” he asks.

You snort, folding your muscular arms. “You're one of those turtle guys, right?”

Blue raises an eye ridge at you like you're the stupid one, gesturing to himself with a wave of his arm. “I mean, I am a turtle, so...”

You fight to keep your grin. “Yeah. I heard you guys were a big help during that crazy shit with the Krang. Terrible stuff, that was. A miracle you made it out.”

The kid's face twitches in an odd way you've never seen before his grin comes back up like shutters on a door. “Yeah, you could say that,” he says, inspecting his nails. “We're basically legends now, my bros and I. I go by many names, Neon Leon, Nardo, The World's Greatest Ninja--but you can call me Leo, my good man. Need me to sign your napkin for ya? Your face, your shirt—?”

The audacity of this kid. You admit you feel more than a little satisfied when you slap one hand down on the counter, making him jump as you loom over him. 

“Sure. You're a hero, alright,” you sneer, drawing up to your full height as the kid bumps the back of his shell against the counter. “But I heard that you and your 'bros' were the morons who let those Foot freaks set the Krang loose in the first place. Ain't that right?”

You watch as the kid goes ridged, eyes wide, the smile wiped clean off his face. Finally. “How—I mean, I—I, uh—”

“What? Got nothing to say?” 

You feel eyes on you from other patrons, your friends chuckling from your table, watching the smug idiot under you start to sweat. 

“How about I help you? You can start with, I don't know, an apology. How many humans do you think lost their lives up there, hm? I don't give a shit either way, but since you're out here boasting about being their 'hero', I'd say that's a pretty big deal. Or what about the Yokai down here who thought they'd lose everything when the rubble fell and destroyed homes and businesses? You ever think about them while you were up acting like some big-shot playing pretend?” You chuckle. “Must've hurt like a bitch when reality slapped you in the face.” 

There's a light tremble in the kid's hands as he tries and fails to muster a smile that falls hilariously flat. “L-Look—look, man,” he stammers, looking away and clutching his wrist with the other hand, subtly trying to skirt around you away from the counter. “It was—I messed up, I know that, and I—”

You don't let him finish. You don't care for his excuses. Instead, you shove him in the chest hard enough that he topples gracelessly to the floor in a heap. Your friends laugh a little louder, and you almost join in. This is their supposed hero?

“Then you got a lotta nerve showing up here like you didn't nearly start the apocalypse, buddy.” You snort again, sending his mask tails flying as he shuts his eyes against your breath. You lean down, lowering your voice into a growl for his ears alone.

“I speak for a lot of us when I say we're sick and tired of you freaks barging in here. We were fine until you showed up, acting like you belong. You ain't even true Yokai—word is you're a bunch of lab accidents that mad bastard Draxum cooked up. You weren't wanted then, and you're sure as hell aren't welcome now, so you'd best be on your way and not show your sorry shell around here again, you freaking pest—”

You have just enough time to watch Blue's eyes snap wide open, haunted and unseeing before a voice stops you cold.

“Hey.”

You lean back and turn around. The Purple one with the fake shell is stomping the distance between you, a look in his eyes that almost makes you think twice. Almost.

Beneath you, Blue is shaking. “D-Don,” he forces out in a choked voice. “You-you're meant to wait out—”

Purple walks right past you, not even looking at you, and kneels beside Blue, taking him by the shoulders, eyes roaming him up and down. “Are you alright? Are you injured?”

Blue looks at you briefly before looking away, utterly cowed. “'m fine.”

“You certainly do not look fine, seeing as you're on the floor, and my scanners picked up an abnormal heart rate increase. Was this fine gentleman responsible or am I misreading the situation again—?”

“Just drop it, Don. Tio's comin' back with our orders soon, so we'll split.”

You watch as Purple's drawn eyebrows (seriously, who does that?) furrow as he helps Blue to his feet. “Don't you wanna talk to Hueso? He hasn't seen you since your rehab started—”

“I know,” Blue snaps, looks like he regrets it, then hangs his head again, staring at the hand holding his wrist. You notice a blue cast under the drooping hoodie sleeve. “I know. But I just. I wanna go home. Okay?”

Purple stares.

You huff. “Better listen to your 'bro', here,” you say. “It's probably the first good idea he's had.”

Your last mistake is opening your mouth.

Purple turns very slowly and finally looks up at you. His expression is blank, unreadable, and even with all your height and strength, you admit it's slightly unsettling.

“I'm sorry,” Purple says, “who the hell are you?”

Behind him, Blue tentatively reaches for his hand and tugs it, whispering frantically—“It's not worth it, Dee, come on, don't make a scene, it's fine—”

Purple whirls on Blue. You can't see the face he's making, but it silences Blue instantly, his eyes wide. Your friends suddenly start whispering harshly at you to back up. 

You ignore them, crossing your arms again so your muscles bulge. “Just a resident of the city your friend here nearly destroyed,” you say, riding the high of putting one more smug asshole in his place. It's high time he learned it.

Purple turns around again. He doesn't blink. “Is that so?” he asks.

“Donnie, please—“

“Nardo, I am invoking my rights as the eldest twin to silence you while I have a civil conversation with this good gentleman slash bull-guy,” Purple says in a clipped tone. He slips his hand from Blue's and steps forward until he's toe to hoof with you. He barely reaches your chest, and you almost laugh. “Would you care to elaborate on what you were talking to my brother about?”

You're more than happy to. “Just giving some friendly advice. You all talk a big game, but there's a thing called growing up and taking responsibility. Sooner or later, you'll have to put your toys away and realize real life isn't a game. You don't play hero and expect praise or thanks when things don't go how they do in your video games. That's how little pests like him get—”

Between one breath and the next, Purple grabs the edge of an unoccupied table, ripping it off its hinges and slamming you in the face.

The world goes white for a moment, a ringing in your ears. Warmth leaks down your lip and clogs your nose, and one of your horns feels worryingly loose. The ringing fades, and you realize the restaurant is silent. 

You blink once, twice, and on the third blink, you see Purple standing over you with a chair lifted above his head by the legs. His face is murderous. 

“Wait—!”

Purple brings the chair down on you with enough force to rattle the bones in your arms as you shield your bleeding face. He swings again, hitting your shoulder. He swings again at your knee, again at your head. Heedless of your cries or the shouts from the wait staff, the chair comes down again and again and again and again, each time a little harder, until the chair finally explodes in a shower of splinters.

You're an aching mess of bruises curled up on the floor, arms over your head like a child. You dare to peek, and Purple is panting hard, a single chair leg in his vice-like grip. Behind him, Blue stares with impossibly wide eyes.

Then Purple raises his head to pierce you with a glare. He stomps a foot on your side, and a pixelated wave of purple energy swirls around his arm, turning the chair leg into a glowing staff that he thrusts under your chin, right against your throat. You don't dare to move an inch even as breathing becomes difficult.

“You seem grossly misinformed, so allow me to do what is typical of my generation and educate you,” he says, his dead monotone belying the bloodlust in his gaze as he holds yours tighter than the staff in his hands. “My brother is sixteen. He is sixteen, and he made a mistake. One he would not have made had he known, had any of us known, what was at stake. But we didn't. He didn't, and he nearly died trying to make things right. Think about that for a second. My sixteen-year-old twin brother nearly killed himself to right a wrong and save not just New York or the Hidden City, but the whole freaking world.”

The tip of the bo presses harder against your neck. You splutter, fighting for breath.

“And you,” Purple hisses, “have no right to judge him. But alas, you were, as stated previously, grossly misinformed. So I will let you off with a warning.”

He leans in close enough that you can see the sparks of purple flashing in his golden eyes like lightning, and you're as stiff as a rabbit under the claws of a hawk. “If you ever come near my brother again—if you even look at him funny, you or your peanut gallery over there, I will hunt you down and reduce you to atoms. And I'll take your stupid freaking horns and hang them on my wall, or use them as mugs, as that seems to be popular with D&D fans. Either way, you will cease to exist, and no one will miss you when you're gone. Are we clear?”

You nod as best as you can, not trusting your voice—it's gotten you in enough trouble—and Purple finally takes the pressure off your neck, removing his foot from your side. You gasp greedily for air, sitting up on your elbows and rubbing your throat, your body throbbing.

Purple has already turned back to Blue, and Hueso's chosen now of all times to come running out, followed closely by one of the servers, a harried-looking dragon yokai. He takes one look at the room, one look at you, before whirling on Purple, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish that you couldn't understand if you tried. Purple wraps an arm around Blue and replies, also in Spanish, in that same dead monotone. Hueso looks at Blue, and something softens in his expression.

Only for it to harden again when he turns to you, bleeding from the face, still on the floor and littered with bruises and splinters of wood. Your friends finally get off their asses and help you up just in time for Hueso to march over and give you all the tongue-lashing of your lives for harassing young customers. You almost fire back, but Purple is watching you. You see your death in his flashing eyes and shut your mouth.

You're escorted out with a warning of a lifetime ban, utterly cowed under the stares of the patrons and the resentful glares of servers as you walk out the door. You feel Purple's eyes on you the whole time, and only when the mystic door swings shut can you breathe again.

You didn't think anything would scare you more than the Krang had, though you never actually saw them. But Purple's threat looms over your head and echoes in your ears, and you wonder.

You don't go back to Run of the Mill again.

---

Thanks for reading <3 Feel free to send requests :3

#rottmnt #rottmnt fic #disaster twins #rottmnt fanfic #my writing #I may make a part 2 with Donnie's POV #Leo seems a little OOC but this is from a stranger's POV #protective brother #can you tell i love the disaster twins?

[radiowallet]

4 Days West

Summary: Sheriff Marcus Moreno, lost since the passing of his wife, hears word of a town in need.

Pairing: None in this installment. Eventual Marcus Moreno x OFC (named, no physical descriptors)

Warnings: 18+ Death, gun violence, mentions of a death during labor and stillborn baby, drinking, cursing.

WC: 2K

Author's notes at the end.

> Next

Main Masterlist II Series Masterlist

The town of Sol is small. Too small a town for a name so big. The sun looms large above it, blazing down onto the desert strip, a stray patch of cloud not even enough to protect it from the burn. There were days that very sun took up every inch of sky, unforgiving heat carving out its stake in the land and leaving the ground parched in unrelenting thirst. 

It was a trading outpost, one single street off the main trail, meant for those passing through to rest their feet and fill their bellies. A sign broken and forgotten amongst mounds of dirty rocks and the palest patch of grass, left to guide any foolish visitors in its direction. There was a school that doubled as the church on Sundays, the single room filled with chairs that could easily be mistaken as pews. A saloon, the only one for miles, broken windows and crooked floorboards adding to its messy charm. A row of dusty homes, half-filled with folks either too stubborn or too poor to move on, shutters pulled closed, doors locked as tight as they could manage. 

The little town should be thriving, its borders growing wider with each merchant that passed through, but circumstance was cruel and life was unforgiving, and Sol was left to pay these taxes just like so many towns that had come before it.

Blood coated the streets, dried rust staining the tumble weeds that floated through, the ghosts of what was and still is. Desolate. Overrun and overturned time and time again – bandits and thieves ravaging the streets, taking what wasn’t theirs and leaving nothing but anger and caution behind. 

Sheriff Marcus Moreno was no stranger to the pain of living.

He had heard tales of the bloodshed three full moons after the passing of his wife. She had been taken from him much too soon, the ugly realities of bringing a second child into the world bleeding her dry in his arms, the babe gone before he could even take his first breath. It left Marcus with a heavy heart and a daughter to raise, his bed empty and eyes tired. He and Missy had hit the trails shortly after, his badge handed off to his deputy, leaving only his gun on his hip and his kid at his side. 

It was hard at first. Years in a well-kept home with a good woman to help raise his daughter and warm his bed had made the lawman softer than he cared to admit. He had grown used to fires stoked on cold nights, hot meals on the kitchen table, and her quiet strength to help guide his conscience. Marcus had learned long ago that even a good man needed help finding his way from time to time.

Long days in the saddle and nights beneath a cold sky were buried in his past, his body crumbling beneath the rock bed of a life lost and a broken heart. Odd jobs were traded for money, food, and sometimes board, when the hand offering seemed a trustworthy kind. Missy had shouldered it all with him, her hat snug on her head and her skirt pinned to her waist. Never once did she complain, and Marcus loved her all the more for it.

He could feel the realities of this life creeping closer with each turn of the sun and he couldn’t help but wonder how long they could keep pace with time so scattered? Was this the life he wanted for his daughter, her gaze already caught between shades of dark and light. There had been close calls, glimpses of the ugly truth catching them both unaware, his fast hands never quite fast enough to cover her eyes. 

It was an old acquaintance, a bounty hunter with steady hands and mournful eyes, that brought him word of the town beneath the sun, murmured over the rim of his pint, something like longing coloring his words.

Marcus listened to the man, the rasp of his voice from months on the trail, his own son, much younger than Missy, sitting at the bar beside his dad, kicking his boots and reading from a primer. It was a strange sort of painted glass, looking at the two of them, a version of his family twisted by circumstance and making the best of a cruel world. Marcus had wanted to ask what the man’s plan was– for himself, for his son– but it felt too much of prying. 

So instead he asked, “How far west?”

“Four days' ride. Ask for Lou.”

The road into town was empty, but Marcus could feel eyes on them, pearly white shadows peeking out from behind creaking shutters and swinging doors. Each hoof beat felt heavier than the next, until finally his horse stalled, the dig of his boot not even enough to encourage the animal forward. One hand glued to the handle of his six shooter, the other flung out to stop Missy in her tracks. A glance to his left, and another to his right, brown eyes landing on a saloon, the sunlight catching along the open door, the golden glint offsetting the shadows creeping along the weathered steps. 

“Pa?”

Missy’s voice is gentle, softness bleeding out of her hesitancy, and without even looking Marcus can see the way her eyes shift across the same path as his own. 

“Let’s head in.” 

He makes it one step in before the muzzle of a shotgun meets him right between the eyes. It’s instinct that keeps him standing, the cool metal of his own gun in his hand before the door squeaks shut, the barrel pressed into his assailant’s ribs, a breathy grunt pulled from their lips. 

“Fast hands. Not so sure I like that in a man.”

Marcus takes in the person standing in front of him, a different sight than any other hidden behind the threat of death he’s happened upon before. Bright eyes and dark lashes, a curve of a painted lip and the smooth slope of a shoulder, a silk bodice tied tight and a skirt pulled back, just enough to tease his eye line away from her steady aim and strong stance. 

She takes advantage of her devilish distraction, stepping into him, biting back another grunt of pain when his pistol digs that much deeper, slipping gently along the silk boning holding her ribs in and her chest up. The barrel of her shotgun is warm, a breath of heat catching his forehead, trapped beneath the brim of his hat. Behind him a floorboard creaks and for the first time panic swells, the sound of Missy’s own gun cocking in her small hands reaching his ears. 

Time stops short, only their breathing, matched in angry, humid puffs, tracks the passing of the seconds until finally the woman in front of him steps back, eyes dropping briefly to his daughter then back to Marcus, her cheek still resting on the grip of the shotgun, delicate fingers wrapped sweet and snug around the trigger. 

"Well I guess an outlaw with a kid wouldn't be the strangest thing I've ever seen, but I reckon that's not the case here."

“A fair assessment,” Marcus agrees, voice steady, aim true. 

She takes another step back with a jerk of her chin towards the bar. 

“Saddle up.”

She doesn’t wait to see if he plans on accepting her invitation, instead making herself busy behind the counter. 

“I was told to ask for Lou.”

His mention of the man falls flat on the ground beneath his boots, drowned out by the click of the barmaid’s heels. His reluctant hostess sets her gun down on the bar, a final tap to its chamber before she leaves it behind. She turns gracelessly and starts digging through crates, caring little at how the dust flying through the air sticks to her skirt and the peak of leg hidden just beneath, not a stitch of stocking to protect the bare skin. Marcus does his best to not care much for it either. 

“—know I ordered some…been so long…a kid’s been around…ah ha!” 

There’s a pop and a hiss just before a bottle is slid across the bar, not in his direction, but Missy’s.

“They call it pop. I ordered it back when the town was a bit more lively. Something for the young bucks to drink while their parents talked and tied an extra one or two one. Thought it would be good for business. Now these crates just make a nice spot to rest my legs.”  

Missy accepts the bottle with a hesitant glance of her fingers, but doesn’t raise it to her lips, instead looking in Marcus’s direction. He’s quiet for a moment, eyes tracing the glass bottle, lukewarm and pale in color, before slipping back to the woman across from him. Her gaze is soft, a smile cheating at her lips as she watches his daughter. 

It almost feels of fondness. 

Finally he nods at Missy, and she wastes zero time in taking her first sip, a smile chasing a bubble of laughter. 

The woman doesn’t turn back towards him after, instead busying herself again, this time with an unmarked bottle, amber liquid sloshing as she tips it into an empty glass. Careful eyes gauge her deliberate movements, stray beams of sunlight filtering through the dirty windows and catching along the cream color of her bodice, yellowed from age and what must be years spent behind this very bar. She doesn’t speak, but the air is heavy with all that she won’t say aloud, her lips tight around the rim of the glass as she kicks back the whiskey in one swift swallow. 

She pours one more, eyes shifting to Marcus and back, those same steady fingertips pulling out a second glass, this one filled to the brim and slid towards him. 

“You look like a good man.”

The words are dry, desert sand coating her tongue as she looks at him just the same as she had over the barrel of her shotgun, and Marcus feels at her mercy the worse for it all. 

“I–” “Hey!”

He grins, Missy’s stubborn shout ringing up into the rafters, disturbing the cobwebs clinging to the darkened corners.

“We came to help this town, my daughter and me.”

Silence sits thick between them again, the tick of an eyebrow and the tight grip around the neck of a bottle the only sign she heard him. A peek of pink slips between her teeth, licking away any stray taste of the spirit, her lips slipping down in time with her next statement.

“This town is haunted by good men, each one claiming louder than the next of their intentions to save us. What makes you any different than those who came before?”

Marcus tips his head, the brim of his hat hiding the sharp cut of her eyes framed by the soft pin of her curls, her shotgun still resting on the weathered bar top separating them. The pad of his thumb is heavy and gracious on the rim of his glass, the whiskey poured earlier still untouched. His tongue flicks up over the clean cut of his mustache, the wiry hairs catching the salty tang of his sweat.

“The difference, ma’am,” he starts, letting his voice dip slow, a burn of molasses dripping off each one, “is that I don’t believe in ghost stories. Now why don’t we start again. I’m looking for Lou.”

This time she does smile, a flash of teeth and tongue like a cat with a canary in its sights. Her elbows fold in as she leans towards him, the tight lace of her bodice somehow holding her curves in, only the smallest swell of her breast left to steal his attention away. She’s close, just enough for him to taste the whiskey she huffs out with the cut of her laugh, and Marcus suddenly wishes he had taken a sip of his own before now. 

“Well cowboy, you found her.” 

Dedications

I want to give the biggest, most heartfelt thank you to @frannyzooey for graciously reading snippets of this when it was just a silly little daydream and for immediately encouraging me to write this story. She also allowed me to reference her own cowboy and I am eternally grateful I am able to pay homage to TMTC in this small way. Thank you, Kelli for being wonderfully kind and supportive and a light in this fandom. It means more than I am able to say.

A huge thank you to @the-ginger-hedge-witch who is a true friend and encouraged me immediately to jump on the cowboy train. Thank you for double checking the vibes of this silly story and thank you for your support.

Big shout out to @astroboots and @write-and-buried for listening patiently as I screeched incoherent gibberish at them about cowboys and sheriffs and yeehaw honky tonk.

And to my dearest @jazzelsaur for beta reading, for encouraging me always, and for supporting my writing no matter how big or small. Your continued support and friendship continues to be one of the best things that has come out of this hellsite, and I count every day that I know you as better and better. Thank you! For all of it. Whore.

#Marcus Moreno #Marcus Moreno fic #Marcus Moreno fanfic #Marcus Moreno au #Marcus Moreno western #Sheriff Marcus Moreno #Marcus Moreno x ofc #Marcus Moreno x female original character #We can be heroes au #wcbh fic #wcbh au #we can be heroes fic

[whump-card]

Forged Divinity Chapter 1: Phineas Acquires Leannan

1618 words

CW: institutionalized slavery, religious themes, abuse, implied murder, derogatory language

Masterlist, Next

~~~

Revelation 8:7

The first angel sounded his trumpet, and there came hail and fire mixed with blood, and it was hurled down on the earth. A third of the earth was burned up, a third of the trees were burned up, and all the green grass was burned up.

~~~

The merchant's tent was a fire hazard, that, Phineas knew for sure. The canvas structure hung low, the underside painted with long-since faded suns, moons, and stars. The peeling sky resided over an impossibly huge pile of junk. Trunks, fabrics, clothes, cookware, ancient electronics, blunt weapons, farming tools, window shutters, a bedframe, an armoire. Herbs, spices, and mixes of the two claiming to have magical properties filled jars, cans, pouches, and incense boxes that lined rickety shelves alongside trinkets, baubles, and kitsch. A handful of prayer and psalm biblets, but no other books – never any other books. Lines strung from the shelves to the tent posts hoisted flickering lanterns that barely lit the dark interior.

Phineas drew closer to the herb shelves, doing their best to ignore the sense of impending doom the precarious lanterns evoked. They scanned the shelving with a practiced eye, wasting no time on the many, many distractions around them – until one of those distractions was not a grinning animal skull or rhinestone-backed handmirror, but instead the unmistakable tread of another person.

Phineas was facing him straight on when the person ducked around the shelf into sight. He blinked, surprised by Phineas’ confrontational stance and the unusual weapon they carried, but collected himself quickly.

“Are you finding what you need?” he asked in a smooth, low voice. His tone was obviously loaded, and Phineas didn’t like that. What Phineas didn’t mind, however, was the stranger’s appearance. Everything about him was pleasant, soft, and round – his body, his face, his lips, his pale curls that crowned him in gold. His clothes were simple, ragged, scavenged things, like most people’s, but he wore them with a particular taste for layering and color-matching, making the most out of a range of faded blues. Long sleeved, of course, to protect from the sun. A small golden religious symbol rested on a delicate chain around his neck. His hands hovered in front of his chest, fingers linked. As Phineas continued to unabashedly look him up and down, he smiled and ducked his head.

“Maybe I can help-”

“I’m fine,” Phineas cut him off, snatching a small paper box off a nearby shelf. “Where’s your boss?”

“Oh,” the man laughed, bright and short, “She’s not my boss.”

An obvious cue to ask what their relationship was, then. Phineas ignored it, and started weaving their way through the chaos towards where they’d last seen the merchant.

“Hej, sinjorino!” they called. Their Esperanto vocal habits they’d grown up with in the southern deserts were hard to kick.

“Pafanto?” The merchant answered in kind – another nomad, perhaps, fleeing the heat – and her head popped up from behind a stack of computer parts. “All done?”

Phineas made their way over to her, glancing over their shoulder. The blue and gold man was gone. They met the merchant over a dusty counter.

“Who’s your assistant?” they asked, setting the box down.

“Assistant?” she frowned at first, then smiled knowingly. “Ah, you met Hiram. No, no assistant. He’s a holy Iowan concubine,” she spoke proudly, “Worth a fucking town, that one.”

“I thought the Iowan stock died out.”

“So did I! But he’s got the dark blood and everything.”

“How much?”

She laughed in their face.

“More than you’ve got, pafanto!” Her chuckles slowed. “Unless…” Her eyes drifted over their shoulder.

Phineas’ hand went instinctively to the strap that held the Barrett M95 sniper rifle in place on their back. The weapon loomed over their shoulder like a specter, always watching, always ready. A gun like that was rare. Priceless. It was why the merchant called them ‘gunman,’ revealing that she’d noticed the uncommon weapon the moment they’d walked in. Not that it was hard to notice.

Was it worth a human life?

It had certainly taken plenty.

The merchant could tell they were considering it.

“The gun, and any ammo you have. That’ll get you the Iowan, and your…” she picked up the box, “Henna?”

“What’s he like?” Phineas had already forgotten the name the merchant had used.

“Oh, he’s perfect,” the merchant hummed with a sly smile, “A dream in bed. You know, you’d really be doing me a favor, I need to get rid of him before the season ends and I have to go home to my husband!”

The merchant wasn’t being subtle. The gun was worth more than the Iowan.

“He is…” Phineas wasn’t quite sure what they were asking, “Obedient?”

“Very.”

Phineas took one last look around the tent, huffed a breath, and unslung the weapon from their shoulder. The merchant beamed, yet again giving away the game. Phineas delicately set the gun on the counter and took their tall and hefty backpack off, rooting through it and producing two boxes of ammunition.

“That’s not a lot,” the merchant observed.

“It’s a sniper rifle,” Phineas snarked, “You shouldn’t need a lot.”

~~~

Twenty minutes later Phineas was striding away from the merchant’s tent, the Iowan practically jogging to keep up. He’d managed to pack a meager bag of things that now bounced on his back. Phineas, on the other hand, was feeling strangely unburdened. They didn’t like it. The gun meant safety. The gun meant food. What would they do without it?

They walked through dense pine forests, the trees looming overhead in ominous spikes. The narrow track they followed was dutifully marked out by swipes of white paint on the occasional trunk, left by trailblazers not too long ago. Phineas took a deep, calming breath of the evergreen scent, clearing their head.

“What’s your name?” they asked, without looking back.

“I have been called Hiram for some time now, ma’am – sir? – m – uh,” the Iowan replied breathlessly, “But you may call me what you like!”

“Pick something better than Hiram, or I’ll pick something you won’t like.”

“Oh! Well… If you’re letting me pick, I’m partial to Leannan.”

“Leannan it is. Call me Phineas, and nothing else.” Phineas abruptly turned off the path into the dense woods. They could hear Leannan panting and stumbling behind them, his shoes scraping over roots and snapping every twig underfoot.

Hunting with this thing was going to be a nightmare.

Phineas stopped, shrugging their backpack off and finally turning to look at Leannan. The Iowan staggered to a halt, out of breath and awkward.

“We’ll camp here,” Phineas announced.

“Oh!” Leannan looked around.

“Problem?” snapped Phineas.

“No!” Leannan said quickly, “Only, I have nothing to lie on.” He gestured to Phineas’ bedroll, prominently visible across the top of their backpack.

Phineas shrugged. “It ain’t cold.” The summer air was clear and warm.

They crouched to dig through their backpack, and pulled out two wax-cloth wrapped bundles. They offered one to Leannan.

“Eat.”

Leannan accepted the bundle and unwrapped it, finding it a single ration of a homemade granola bar – dried fruit, nuts, and grains – and jerky. He watched as Phineas sat back against a tree, as easy as can be, munching their own food.

Leannan sank to the ground and sat cross-legged, observing his new master like a hawk.

~~~

Later, as the sky darkened and the birdsong began to shift, they lay side by side on their backs. Leannan was on the ground; Phineas lay atop their thin bedroll.

Knowing they were still awake, Leannan rolled onto his side to face Phineas, propping his head up on one hand.

“Phineas,” he asked in a near-whisper, “Why did you buy me?”

Phineas slowly sighed before mumbling, “Because I wanted to.” They didn’t open their eyes.

“What am I, to you?”

“An annoyance, right now.”

“So, you…” Leannan ventured a hand out to caress Phineas’ shoulder, “Don’t you want to touch me?”

“Mmmnope.”

“So, you… You’re saving me? From the life of a whore?”

“Jes, whatever.”

“But you gave up a gun for me, and I’m so, so grateful, Phineas…” Leannan leaned in and pressed his lips to Phineas’ shoulder.

“God, you’re stupid!” Phineas sat up and swung their arm, backhanding Leannan across the face. Leannan gasped and cowered away.

“I’m not interested in fucking you, you idiotic little slut!” Phineas shouted, “I’m selling you the first chance I get!”

“I’m sorry!” Leannan doubled over on his knees, pressing his forehead into the pine needles. “I’m sorry, Phineas!”

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Phineas growled, lying back down.

Leannan lifted his head. Seeing Phineas had already closed their eyes, he rolled his own with a silent sigh and curled up to sleep on the spot.

At least this one was a traveler. They’d find him a suitable buyer better than that merchant could have, God willing, though Leannan would have to be the one to pick the buyer and put the idea in Phineas’ head. The gunman was a fool for giving up their weapon, they clearly had no business savvy.

Leannan just had to be careful not to trigger another temper tantrum.

God would see him through this.

~~~

When Leannan was shaken awake, he opened his eyes to darkness.

“Up. Up, slut.” Phineas.

Leannan blearily started to push himself upright, but a hand fisted in his hair and yanked. He yelped and scrambled to his feet. Suddenly he was face-to-face with Phineas, their dull reddish-brown hair sticking up in tufts around their head, their warm tan skin cast cold by the wan moonlight, angular features sharp.

Over their shoulder loomed the barrel of their gun. Back in its place.

Leannan knew immediately what had happened, but he blinked in confusion for Phineas’ benefit anyway.

“What…?”

Phineas released Leannan’s curls.

“Follow.” They turned on their heel and headed off into the woods, back towards the trail.

Leannan scooped up his bag and hurried after, stumbling in the dark.

He wouldn’t underestimate Phineas again.

~~~

Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!

#IT'S HERE!! HAPPY NEW YEAR! #whump #whump fic #whump writing #whumblr #whumplr #forged divinity #cw slavery #cw religion #cw abuse #cw murder #cw derogatory language

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

The Fallen

ao3

Summary: He finds her too late.

Author's Note: AU from the other one-shots (except maybe Protector) because Leara is married to Ulfric in this fic. If last night's Stay was Rosewing at its corniest, this is Rosewing at its most tragic.

Grab a box of tissues.

#######

       He could not find her.

         Thunder crashed and lightning split the sky in quick succession. The rain was such that the world around him was obscured, shrouded in curtains of ice water. He never had trouble flying through a strun before, but this gale might be enough to ground him. It would have if he was out for any other reason. But he would not be grounded. Not even Alduin himself could have ordered him to land.

         The one Odahviing served was greater than Alduin, and it was for her sake that he weathered this strun.

         Rain slipped between his scales, stinging the skin underneath with frozen teeth. Winds howled with the cries of wolves, ripping and tearing at his wings so that Odahviing could not keep his course. A shadow loomed ahead. Beating his wings against the gale, Odahviing avoided a mountain peak by the fangs of his maw. Hissing, he beat his flight higher, above the jagged teeth of Keizaal’s many strunmah. His wings were numb from cold and wind.

         If he could not find her soon, Odahviing was certain he never would.

         Faintly on the wind, a clear note below the howling wolves, came the familiar, “OD AH—"

         Then silence. Nothing but the strun.

         But it was enough.

         Tearing against the winds, Odahviing wheeled westward. The strun raged across all of Keizaal, drowning the world in frozen waters that would soon ice over, killing the last of the summer greenery and hastening on the bitter winter. Odahviing would face a thousand bitter winters if he could find her.

         Her Thu’um rang from the far west, beyond the city on its arch and the winding range of snow burnt mountains. High above, Odahviing could not see the ground. It was lost in the strun. The fire in his belly raged against the cold. Against the entire situation.

         She should never have ridden out from the Strunkodaav’s city. Not alone. Not after the Vokuntuz.

         With a growl, Odahviing circled the ground. He was near her, he felt the echo of her Thu’um in the air, but the ground was still clouded by the rain, He dared not dive down for fear of crashing.

         The strun was no better on the earth than it was in the sky. His head tucked low to the ground, Odahviing peered through the thickening darkness. Now grounded and near to her, he found his limbs slipping through the icy mud. He crawled low to the ground, his chest and belly sliding through the sludge as he inched forward. Raging yol boiled up in his throat, but Odahviing tampered it down, his ved faas deeper than his rahgot. Where was she? Where was his Dovthurjud?

         Lifting his head into the air, Odahviing shuttered his eyes against the jagged rain, staring into the dark. All around him was the sound of the strun, crushing the gol with hammering liz. She was nearby. He was certain. Perhaps, now—

         “LAAS YAH NIIR DOV AH KIIN!”

         The raging strun drowned out his Thu’im, but – yes, he was close enough.

         Slowly, careful not to slip, Odahviing crawled across the frozen gol. She was there, long stretches of the wing away, but he could see the faint smear of red light that was her soul, shining out despite the veil of rain. Burning, brilliant . . . unmoving. The ved faas gnawing at his zii bit harder, infecting him with a cold poison that ate at his bones. She was so near yet still so far. What happened? Why did she not move?

         Like a worm struggling through the mud, Odahviing clawed his way through the strun and gol toward her, his eyes never wavering from her even as the effects of his Zii Koraav were washed away by the rain. Tiid unslaad passed in his struggle to reach her. The lok ahrk gol could wash away in the ahzid strun, but he would still inch toward her. His lokaal . . . his mid to her drove him forward. It would always drive him forward.

         There was no fanfare when he reached her, his skin stung numb and his underside caked in icy earth. Odahviing gave no thought to himself once he saw her, shining silver and supine on the stones. Heedless, Odahviing scrabbled to her side, his legs slipping and his wings, frozen and trembling, dragging beside him. Then he was at her side, his great horned head held over her small form to shield her from the biting rain.

         “Ysmir,” he said, his voice washed away by the strun.

         She was still, her hair unbound and strewn through the mud in a dark halo. Gently, Odahviing lowered his snout to her chest, flicking his tongue and tasting the air around her.

         Bein! Krent qeth ahrk mahlaan sos!

         “Ysmir, Konziiyol.”

         He bowed his head closer to hers, as closely as he could. Her skin was liz, marbled ice. But there was nothing else. Nothing more. The light that drew him to her from across the strun lok se Keizaal was . . .

         It was. Not.

         Against the heavy rain and the winds buffeting at the nearby cliff face, Odahviing coiled himself around her, a shield and a protector against the winter fury of the strun. He did not know what else to do. His zii felt . . . tempered, weak as if somehow subdued. As he settled his head beside her, his wing spread to blanket her from rain, he knew that it was. The pure firelight burning within him had been snuffed out, blown away by . . .

         Dur Vokuntuz!

         Ved yol raged in his zii in the absence of her kun, gnawing at his bones with a burning rahgot for the ruth Vokuntuz and her dur bahlok! Ruth ek!

         It was only the need to guard his Dovthurjud now that kept Odahviing from braving the strun again and hunting down the lir. But he would. He would find her in whatever hole she dug herself into and devour her as Alduin once devoured sillesejoor in Sovngarde!

         But his burning rage dampened into an ache as he stared at her still face and prone limbs. He remembered her laughing face, the graceful smile that curved across her face whenever he answered her call. He always answered her call. He—

         The rage boiled again, this time at himself. He failed her. He did not protect her as she needed and now she was gone. His Kunziiyol was gone.

         He remembered her face, bright and full of light like the yunvu whenever he saw her. When she returned from Sovngarde, limping but euphoric in her victory over Alduin’s thur. She was beautiful then. Worthy to be Judsedov. Demanding his loyalty and protection. And he gave it, even when she did not understand her significance to the dov, to him. Even when she bound herself to the mey Strunkodaav.

         A deep growl rumbled in his throat, in tune with the thunder crashing overhead. The Stunkodaav failed her. The mey joor failed the vahdin who loved him. Who chose him over the skies of Keizaal and the worship of the dov! Who trusted him! Some ahmul. Some ahmul! Odahviing was not always there to keep her from danger, but as her ahmul, the Strunkodaav’s first oath to her was one of protection. Midrot kren! Once he devoured the Vokuntuz, he would—

         He remembered her face, her joyful eyes when she first told him she was with child. When she first introduced him to Kendov and later, Kaandrem. Her kiir.

         They were without her now.

         His rage turned again. Inward once more. Their monah was gone. He could not take the mal geinn’ bormah too. His Kunziiyol would not like that.

         He flexed his claws in the frozen mud, restless. Once the storm abated, he would bear her to her family one last time. A final flight. Then he would take wing again, his hunger for the Vokuntuz’s soul driving him.

         Coiled around his Dovthurjud, Odahviing made plans. He would hunt the Vokuntuz to her own death, but he knew he could not do it alone. He needed someone with a joor slen to weed her out. The lir was a shadow walker, an assassin’s blade. She would smell him on the wind and scurry into her hold. He could claw open the face of the gol to find her, but such destructive measures would make his Dovthurjud frown. She always handled things so delicately, so carefully. Everything. . . . except this hunt, it seemed. No, he needed a lighter touch, and for that, Odahviing would need Miraak.

         The Traitor, granted mercy by the Judsedov. Others would try to understand the bahlok nahkriin burning through Odahviing, but Miraak alone would share it. After all, hadn’t he also loved and lost the Dovahkiin to the Strunkodaav?

         No heart burned hotter than a dovah’s, and Odahviing’s was an inferno that threatened to consume him. He would not allow it to do so, but he would devour the one who hurt his Kunziiyol. He would burn the Vokuntuz’s world to ash.

·•★•·

Dovahzul:

Ahmul – husband

Ahzid Strun – bitter storm

Bahlok – hunger

Bein – foul

Bormah – father

Dovah/dov – dragon/dragons

Dovahkiin – Dragonborn

Dovthurjud – High Queen Over the Dragons (lit. Dragons’ Overlord Queen)

Dur – cursed

Gol – earth

Joor – mortal

Judsedov – Queen of the Dragons

Kaandrem – Kyneiren Stormcloak (lit. Kyne’s Peace)

Keizaal – Skyrim

Kendov – Martin Stormcloak (lit. Warrior)

Kiir – children

Krent qeth – broken bone

Kun – goodness, light

Kunziiyol – Pure Fire Heart (lit. good/light fire soul)

Laas Yah Niir – Aura Whisper Shout

Lir – vermin

Liz – ice

Lok ahrk gol – Heaven and earth (an expression)

Lokaal – love (from the Legacy Dictionary)

Mahlaan sos – spilled blood (lit. fallen blood)

Mal Geinn – little ones

Mey – foolish

Mid – loyalty

Midrot kren – Oathbreaker

Monah – mother

Nahkriin – vengeance

Rahgot – anger

Ruth – damned

Ruth ek – damn her

Sillesejoor – mortal souls

Slen – body, flesh

Strun – storm

Strunkodaav – Ulfric Stormcloak (lit. Storm Bear)

Strunmah – mountains

Thu’um – Voice, Dragon Shout

Thur – tyranny

Tiid Unslaad – Time Eternal

Vahdin – woman

Ved – black

Ved Faas – Despair (lit. black fear)

Vokuntuz – Artanis Felagund (lit. Shadow Blade)

Yol – fire

Yunvu – new dawn (“yun” taken from Legacy Dictionary)

Zii – spirit

Zii Koraav – Aura Whisper (lit. Spirit Sight)

#oc: leara roseblade #Odahviing #ulfric stormcloak #oc: artanis felagund #miraak #character death #angst #tragedy #rosewing #fanfic #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #dragons

[foreveralwaysanauthor]

How History Repeats Itself

May 31, 2023

Notes - I've had this idea and the other one I'm working on cooking for ages now and I'm so glad to be able to share them now! Also, yes, the songs I used in different parts are either the songs I listened to while writing this, were a way for me to keep track of how I felt things were going at the moment, or were just fun picks I had in certain parts. I just like little details like that and thought it would be fun haha. So, yeah, enjoy 43 pages of one of my longest-standing ideas!

In the wide expanse of the once-busy parking lot, the only sounds were the faint rumble of a Jeep’s engine and the not-so-subtle chirping of cicadas who had made themselves a home in the thick bushes that had sprouted through the crumbling concrete. The parking lot itself was a hazard, but nobody ever used it anymore unless they were either thrill seekers looking to explore the abandoned property attached to the parking garage or shady drug dealers looking to make a quick buck in the only unmonitored area of the city. However, the group of five seated in the cautiously driven, blue Jeep Wrangler weren’t there looking for drugs. No, of course not. They had driven the last hour or so to the city of Nashua, New Hampshire for something far more… special than a drug deal.

The stereotypically eighties-style font that graced the front wall of the once-great mall declared the name of the mall with what could be considered “style” if you liked the look of neon-backed, lowercase cursive. At one time, the three-story mall was a bustling hub filled with people of all ages looking to blow through their latest paycheck at Merry Go Round, Camelot Music, Wicks ‘N’ Sticks, or Aladdin’s Castle. However, once the area decided the mall was no longer the entertainment center of the city and the companies inside the oversized, stucco building couldn’t afford to keep their locations afloat, the mall began shuttering its doors. One by one, stores left the mall until, in 2012, the longest tenant at the mall, JCPenney, closed its doors after over 50 years of operation.

To the dismay of many, the shopping center became a hot spot for vandals who left their marks on the property in the form of shattered glass, graffiti, and stolen signage. More than once, there were reports of homeless squatters taking residence inside the center, hoping to get the chance to gut their way through the metal piping inside the walls of every store and bathroom, but most were kicked out by police that were tipped off to the activity. Now, all that remained inside the structure were a few crumbling storefronts and the memories shared by those who once loved the mall.

One store remains near the mall's expansive property - a Barnes and Noble now barely visible through the line of trees and bushes planted around the bookstore’s property line to hide the decaying, decrepit shopping center from their customers’ eyes. However, the bookstore’s plan to ward people off from wandering too close to its derelict neighbor did little to sway people from following the dirt trail behind the building that led to one of the mall’s many entrances. The unmaintained, pothole-ridden gravel would lead anyone to the mall’s main entrance near what had once been a Target. Just a few yards to the left, one would find the crackling remnants of the parking structure. The three-floor parking garage still loomed alongside its abandoned friend, keeping it company through the years despite the building and its concrete companion looking worse for wear.

This, my dear reader, is where we find our subjects for the day - a group of adventurous thrill-seekers looking to sneak their way inside the building. The nefarious trespassers glide to a stop at the ground level of the parking garage, the driver parking in one of the spots closest to the building out of habit. Seatbelts became unlatched and the front tube doors opened as the trio in the backseat simply stood on the seats and jumped from the side of the vehicle. After gathering some of their belongings from the trunk, the group made their way toward the front entrance where, in place of the front doors, large pieces of plywood had been mounted to keep out adventurous explorers.

“How, exactly, are we supposed to get inside?” Carrie asked, eyeing the barrier the city had put up.

“The front door,” Vivien replied with a smirk, nudging the blonde with an elbow as she passed her on her way to the doors. “Relax, Carrie! I’ve done this, like, a million times.”

With a beaming smile, Bentley proudly proclaimed, “Viv’s right. She does this all the time and never gets caught.”

“That isn’t exactly reassuring,” the blonde muttered as her boyfriend slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward the main entrance of the abandoned mall. “What happens if we do get caught? This is technically breaking and entering, isn’t it?”

A scoff came from Royce as he followed Bentley, turning toward the blonde woman with a roll of his eyes, “Viv has the keys. It’s not illegal.”

Although she nodded understandingly to Royce as he continued walking, Carrie turned toward Miles and whispered, “How does she have the keys?”

“At this point,” Miles began with a sigh, “I don’t question it anymore.”

“I got them from the city hall on Monday,” Vivien answered, pulling the padlock and chain from the doors before switching keys and slipping another into the door lock. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to get keys to abandoned places when you claim to be a journalist.” Pausing in her work, Vivien chuckled and turned toward Miles and Carrie with a grin, “I guess it sort of helps when your mom is a state official and you can ask her to pull some strings with the city.”

“The city thinks you’re here as a journalist?” Royce wondered.

Vivien hummed, “I told my mom that I wanted to help Riven document abandoned places in the state for some article he’s writing for the paper. Nobody needs to know that there’s no article.”

As Vivien returned to jiggling the key into the old, no-doubt-rusted lock, Carrie turned back toward Miles with a raised eyebrow and a hesitant smile. “And you’re sure we won’t end up in handcuffs by the end of the day?”

Instead of answering, Miles simply shrugged as Vivien pulled open one of the heavy doors with a flourish and gave an enthusiastic, “Ta-da!” With a high-five from Bentley and a quick kiss on the cheek from Royce as they entered the mall, Vivien turned toward Miles and Carrie and asked, “Are you two coming or what?” 

A smirk tugged at the corner of Miles’ lips as he nodded, guiding his girlfriend past the teenager and into the abandoned mall. The door closed once Vivien entered the area, sending the group of five into partial darkness. The only light coming in was from the overhead domes that, at one point, were cleaned at least once a week. After so long of being unmaintained, the windows weren’t nearly as magnificent as they once were and their metal framework had rusted over time, but the domes still allowed some light to filter down on the empty halls.

As Bentley led the group toward the main concourse, he chuckled, “This place is a lot bigger than you said it was, Viv.”

“Yeah, well, the last time I came here, I was seven,” she claimed in response, shining her flashlight down the extensive hall toward what had once been a Best Buy. “By that time, a lot of the stores were closed up. I remember it feeling empty, but that’s about it.”

Looking around at the dusty, debris-riddled hallways, Carrie asked, “You came here when this place was open?”

Vivien nodded, a smile forming as she replied, “During the summers, when my mom was busy working in the town hall or taking trips to the other cities in the area, my dad would take us to a mall. There aren’t a lot of malls in New Hampshire, but this was one of the few malls in the state I actually liked so I figured it would be a perfect spot to film.”

“Do you have a spot in mind already?” Miles asked.

“Not really,” Vivien shrugged. “I figured that, for today, we could walk around a bit and find some places to film a couple of the Dana and Connor scenes and, once everyone else is free on Saturday, we could get the rest of the movie done.”

Nods of agreement came from the others as Royce asked, “What areas do we need for the first couple of scenes?”

Vivien shrugged her backpack from her shoulders and dug through her things to retrieve her notebook with the script they had written out over the spring. Flipping a few pages, she recounted, “We need the carousel, a Halloween store for the fight with the infected and the scene where Dana goes crazy smashing the glass, and we need some kind of book-slash-movie store for the part where Eli and Lani find them.”

“Alright,” Miles said, clapping his hands together with a smile. “Where to first?”

Shoving her notebook back into her bag, Vivien claimed, “Well,  I don’t know how strong the upper floors are after sitting untouched for the last ten years, but maybe we should look them over before we start filming.”

“Good idea,” Carrie commented, peering through the opening in the floor above them to see the stores lining the far wall.

Slinging her bag onto her shoulders again, Vivien led the way to the staircase, guiding the others to the next floor. As they walked, Vivien pointed out different locations she knew despite the signage being long gone. Stopping in front of a giant, metal archway, Vivien let out a short giggle, “I can’t believe they had a fucking Hot Topic and I never knew about it. I would’ve begged my dad to buy out the entire store before they closed.”

“How do you know it’s a Hot Topic?” Bentley wondered aloud, peering inside the dimly lit store.

“The archway,” the brunette replied simply. Turning toward the other side of the hallway, she pointed at another shop and said, “Just like I know that graffitied rolling door is the opening for Spencer’s Gifts.”

“You really like your malls, don’t you?” Carrie questioned with a grin.

“Of course,” Vivien agreed. “When you live in the middle of nowhere, you have limited options for fun things to do, but the mall has endless activities and places to explore.”

Ducking under the metal gate and entering the long-closed store, Vivien decided to look around, seeing what was left over from the shop’s closing. It was clear that they tried to sell everything before closing, but what remained was a single rack of unsold clothing and some stands that were never purchased at the liquidation sale. As the others joined her in the brick-walled store, Vivien picked up a set of keychains left in a small bin by the cash register. Ditching them in favor of the packages of long-expired candy behind the counter, Vivien chuckled, wondering just how long the sweets had been there.

“This would be a great spot to film the scene with Eli and Lani,” Bentley offered, poking one of the many chain belts hanging from the wall. “It’s like the part where he takes her to the arcade instead of the bookstore.”

Royce chuckled, quoting one of the characters he and Vivien had written, “This isn’t the bookstore.”

“Nope,” Vivien continued, “it’s Hot Topic.”

“What’s the topic?” Royce added with a smirk, holding the edge of a shirt with skulls surrounding a pit of lava. “Wanting to die?”

With a snort of laughter, Vivien nodded, “Precisely.”

Once they were done in Hot Topic, the group continued their exploration of the eastern wing of the mall, coming across an old K B Toys full of Tomagotchis and demonic Furbys, the crumbling remains of a Rainforest Cafe, and a Bath and Body Works that, despite having been gutted before the mall’s closure, still had the lingering, overpowering scent of cinnamon, coconut, and something distinctly woodsy. Near the far end of the wing, just next to the old JCPenney, sat a store Vivien had only been fortunate to step into a handful of times - Blockbuster.

Although most of the stores in the mall had gone through the process of selling all their assets off and liquidating everything apart from the walls, it appeared as though Blockbuster was one of the last things to go and the managers simply left everything inside. Posters advertising a “closing down sale” were still taped to the windows, beckoning customers that would never come. In one window was a poster for the first Avengers movie, but it was the picture in the other window that caught Vivien’s attention.

“I forgot that The Hunger Games came out the same year as Avengers,” she muttered to herself as they approached the blue-lined store.

“What do you mean?” Bentley wondered.

“I always thought Avengers came out back in, like, two-thousand-eight or something with Iron Man or The Incredible Hulk,” she shrugged. “I guess I was just so invested in The Hunger Games that I cast the Avengers movie aside until later on.”

“The Hunger Games, huh?” Miles wondered as he approached the trio who were busy looking into the abandoned video store. “Isn’t that the book you three were reading the other day? The one with all of those districts and the people dressed up like every day is Halloween?”

“That’s the one,” Royce confirmed with a nod, peering up at the poster with a raised eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be Katniss in the poster?”

“Mhm,” Vivien hummed in agreement. “We should probably watch the movies this weekend.”

“I thought you wanted to do those test things to see which district we’re all from?” Bentley questioned.

“No, that’s what Mick wanted to do,” Vivien claimed. “I’m pretty sure you guys would be from District Six anyway.”

“District Six?” Carrie asked. “How many districts are there?”

“Technically, twelve,” Royce stated. “There were thirteen, but it was blown up in the first rebellion.”

“It’s still functioning, though,” Bentley added. “They just live in an underground bunker now.”

“And what, exactly, does District Six do?” Miles asked.

Glancing toward Miles with a grin, Vivien said, “District Six is responsible for transportation. They build hovercrafts, high-speed trains, and cars.”

“I can see where you got the idea we’d be there,” Miles chuckled. Nudging the teenager with his elbow, Miles smirked and asked her, “Where would you be, kid?”

Without much thought, Vivien began, “Well, location-wise, probably District Thirteen, but if we’re going off of family history and all that, probably District Two because most of my family are construction workers.”

“What about you, personally?” Carrie asked. “Where would you be?”

A hum came from the almost seventeen-year-old as she thought about the question. Soon, though, she gave her answer, “Probably District Three - the technology district.”

“Makes sense,” Bentley shrugged. A moment of silence passed over the group before Bentley piped up once again and questioned, “What about Carrie?”

The blonde in question turned at the sound of her name and asked, “What about me?”

“What district would you be in?” Bentley clarified.

The question confused the blonde, but she was quick to cover her confusion with a smile as she said, “I’m not sure. I’ve never read the book myself.”

“Shocker,” Royce muttered with a roll of his eyes, earning him a swift jab to the ribs from his girlfriend. 

Gracefully ignoring the middle Murphy brother’s snide comment, Carrie asked, “You three have read it; where would you place me?”

Despite feeling the sudden scrutiny of the three teenagers, Carrie’s demeanor never wavered, a simple smile gracing her features as the kids took in her appearance and judged her personality. As Vivien’s smile broadened, Carrie’s tense nerves eased and she allowed the brunette to say, “I could see either District One or District Four.”

“Which are?” Carrie asked.

“Luxury and fishing,” Bentley claimed. “I was going to say District One.”

“Alright, so we’ve got two for District One and one for District Four,” Carrie restated. Turning her gaze toward Royce, she asked, “What about you, Royce? Where do you think I would be?”

Though he wanted nothing more than to throw Carrie into one of the last districts and call it a day, Royce remembered he had promised Miles at the beginning of the summer that he would at least try to be cordial to the blonde. Glancing toward the others who eagerly awaited his answer, Royce took in a deep breath and tried to at least be civil in his answer. Meeting Carrie’s curious blue eyes, he began, “Well, if I had to pick a district, I would say District One, but I think you would do better in the Capitol.”

“The Capitol?” Carrie wondered.

Royce nodded, “The districts are filled with people forced to work to supply the Capitol, but the Capitol is sort of like Hollywood meets Washington DC. All of the rich and famous live there among the politicians. You’d probably have a great acting career there or be one of the stylists or something.”

Thoughtfully, Vivien hummed, “I could see her being a stylist.”

Bentley nodded, “Maybe she’d be like Cinna; helping her tribute make an impression with the sponsors through their outfits and sparking the rebellion.”

Carrie hummed thoughtfully, “Actress, stylist, and rebel loyalist?” Carrie’s signature smile spread as she eyed the three teenagers and nodded, “Sounds like a good time to me!”

With a snort of laughter, Vivien shook her head at the blonde before making her way inside the movie store to snag one of the membership cards that were left scattered behind the front counter, claiming she would laminate the paper and keep it in her wallet later on. After a while of exploring different stores, the group continued on their way, eventually exploring the entire eastern wing of the shopping center. The most damage they had found on that floor were some ceiling tiles that had fallen due to the heavy New England snow that damaged the roof fairly well. Exploring the western side of the mall, however, was a different story entirely. If the sight of some furniture being set up around a makeshift campfire was anything to go by, squatters had made themselves home there more than once and it showed in more ways than one. As they looked around the area near the carousel, exploring some of the little outlet shops in the area, Vivien stopped in what had once been a Glamour Shots studio, peering through the floor to the store below that had once been a Game Stop if the signs on the walls for Playstation, Xbox, and Nintendo were anything to go by.

“Holy shit,” she muttered to herself. Backing out of the store, she called out, “Hey, guys! Come check this out.”

As the others left their stations at other stores, Vivien edged her way around the hole to the other side of the store, looking at what remained of the photography studio. A torn backdrop that once had palm trees and an oceanic background sat in the same spot it had once been in, mold most likely having been the reason for the backdrop’s untimely demise. As Vivien toyed with the basket of accessories off to the side of the photography area, a breathy, “Holy shit,” caught her attention.

Turning toward the voice, she found Bentley peering into the hole with wide eyes. Vivien chuckled, “It’s bizarre, isn’t it?”

The blond nodded as his brother joined him, the older of the two looking into the game store below with a grin. “This looks like something out of that apocalypse game you roped me into playing,” Royce commented. 

As Carrie entered the room, she took one look into the hole in the floor before taking Royce and Bentley by the wrists and lightly tugging them back, away from the drop of death. “That is a one-way trip to hell,” she decided.

“Since when is hell an abandoned Game Stop?” Royce asked rhetorically, a grin tugging at his lips as Carrie pulled him and Bentley back another step.

As Miles rounded the corner, Vivien edged closer to the hole, looking to see if she could find any games she didn’t have yet. Upon seeing the large gap in the ground, Miles let out a not-so-quiet. “What the hell?”

Vivien looked over with a smile and asked, “Hey, Miles, does this remind you of anything?”

Miles’ eyebrow raised ever so slightly before a look of understanding and mild exasperation coated his features and he shook his head at the brunette girl on the other side of the hole. “It does, and I don’t think either of us wants to have that happen again, so get your ass over here before you fall in.”

With a smile and a roll of her eyes, Vivien chuckled, “Alright, alright, I’m coming. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“Says the one with a death wish,” Miles scoffed as he followed Vivien to the side of the hole, taking her hand once she was close enough and pulling her further from the drop. “Was the first time not enough for you?”

With a smirk she’d gleaned from Riven years ago, Vivien shook her head, “Never.”

“‘First time?’” Royce questioned.

“What ‘first time’?” Carrie asked.

Curiously, Vivien turned to Miles with a raised brow and asked, “You never told them?”

Miles shrugged, “I thought you would have told them by now.”

“Told us what?” Bentley asked, glancing between the pair.

Miles looked ready to respond, but Vivien beat him to it, “How Miles saved me from death a few years ago.”

Sending the girl a look, Miles shook his head, a sigh falling from his lips as he claimed, “I didn’t save your life, kiddo.”

“You did too,” Vivien shot back adamantly. “At least, it felt that way.”

“When was this?” Royce questioned.

Vivien contemplated the question before estimating, “I was almost fourteen, so about three years ago, give or take.”

“Since when did you know Miles before you met us?” Bentley pressed, his head lilting to the side. 

“Since always,” Vivien shrugged. “Mick brought him, Butchy, and Lela over a few summers before I met you guys.”

While Royce and Bentley contemplated the idea of their brother having met one of their closest friends before they had, Carrie stepped forward with a smile, taking one of Miles’ hands in hers and brushing a loose lock of Vivien’s hair behind her ear. “No wonder the two of you get along like a pair of siblings.”

“What do you mean?” Miles asked.

“Well, you two get along so well and have fun messing with each other,” Carrie clarified. “It makes sense that, since you guys were close back then, you’re close now.”

Vivien let out a snort of laughter as she led the group out of the room, “Yeah, that would make sense, but we weren’t exactly close back then.”

“What do you mean?” Royce questioned as Vivien passed him.

Patting her boyfriend on the shoulder, Vivien turned toward the others, taking a few steps backward as she grinned and said, “Ask Major Dickhead.”

Miles swallowed as he suddenly felt three pairs of eyes on him. “I wasn’t that bad!” he squawked defensively, attempting to ignore piercing gazes locked on him as he tentatively stepped around the others and followed Vivien out of the old photography studio. Vivien’s quick words and the impeccable way she could word things in her favor had never changed, though he never expected her silver tongue to be used on him after all this time.

“Says the guy who stonewalled me for a month,” Vivien fired back.

Despite the grin Miles was sure the girl had on her face, Miles tried not to wince as he recalled just how standoffish he had been to the young teenager. While it was true that he was particularly distant and ever-so-slightly aloof to the girl, he wasn't nearly as bad as she was making him out to be. As Miles picked up on the sound of footsteps behind him and felt the blazing stares of not only his brothers but also his girlfriend on his back, he sincerely hoped they realized Vivien was playing up the situation at least a little. As Vivien led them toward the ornate carousel that had sat fairly untouched since the mall’s closing, she turned to Miles with a smile and he sighed, “Must you make me out to be the devil?”

Vivien’s half-ponytail bobbed as she nodded, “I must.”

Pressing the palm of his hand to the girl’s forehead and lightly pushing her head back, Miles smirked, “If they try to kill me, that’s on you.”

Vivien rolled her eyes, lightly jabbing Miles in the side as she said, “Says Major Dickhead.”

“I wasn’t that bad the whole time, was I?” Miles asked as the others joined them.

With a shake of her head, Vivien relented, “You weren’t. I just like to push your buttons like an obnoxious child on an elevator and watch you squirm under their scrutiny.”

Having heard the brunette’s admission, Carrie asked, “So, what actually happened?”

With a nod, Bentley gave an agreeing hum as Royce looked to Miles and asked, “Why didn’t you like Vivien?”

“It’s not that I didn’t like her,” Miles began, “I was just new to her and her unrelenting energy.”

“Oh yeah,” Vivien breathed with a grin. “I was a little gremlin back then.”

“‘Was’?” Carrie echoed, smirking at the teenager who gasped dramatically in return.

“I will have you know,” Vivien started, “that I am not a gremlin! Mick promoted me to a hobgoblin for Christmas.”

“Okay,” Royce began with a shake of his head, confusion still evident in his tawny eyes. Turning his attention back onto his older brother, he asked, “That’s great, but what happened? What’s the story?”

Climbing onto one of the carousel horses, Vivien claimed, “If you want the full story, we would have to start from the beginning.”

Miles nodded, sitting on the edge of the carousel’s wooden platform, “It wouldn’t make much sense otherwise.”

Shrugging, Bentley placed his backpack on the floor and sat beside it with a grin as he said, “I wanna hear this.”

As Carrie and Royce gave their own forms of agreement, Vivien clapped her hands together with a brilliant smile and declared, “Well, get comfy, guys.”

Royce nudged his bag from his shoulders and set it aside with Bentley’s before moving to sit on the floor with his legs crossed as Carrie perched herself on the hard plastic case they had brought to shoot some snippets of the short film. With a small smile, Carrie said, “I would ask you to break out the popcorn, but we have no way to cook it.”

Vivien chuckled, “Sadly, it wouldn’t be the first time someone lit a fire in here.”

“Anyway,” Miles drawled, urging Vivien to begin the tale of their friendship.

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved him off. “Anyway, I hope you guys are comfortable because we’re taking you all the way back to June of twenty-twenty. You see, I was just riding my bike home from hanging out with Riven and his band when I spotted Mick’s family pulling into their driveway in the rusted, old, piece-of-shit van they should have gotten rid of years prior.”

With a smirk, Miles added, “I had just gotten off my first trip on a flying metal death trap for my first trip to New Hampshire as ‘part of the family’ and was so nervous about making a good impression and being a good house guest that when this one-” he tapped the back of his hand on Vivien’s shin, “-came running up to the house, screeching Mick’s name, I almost decked her.”

“Mickie!” a high-pitched, piercing voice shouted from the end of the driveway, making Miles jump and nearly drop his suitcase.

Miles turned toward the voice, spotting a curly-haired girl in jean shorts and a striped tee shirt running up the hill toward them. It was easy to tell that the girl had ditched her bicycle in the grass on the side of the driveway, the tires still spinning lazily as the girl bounded up the pavement. Whoever the child was, her excitement was palpable as Mick let out a squeal of her own and ran to meet the girl. The two teenage girls met in the middle, slamming into each other with such force that Mick stumbled to the grass, taking the curly-haired girl with her with a laugh. A chuckle in his ear made Miles jump, sucking in a sharp breath as he turned to find Butchy watching him with an amused grin. 

“Relax, Miles,” Butchy ordered gently, patting Miles on the back and effectively thumping some sense into his younger friend. “It’s just a little kid.”

“I know,” Miles attempted to brush off, grabbing the handle of his suitcase once more. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

Although Butchy didn’t seem the least bit convinced by Miles’ statement, he nodded all the same and slung an arm around his friend’s shoulders as he led the way to the wood cabin near the end of Gray Road. “Well, get used to it because, if the pictures Mickie was showing me on the way here are anything to go by, the two of them are thick as thieves.”

Miles spared one last glance at the two girls who had resigned to their fate on the front lawn, chattering like old friends, and muttered, “Great.”

It wasn’t long until Miles discovered the girl was all too inquisitive. While he was accustomed to Royce, Bentley, and even Lela asking him question after question, Mick’s young friend possessed an entirely different level of curiosity. The child was persistent, he’d give her that. Their first meeting was brash and - dare Miles say it - invasive. While he was unpacking some of his belongings into the closet and dresser he’d been given, the door to his room swung open, nearly bouncing off the wall as the child entered the room with an outstretched hand and a metal-filled smile. 

“I’m Vivien O’Brian,” the girl stated as Miles tried to work himself out of another heart attack caused by the child before him. “I live next door. Mickie said I should introduce myself and that I should be nice because you’re nervous about being here.” The girl - Vivien’s ever-present smile faltered slightly as she glanced to the side and muttered, “I guess I should have left that part out, huh?” Her almost electric green eyes found Miles’ bewildered gaze as she nudged her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose and chuckled tentatively, “Forget I said that last part.”

Trying to push away the confusion he’d gained from the brief encounter with the girl, Miles latched hands with her and introduced himself properly, “I’m Miles.”

“I know,” the girl chirped. “Mick and her boyfriend told me that already. Anyway, I wanted to see if you wanted to watch a movie with us. We’re watching Hamilton!”

Although Vivien’s warm smile and cheerful radiance almost convinced Miles to let her take him downstairs to the living room, the almost familiar manner in which the girl seemed to feel at ease with him made Miles pause, taking in her appearance for the first time since she’d stepped into his room. With her neatly curled, golden brown hair, she almost looked like Royce, only with the same bright, doe-like eyes Bentley possessed. Her presence was a glaring reminder of the boys he had left behind - the only things offsetting this premise being her glinting spectacles and the metal brackets with colorful bands sitting atop her teeth. 

Taking in a breath, Miles gave the girl an apologetic smile and sighed as he gestured to the suitcase he had discarded on his mattress upon his arrival to his new room, “Sadly, I have to put all of this away before I do anything else or I’ll never get around to it.”

Vivien gave a soft, “Ahh,” of understanding before bouncing once and perching herself on the end of the bed. “Well, a lot of people say I’m not much help when it comes to organizing things, but I can certainly offer moral support, if you want me to keep you company?”

Miles chuckled, shaking his head, “That’s alright, kiddo. You should go enjoy your movie.”

Vivien eyed the taller boy for a moment, swinging her legs over the end of the bed before a smile spread across her face and she chirped, “Okay! Well, if you change your mind, Hamilton is, like, three hours long, so you can always join us and I’ll fill you in on everything you missed.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Miles said with a nod.

As Miles returned to hanging up one of his hoodies, Vivien pushed herself from the bed and made her way to the door, giving Miles a graceful, yet wobbly curtsy as she said in a posh, faux-British accent, “T’was a pleasure meeting you, Mister Murphy.”

Deciding to play into the girl’s game, Miles gave a short bow and returned the statement with ease, “The pleasure was all mine, Miss O’Brian.”

Warmth spread through Miles’ veins as though he had just come inside after walking through a snowstorm as the girl in the doorway giggled, “Mickie was right; I like you already!”

Like the whirlwind she was, Vivien took the doorknob and swung the heavy oak door shut with a gentle click and Miles only faintly heard her scamper off down the hall with a call of Mick’s name as he sat on the edge of his bed. If Vivien liked him already and felt comfortable with him around, it would only hurt her more when the time came for them to leave for California once more. To make matters worse, Miles was almost positive that he’d screw something up by the end of his stay with Mick’s family, so he was sure that Vivien would only be hurt in the end if they did grow some form of bond during his stay, only for him to never return to the small, New Hampshire town. Staring at the door the younger teenager had left through, Miles came to a decision that, regardless of Vivien’s excitement to befriend him, he would try to keep his distance. He didn’t need another child’s disappointment on his conscience when he already had two.

“So, let me get this straight,” Royce began. “You didn’t want to be nice to Viv just because she reminded you of us?”

Instead of allowing Miles to answer the question, Vivien spoke up, “It was more because he didn’t want us to be close before he had to leave.”

“That’s stupid,” Bentley commented. 

“It was, but he had his reasons,” Vivien claimed, forcing the attention back onto Miles as the trio waited for him to say something intelligent.

“I knew that my leaving home really hurt you two,” Miles added, his gaze flicking between his younger brothers. “I didn’t want to do the same thing to Vivien, especially with how easily she accepted me as a friend.”

“I knew something was up when he never showed up to watch Hamilton with us,” Vivien claimed. “So, I made it my mission to weasel my way into finding out what was wrong and try to fix it.”

“Did you?” Carrie asked.

Both Miles and Vivien nodded as Vivien smirked, “He didn’t make it easy.”

“And she was a persistent little shit,” Miles chuckled.

“Yeah, I was,” Vivien laughed. “Anyway, over the first week of their stay, I came over for breakfast every morning to try to get closer to Miles and see if I could help fix what was wrong.”

A soft curse fell from the lips of Vivien O’Brian as she stopped to pick up the plastic container of assorted beads that had tumbled from her wagon. Hefting the plastic bucket back into the wagon and placing one of her books on it to keep it in place, Vivien grabbed her wagon’s handle and continued on her trek down her street as Twisted Sister’s We’re Not Gonna Take It began playing over the headphones she’d connected to the Walkman clipped to her pants. The thirteen-year-old softly sang along to the song as she passed the mailbox at the end of the Birch family’s driveway, not bothering to check if there was any mail inside as it was a Sunday. Slipping the glittering purple key Mick had given her into the lock of the front door, the teenager let herself into the cabin, hauling the clunky wagon inside behind her and pausing her music to close the door and call into the house, “Good morning, Birch family!”

Tugging her wagon further into the house to the sound of hastily called greetings, Vivien smiled. Ever since she was little, the Birch’s house felt more like home than hers ever did. While her siblings were at the elementary school’s summer program, her dad was busy with school board meetings, and her mom was off doing heaven knows what in either the town hall or her office, she would find comfort in the cabin’s cozy warmth and familiar residents. There was always a plate of food set aside in case of her arrival and a spot on the couch for her to sit with her books or schoolwork or arts and crafts projects. While she loved living at the winery and learning her grandparents’ trade, there was something about the Birch family’s cabin that felt like home.

Making her way to the living room, Vivien ditched her wagon by the coffee table and took off for the kitchen where Brady was holding the toaster out the window over the sink, a cloud of smoke wafting into the air. “Did you already start a fire this morning, Mister Birch?” Vivien asked as she perched herself next to Miles at the island counter. 

“No,” Brady replied, “I just made toast backward.”

At the teen’s confused look, Mack stepped forward, placing a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs before the girl as she said, “He put butter and jelly on the bread before putting it in the toaster.”

“How did you manage that?” Vivien asked, grabbing the ketchup bottle from beside Miles’ cup of coffee and squeezing some out on her plate.

“He had already toasted the bread,” Mick claimed, leaning forward enough to catch the younger girl’s gaze. “Then, after grabbing a couple more slices and setting them aside, he went to the fridge for the strawberry jam and turned back around to get the bread, but took the jellied toast instead and put them in the toaster out of habit.”

With her hands on her hips, Mack turned toward her daughter with an accusatory stare and asked, “You watched him do this and said nothing?”

Mick quickly shook her head under the scrutiny of her mother’s gaze, “No, but the evidence is there and it’s easy to put together the pieces.”

Sure enough, on the lower section of the island was a glass jar of strawberry jam accompanied by two slices of plain bread, a grape-jelly-coated knife, and a tub of butter. Mack sighed, shaking her head as she grabbed the butter and jam and placed them back in the fridge, tossing the jellied knife into the sink before continuing with preparing breakfast for herself and her husband. Maybe that was what Vivien liked the most about the Birch house - no matter how badly someone screwed up, there was never any yelling. Even though Brady always burned something in the kitchen, his wife never yelled at him for being an incompetent chef and, when Mick got the occasional bad grade, her parents helped her as much as they could instead of telling her she needed to get her act together if she wanted to get into a good college. It was times like these that the Birch family made her house feel like army barracks. Although she loved her family and wouldn’t trade them for anything, Vivien sometimes envied Mick for having such relaxed, easy-going parents.

After breakfast, the group gathered in the living room to watch television and Mick flipped through the channels before finally landing on a channel playing old shows. Vivien grabbed her plastic container of neatly organized embroidery floss and the haphazardly kept bucket of beads before settling into the corner of the couch, intent on making bracelets for her new friends. Her first person of interest was Butchy as she had already told the man her plans the night before after Hamilton ended and her father had come to pick her up. Vivien nudged Butchy’s arm, asking him if he wanted to pick out the colors for his bracelet and allowing him to look through her available equipment. He picked out a trio of colors and set them aside for Vivien to use and, without hesitance, she wrapped a measuring tape around the biker’s wrist and used her fingernail to draw the number into the couch cushion. After that, she let him return to the show and got to work on the task at hand.

By the time she was done with the bracelet, Mack and Brady had left with Lela to pick up pizza for lunch and Mick and Butchy were getting everything ready in the kitchen, leaving Vivien alone with Miles, who was busy reading a book. Peering over her clipboard at Miles, Vivien asked, “Do you have a lighter?”

Miles jolted, having gotten so absorbed in the story he’d been reading that he forgot about the girl across from him. Taking in a breath to calm himself, Miles asked, “Why do you need a lighter?”

Vivien turned the clipboard to Miles, letting him see the bracelet she had just finished as it dangled from the metal clasp. “I need to seal the ends so the bracelet doesn’t get all frayed later on.”

With a slow nod of understanding, Miles said, “Well, sorry, kid, but I don’t have a lighter.”

“That’s alright,” Vivien said as she set her things aside. “I’ll just do it later, then.” As Miles nodded and returned to his book, Vivien felt boredom creeping up on her. She watched the other boy for a while, wondering what was so interesting about his book that it kept him so distracted so easily, before stretching across the couch to read over his shoulder.

Vivien fought to keep herself focused on the words as the letters shifted around, forming incomprehensible words on the page. Some of them righted themselves as she concentrated on them while others continued to make no sense. Vivien scowled at the pages before her, her nose scrunching as she finally figured out the first sentence on the page. A gentle rumble from next to her made Vivien glance at Miles curiously, finding him smirking at her in amusement. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Trying to read whatever book this is,” she answered, returning her determined, squinted gaze back to the novel before her.

Miles tucked his finger into the page before closing the book, allowing Vivien to see the cover. From the picture on the front alone, she could tell it was the first Harry Potter book but that didn’t make her feel any better about how long it had taken her to figure out the single, easy sentence she’d seen. Miles seemed to take notice of her disappointment, asking, “Do you like Harry Potter?”

Vivien shrugged, “My dad says the books are better than the movies, but I can’t read them, so I wouldn’t know.”

“How come you can’t read the books?” Miles wondered. “Are you not allowed?”

“No, I’m allowed to, I just have a hard time reading, that’s all.” Reaching over Miles’ arm, Vivien pushed the book back open. “Dyslexia and all that shit.”

“Language,” Butchy called from the kitchen, something Miles presumed was out of habit.

“English, motherfucker,” Vivien muttered under her breath with a roll of her eyes as Miles snorted at her. Turning toward the kitchen, she yelled back, “Sorry.”

Miles lightly nudged the girl, whispering to her, “Don’t take it to heart. We have a swear jar back home because of his little sister and it’s always full because our friends cuss like sailors.”

“He’s always like that?” To Vivien’s dismay, Miles nodded to her question. “Well, I guess this will be a long summer, then.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Miles offered.

Vivien brushed him off with a wave of her hand, leaning across the couch where she’d left her spools of embroidery thread, “It’s not important.” As she grabbed the tray of threads and leaned back beside Miles, Vivien smiled at him and asked, “What colors would you like?”

“For what?”

“Your bracelet, silly,” Vivien giggled. “Mick bought me some of this stuff for Christmas and I’ve been making friendship bracelets for everyone. It’s your turn, so I need to know which colors to use.”

Despite a part of him telling him to not let the girl get any more attached to him than she already was, he knew he couldn’t deny her such a meaningful gift. Instead, Miles smiled and asked, “How many do I have to pick?”

Beaming at the older boy, Vivien held out the container for him to look through as she said, “At least three, but no more than five because I get lost quickly with any more than that.”

Looking over the colors the thirteen-year-old held out for him, Miles quickly pulled out a baby blue spool, followed by a pale yellow almost the same color as the banana slices he’d had with breakfast and an orange the same hue as the sunset. Holding them out for Vivien to take, Miles watched as the girl’s eyes glittered behind her glasses, pleased with his choices. As she clamped the stray ends of Butchy’s bracelet with a clip from her hair and set about making Miles a bracelet, he offered to read the book aloud to her. Vivien shook her head, saying he was already pretty far into the book and that she’d have to find the book in the town or school libraries at some point. However, as Vivien settled in with her threads and the clipboard she used to keep the strings in order, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Miles had tucked his bookmark into the page he was on and flipped back to the beginning of the book.

Then, he spoke, reading from the first page as Vivien leaned against his arm and began weaving the threads before her, “‘Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.’”

“And I still have that bracelet,” Miles claimed.

Glancing at Miles’ barren wrists, Vivien shot him a curious, almost teasing look as she asked, “Oh, yeah? Where is it, then?”

Pushing himself to his feet, Miles reached into the pocket of his jeans and produced a set of keys, a chevron-patterned chain dangling from the loop that also held his car and house keys. “I put it there a while ago so that it wouldn’t get dirty or break while I was at work.”

As the two shared a smile and Miles tucked his keys back into his pocket, Carrie asked, “So, what happened next?”

“Yeah,” Bentley began, “it doesn’t seem like you two were all that bad.”

“That was while I was still in school,” Vivien claimed. “Abby and Olly’s school got out on the seventh of June, but I was in until the nineteenth.”

“What happened once you were out of school?” Royce asked.

“Were you guys at each other’s throats?” Carrie questioned.

Swinging her leg over the side of the carousel horse, Vivien moved to sit on the wooden floor with Miles as he chuckled, “We had our moments.”

“Like that time I used his coffee cup to wash off my paintbrushes and forgot to wash it out,” Vivien chuckled.

“Or the time she put a Chucky doll in the back window of my car after we’d just watched it the night before,” Miles offered.

A squawk of laughter erupted from Vivien who slapped her knee as she remarked, “I totally forgot about that!”

“I didn’t,” Miles deadpanned. As Vivien continued laughing, Miles shook his head and resumed the story from his perspective, “I have to say though, I think the point where we really tested the limits of our friendship was on the twenty-first.”

Bentley turned his gaze to Royce as the middle Murphy brother straightened and asked, “My birthday?”

Miles hummed, giving a nod of confirmation. “I was having a rough day knowing that I couldn’t send you a card or try to visit for your birthday, but Viv didn’t know that.”

“I was up his ass the whole day,” Viv added. “Everyone else was busy, but I wanted to do something, so, being the typical nuisance I was-”

“‘Was’?” Miles repeated. “When did you stop being a nuisance?”

With a roll of her eyes, Vivien continued her train of thought, “I began pestering Miles to bring me to the mall or the lake or the library. I wanted to get out of the house, but he was too busy writing in his journal to do much more than listen to me rant.”

Miles chuckled, “I was trying to get all of my thoughts in order when someone began pacing the floor in front of me, spouting off ideas for us to do.”

The scratch of pen on paper always soothed Miles Murphy. Whether it be for drawing purposes or, in this case, journaling, something about the gentle scratch of the pen leaving faint indentations on the paper was calming to him. He hoped the noise would work its magic that day as, from the moment he had woken, he felt as though there was a tensed coil within him, waiting to break free of its confines and send him spiraling into a fit of anxious despair. Today, according to the calendar on his bedroom wall, was June 21st, his brother, Royce’s fourteenth birthday, and Miles knew that it was the date itself that set him on edge.

After leaving his family’s house in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina back in January, Miles had only been back to town once - for his youngest brother, Bentley’s twelfth birthday. They had celebrated on the beach with a box of fudge-covered brownies Lela had helped him make before his drive north and spent what little time they had, together. Miles had promised his brothers that he would return soon, but as his vehicle broke down and needed more work than he could afford to put into it, Miles couldn’t make the journey as he’d promised. However, he had hoped that, after saving enough money for a train ticket as close to home as he could get, he would be able to make it to his hometown just in time for Royce’s birthday.

He never expected Mick’s parents to corner him during a weekend visit and ask him if he was joining them for their summer trip to New Hampshire.

The question was simple enough and, after checking with Butchy for when Lela’s school year ended, he’d agreed to the vacation. It would be the three of them and Mick’s family, taking off at the beginning of July for the other side of the country - what a great summer vacation! To his surprise, Lela’s school year ended early as she finished her assignments ahead of time, her school year ending in the middle of May. They went out for ice cream that afternoon to celebrate and spent some time relaxing for once before eventually going home. Along the way, Miles spotted a yellow-orange, Willys Jeep Utility Wagon with a bright red, “for sale” sign on it and had Butchy pull over so he could check it out. The guy selling the car was nicer than Miles anticipated and even offered Miles a discount as the car needed repairs. Although he couldn’t purchase the car that same moment, Miles went back at the end of the week with his freshly cashed paycheck in hand, forking over four hundred dollars in exchange for a shiny set of wheels. For the next few weeks, Miles showed off his Jeep with pride and took some time repairing some of the more concerning parts under the hood at work on his days off.

As May crept closer and closer to June and Miles looked into his savings more often to make sure he still had the funds for his trip to see his brothers, he was met with a simple conversation that tore up his imaginary train ticket and threw it into the wind like confetti. On May 24th, Mick came bounding into the house with a smile on her face and tickets in her hands, asking if everyone was ready for the trip. At first, Miles was confused, asking the girl if she was sure she had gotten the date right, but to his dismay, she was positive. They were supposed to arrive at her family’s house on the 27th, the upcoming Friday, and get on a plane to New Hampshire in the wee hours of the first of June. Needless to say, Miles’ heart sank, nearly plummeting to the floor as he realized that he now had conflicting interests. Although he wanted nothing more than to be with his brothers, he hadn’t booked the trip just yet and had no reason to say no to his pseudo-sister. Thoughts of missing Royce’s birthday flooded his head and, if his birthday had been back in March or early April, Miles wouldn’t be so worried. However, the time-stalling mechanism on the machine stalled in the middle of April and, without it working, he would have to miss Royce’s birthday. 

On one hand, he knew for a fact that he didn’t want to miss out on his brother’s birthday, but at the same time, he didn’t want to let Mick or her parents down. So, after a few sleepless nights and hours spent silently contemplating his life and the choices he had to make, Miles hastily scrawled out a letter to his brothers, listing his reason for not coming as financial issues and stating that he would send some gifts as soon as he could. As he placed a stamp on the top right corner of the envelope and slipped it into the mailbox at the end of the driveway the day before their departure, Miles only hoped that the two, especially Royce, would forgive him.

Now, as he sat on the couch of the Birch family’s cabin, scrawling out his thoughts and all that had been bothering him, Miles wondered if he had made the right decision. Instead of spending the day with his brothers, celebrating with some much-deserved sweets and relaxation, he was stuck listening to the whines of boredom spilling from the lips of a girl just a few months younger than his brother as she paced the floor in front of him. Miles sighed, this wasn’t a fair trade.

“I mean, he promised he would take me to check out the abandoned school behind the hospital and he never showed! Who does that?” Vivien grumbled, gesturing wildly with her hands as she pivoted once more and walked back in the direction she’d come from. 

Miles made a noise of some sort, attempting to drown out the girl’s complaints as she continued complaining about how everyone else was busy and that she had nothing to do with her day. He wasn’t about to tell her just how annoyed he was by her presence at the moment although he wanted nothing more than to grab some of the duct tape they’d recently used to repair a leaking hose and cover the child’s mouth with it, giving him some semblance of peace and quiet to dwell in. As Vivien droned on and on about people he didn’t know and things he couldn’t bring himself to care about, he continued scribbling things in his journal, allowing it to distract him from the girl’s complaints and the rising tension within him that he doubted would leave him any time soon.

It wasn’t until the young brunette dropped down onto the chaise part of the couch opposite him and called out to him that Miles paid her any attention. “I guess it’s just me and you now, Miley.”

Miles’ hand froze mid-way through a word, his pen lifting from the page as his eyes slowly drifted from the journal in his hands to the girl who now stared up at the ceiling, her eyes tracing the patterns in the wood high above them. As she turned toward him and sent him a small smile, Miles spoke for the first time, asking, “What did you just call me?”

“Miley,” Vivien said simply, but to Miles, it was like a slap to the face. 

“Please, don’t call me that,” Miles quickly told her, hoping his tone wasn’t as strained as he felt it was. 

As Vivien turned her gaze back to the ceiling, Miles figured she was done, accepting his plea with ease. Sadly, as he turned back to his journal, he realized that he couldn’t have been more wrong. “I guess it did kinda feel like I was calling you Miley Cyrus or something. Would you prefer Smiley Miley or just Smiley or maybe something like-”

“Stop!” Miles barked, slamming his notebook on the cushion beside him as he turned his gaze back to Vivien. Wide, emerald eyes looked up at him from behind a pair of circle-framed glasses, the girl’s mouth agape as words died on her tongue and shock took over. Miles stood from his seat as he hissed, “You just don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

“I was just-”

“Being an obnoxious little brat, whining about everything not going your way,” Miles interrupted, his harsh, unwavering gaze stunning Vivien into silence. Still, Miles ignored the girl’s almost wounded expression and continued, “Well, guess what, Vivien, life sucks and believe it or not, you can’t complain about it and get things handed to you - believe me, I’ve tried. Right now, I should be sitting on the beach with my brother, celebrating his birthday, but instead, I’m stuck here, listening to you complain about shit I don’t care about and whine about people who won’t spend time with you. After listening to you gripe and moan for hours, I can see why they wouldn’t.”

Without so much as looking at Vivien, Miles rounded the couch and left the room, heading for the staircase. Slamming the door to his bedroom shut and sitting on the edge of his bed, he was taken aback by the complete silence that surrounded him. For the first time in the last few hours, he didn’t have to listen to Vivien’s constant complaints. Leaning back on his mattress, he sighed heavily. This was not how he wanted to spend his day. After a while, Miles realized that, if Vivien said anything about the incident to the Birch family, he would never be allowed on another vacation or any potential visits to their house, but in the heat of the moment, he didn’t care. The kid had pressed the only button he had left, tipping him over the edge.

A few hours later, once everyone had returned home and Vivien had long since left for her house, Butchy knocked on Miles’ door and entered once he was allowed to, finding the eighteen-year-old staring out the window toward the nearby lake, a blank sketchbook page before him. “It’s almost time for dinner, Miles.”

Miles’ gaze shifted as his head turned slightly, not quite meeting his friend’s gentle stare as he muttered, “I don’t think I can eat right now.”

Butchy glanced toward the stairs, hearing the others downstairs laughing and having a good time, and stepped into the room, closing the door and moving to sit on the bed close to Miles’s desk. “What’s wrong?”

Crossing his arms on the desk, Miles hesitantly turned, finding Butchy’s amber eyes on him, “It’s Royce’s birthday and I’m not with him to celebrate.”

Taking in a deep breath as he nodded, Butchy said, “I get it, but at least you’ll be able to spend it with him when we get back. You said you set aside money for a train ticket, right?”

“It’ll be too late,” Miles said with a shake of his head. “By then, summer will be over and he’ll be back in school.”

“What are you talking about?” Butchy questioned, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“We leave at the end of August, Butch,” Miles clarified. “Their school starts on the thirty-first. By the time we get back home and I can visit them, they’ll be in school.”

Miles watched as Butchy’s expression shifted into something bordering amusement. To his confusion, Butchy asked, “Did Mickie never tell you that she and I fixed up the machine last month?”

“What?”

“We worked on the machine last month,” Butchy restated. “We figured you would want to work on your Jeep and save up money to see the boys, so we didn’t ask you to help. I thought she would have told you before we left.”

“She never said anything,” Miles said with a shake of his head.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about making it up to Royce,” Butchy claimed, leaning over and patting Miles on the shoulder. “When we get back home, it will still be the end of May.”

Miles was silent as he tried to allow the information to sink in. Had he truly been so worked up for nothing? He had been stressed out and mad at himself since the moment he opened his eyes and, this whole time, he had nothing to worry about. All of the stress he’d written out and the gradually mounting frustration that welled within him throughout the day had been for nothing…  Nothing… Oh, fuck. He had almost forgotten his outburst toward Vivien. 

Miles placed his elbows on his desk and ducked his head into his hands, groaning, “I fucked up.”

“By stressing yourself out for no reason?”

“Something like that,” Miles muttered. Sucking in a breath, he met Butchy’s humor-filled gaze and said, “I think I need to take a walk before dinner. It might help me calm myself down and all that.”

Rising from his seat on the bed, Butchy patted Miles on the shoulder, “Do what you have to, Miles. I’ll send you a message when dinner’s ready.”

Once Butchy had left the room and Miles gave him the chance to get downstairs, he rose from his seat and closed his sketchbook before making his way downstairs and out the front door. Making his way down the street, Miles only stopped when he reached the end of the O’Brian family’s driveway. Resting in the grass with the family’s loyal, one-year-old Saint Bernard by her side, was Vivien. The girl had her headphones on and was listening to some music on her Walkman, oblivious to Miles’ appearance. Her Saint Bernard, Loki, on the other hand, took notice, his tongue lolling out the side of his goofy smile and his tail whipping from one side to the other. As Miles neared them, Loki’s tail whipped faster, one stray, excited wag hitting Vivien in the face, filling her mouth with the dog’s fur and knocking her glasses askew.

“Loki!” she griped, pressing a hand into the fur of the pup’s flank and shoving him away from her face as she attempted to sit up. “Get your butt out of my face, you dumbass.”

Miles couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled up in his chest, watching as the girl’s gaze honed in on him. Vivien’s smile faltered as she met his gaze and Miles felt his heart plummet as he sat across from her. “Hey,” he offered.

As though someone had lit the fire within, Vivien monotonously asked, “What? You here to berate me for complaining again?”

Taking in a breath, Miles shook his head, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Vivien agreed. “You were a bit of a dickhead.”

“More than just a bit,” Miles affirmed. “I was a major dickhead to you and you didn’t deserve that.”

“I didn’t,” Vivien agreed. “But you were having a shitty day already, so…”

As the girl let her words die off with the wind that blew between them, Miles shook his head. “That’s no excuse, kiddo.”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, “I’m giving you an excuse. By the sound of things, you need one today.”

Miles’ eyebrow raised, “What do you mean?”

A small, awkward grin came across Vivien’s face as she slowly asked, “If I show you, promise you won’t start yelling again?”

After thinking about her condition for a moment, Miles extended a pinky to the girl with a nod, “Promise.”

Vivien quickly latched pickies with the older teenager, muttering, “We’ll see how well that goes once you see what I did.”

“What did you do?”

Instead of answering directly, Vivien reached into the Care Bear mini backpack she had kept with her throughout the day and pulled out a leatherbound notebook with a familiar motorcycle dangling from the end of the strap that kept it closed. Holding it out for Miles to take, she said, “Don’t worry too much; I only read the pages where the pen was before my head started hurting.”

“You read my journal,” Miles stated. It wasn’t a question as she said she had done so, but the almost incredulous tone of his voice made it feel that way to the younger brunette. Miles opened his journal to where he had left off, finding it to be two pages full of chicken-scratch-style ramblings about the summer so far and being upset over missing Royce’s birthday. Although he was grateful none of it had included anything about the double life he and the others led, Miles still had to ask, “Why?”

“I wanted to see what was bothering you and, since you had been writing since I got there in the morning, I figured that would be a good place to start,” Vivien answered. “When you stormed off to your room, I figured I could read your journal to help fix what was wrong. I even tried looking up the price for a plane ticket to Myrtle Beach for you, but I don’t have three hundred and eighty-two bucks to get you one.”

Setting his journal aside, Miles peered over at the girl who had taken to distracting herself by combing her fingers through her dog’s fur. “You looked into getting me a flight to South Carolina?”

“I tried,” Vivien said with a nod. “I thought it would be, like, forty bucks or something because my mom sometimes has to fly to D.C. and says it isn’t too expensive, but I guess flying to South Carolina is more expensive.”

Miles chuckled in disbelief, “I can’t believe you tried to get me a ticket to see my brothers.”

Shrugging at the smile that had formed on Miles’ face, Vivien went back to petting her dog as she said, “Well, I would have gotten you one, but I only have a hundred and thirty-nine dollars in my Folger’s tin, so I couldn’t.”

“Your Folger’s tin?”

Vivien hummed, “It’s an old coffee container my grandpa gave me ages ago and I use it to hide money. It’s really heavy because it’s mostly coins, but I don’t really mind.”

“And you were going to use that on me?” Vivien nodded in response. “Even after how I treated you?”

Once again, Vivien shrugged, “I like to help people fix things, even when they don’t want my help.”

Miles grinned, setting his journal aside and reaching a hand out to scratch the dog who had chosen to lounge on the grass between them. Neither of them seemed particularly keen on talking, so, when Vivien offered one of her earbuds so that Miles could listen to music with her, he obliged. As Taylor Swift’s song Out Of The Woods began playing through the purple earbud’s tiny speaker, Miles peered over at Vivien and noticed the girl smiling faintly. Miles allowed himself to smile as well, taking in a breath and relaxing as the scent of freshly mown grass and Vivien’s cotton candy perfume drifted by with the gentle, June breeze. It wasn’t perfect, but it was certainly an improvement. 

“Man,” Bentley sighed, leaning back on his hands, “you were an asshole, Miles.”

“I was,” Miles agreed.

“And even after all of that,” Carrie began, waving her hand in a circle around Miles from her perch on the plastic case, “Vivi was still going to buy you a ticket home.”

Vivien smirked, “I was, but I guess it’s a good thing that plan didn’t work out the way I had wanted it to.”

Royce, who had kept a look of bewildered concentration on his face since the first mention of a letter being sent to him, spoke with a hint of confusion, “I never received the letter.”

Miles nodded with a grin as he admitted, “I went to the post office the day we got back and asked if they still had sent it out yet. The man at the desk was very helpful and searched through four bins of letters before finding it and handing it over.”

A hum of understanding came from Royce as he took in his brother’s statement. Then, after a thoughtful pause, he asked, “Did you at least make it up to Viv before you left?”

“He did,” Vivien answered for Miles, a knowing smirk appearing on her face. “Many times over.”

Miles scoffed, rolling his eyes, “You just enjoyed torturing me.”

“I did,” Vivien snickered, tipping her head to the side and letting it fall onto Miles’ shoulder. “But you didn’t have to go through with it after I made you suffer through one of Madame DeCharme’s verbal abuse sessions and an hour of falling on your ass.”

“I could have,” Miles concurred, “but I owed it to you after acting like such a - oh, what was it you called me?”

“Major Dickhead?” Vivien offered with a smile, giving a mock salute as though he was a military official.

“Yeah, that.”

Lifting her head from Miles’ shoulder, Vivien grinned at her older friend, “After what happened at the hospital, I don’t think you owed me anything.”

“The hospital?” Bentley asked. “Why were you guys in the hospital.”

“We weren’t,” Miles claimed. “Riven was.”

Carrie’s eyes glimmered with recognition as she turned her gaze toward Vivien again and asked, “That’s your skating partner, right?”

Vivien nodded, “He was bringing me home from a band session one night on his moped, and, as per usual, the weatherman lied to us when we left that morning. It was pouring out and, on our way into town, a car skidded on a puddle and crashed into us. I landed in the grass, but Riven wasn’t so lucky.”

It wasn’t often that the phone in the Birch family’s kitchen rang. The old, black rotary phone had been there since the cabin was built in the fifties, but it seemed as though none of the previous owners had the heart to replace it with a touchtone. The old phone was in need of repairs as its ring sounded more like a pathetic whine and some of its numbers had worn off over time, but that didn’t stop the stray call from coming in. To Vivien, it was one of the few phone numbers she had memorized over the years and was the one most likely to be answered in case of emergency. So, on the ninth of July, when the police officer who had arrived first at the scene of the accident asked her who she wanted him to call, that was the number she gave. 

She was guided into the ambulance before getting to hear if anyone at the Birch’s cabin answered the phone, but as she watched through the window at the police officer walking toward his car with the phone held to his ear, she assumed they had. Her focus drifted back to her unconscious friend as the EMT got to work on slipping an intravenous line into the back of Riven’s hand. The heavy rain made him look like a wet dog, his auburn hair sticking to his forehead, but the blood that seeped through what had once been one of his favorite shirts and how still he lay on the stretcher made it seem as though he was dead. If it weren’t for his shallow breaths and the somewhat steady pulse on the cardiac monitor, Vivien would be sure that he was. When she reached for his empty, albeit bloody hand, her wrist was caught by the other attendant and she was told to leave him be until they could clean him up a bit. Not wanting to be told off again, Vivien set her tattered Care Bear backpack aside and tucked her knees to her chest, sitting silently to the side and watching the ambulance techs do their jobs until they reached the hospital.

While Riven was hauled off the ambulance and hurried through the emergency room, Vivien was told to wait by herself in the waiting room until her family could retrieve her. Arguing with the man at the desk got her nowhere, but one of the nurses took pity on her and led her into the emergency wing, leading her to the room Riven was in and allowing her to sit outside the window, giving her an unintentional full view as the doctors and nurses got to work on caring for her long-time friend. At one point, a nurse approached Vivien to ask her if she wanted anything from the nearby vending machines, but all the young brunette could do was shake her head and mutter a soft, “No thank you.”

Time seemed to blur as Vivien watched the people on the other side of the window. Riven’s hospital bed was facing her and despite wanting to scream at the nurses for cutting open his favorite shirt, she found that she couldn’t move. Whether it was shock or the fear that one wrong move could seal Riven’s fate, she wasn’t sure, but she remained as motionless as he was on his cot. It wasn’t until a gentle, too-warm hand gripped her arm that Vivien pulled her gaze away, finding Mick’s worried gaze on her as the older girl’s mouth moved a mile a minute. Vivien didn’t register a thing the girl said, but as Mick’s parents stepped forward and pulled her close, uttering words of reassurance, she felt as though she didn’t need to hear them at all. All she needed to know was that they were worried about her.

Eventually, Mack and Brady stepped away to call Vivien’s parents and Riven’s father and Vivien returned her gaze to the window, watching as they worked on rolling Riven onto his side to clean up his back. Numbness settled into her skin as she watched them work; a long, thin metal tool was used to pull fragments of shattered glass and asphalt from Riven’s side, cleansing pads were tossed into a metal dish once they had filled with blood, and someone with a glinting needle got to work stitching Riven’s open gash from where he had caught part of the broken windshield.

The scenario was unusual for Vivien. Normally, she was the one on the hospital bed, being worked on. She had broken her left wrist while skating a few years ago, fractured a few bones, sprained her ankle more than once, and had many operations at a young age. She couldn’t count how many times she had been in and out of the white, bleach-and-citrus-scented walls. Sometimes, it felt as though the hospital was more familiar to her than her own home was. However, Riven was hardly ever in the hospital. Vivien could count on one hand how many times he’d been there since she met him when he was six and she was three - one for a skating accident when he’d taken a skate to the head in practice, another for a sprained knee, and the last time was for a broken finger he’d earned after getting into a fight with someone who had tried a little too hard to go out with Vivien. Riven was usually the picture of perfect health, never needing the hospital for himself, but remaining a constant visitor when Vivien needed him there. Seeing him looking so broken and bloody was unusual for his thirteen-year-old friend.

A gentle hand landed on Vivien’s shoulder, making her jump as she turned, finding Miles standing to her left with his hand still hanging in the air. His icy blue eyes were calming as he slowly said, “Easy, kiddo. It’s just me.”

“Sorry,” Vivien croaked as she fought to relax, her voice still raw from screaming and crying.

“Don’t be,” Miles assured her. “I was just seeing if you wanted to get cleaned up. Mick brought some extra clothes in case you wanted to change in the bathroom.”

Glancing to the wall opposite the window where the bathroom was, Vivien shook her head and returned to looking through the window as she muttered, “Too far. Gotta be here in case Riven wakes up.”

Miles nodded, joining Vivien at the window. Together, they watched as one of the nurses left the room, bloodied gloves disposed of in the bin next to the door before she stepped out and made her way down the hall without glancing once in their direction. Miles observed Vivien silently, watching her almost protective eyes flicker from person to person as they moved about the room, her vigil unwavering. Instead of pressuring her to clean herself off and change out of the clothes he was sure had a mixture of her own blood and Riven’s, Miles took in a breath and offered, “How about I grab some wet paper towels and we can get you cleaned up out here so you can keep an eye on him?”

Vivien’s eyes flicked toward Miles before her head turned slightly, his words intriguing her briefly. Were they allowed to do that? She was sure she looked like she’d crawled out of the pits of hell, but would the cleaning staff be alright with them filling the nearby trash can with paper towels covered in crusty, half-dried blood? It should probably be disposed of in a biohazard bin. Vivien took in a slow, deep breath and let it out. At this point, she didn’t much care. She was wet, she ached all over, and she probably looked no better than Riven did. If it made everyone else feel better that she looked better, she could put up with disappointing the janitorial staff.

Nodding, Vivien softly spoke, “Okay.”

“Alright,” Miles said as a small smile tugged at his lips. Reaching for the girl, he pulled her into a small hug before taking her by the shoulders and saying, “Stay here with Mick and Butchy, okay?”

Attempting a smile of her own, Vivien nodded and watched as Miles headed for the bathroom before turning her attention back to the window before her. The medical professionals inside flitted around the room, talking so much that Vivien wished she could hear them. As Miles returned with a handful of damp paper towels, one of the doctors stepped away from the bed, peeled off his gloves, and left the room, turning toward the group that had gathered just outside the room. “Riven’s family, I assume?”

“Friends,” Mick stated, despite Vivien’s hearty glare wishing for the older girl to correct herself. “His dad is on his way.”

“Ah,” the doctor sighed, scanning the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” Vivien asked.

The doctor’s gaze settled on Vivien for the first time and his posture straightened as he took in her condition. He must have had some inkling that Vivien had been in the accident with Riven as he quickly looked away and stated, “His records show he is being treated for iron deficiency anemia so we may need to have blood on standby. As we aren’t his normal hospital, we need to know what type of blood he has.”

“He has O-negative,” Vivien stated.

“Are you sure?” the doctor questioned.

Vivien nodded, “I was with him when he donated blood for the first time after his birthday last year.”

“Rare blood, of course,” the doctor sighed, shaking his head. “Thank you,” the doctor added before disappearing down the hall, calling for a nurse.

Butchy placed a hand on Vivien’s shoulder as he took in the concerned expression she wore, “Don’t worry, piccola. They’ll get him some if they think he needs it.”

“I know, but Riven can only take O-negative blood,” Vivien explained. “It’s a rarer blood type, so If they don’t have enough-”

“Then I’ll donate some,” Miles interrupted, gaining Vivien’s attention as the girl whirled around. Instead of meeting the girl’s gaze, Miles simply continued cleaning Vivien’s left arm of the dried blood that had settled on her hand and wrist.

Incredulously, Vivien scoffed, “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t have to,” Miles argued lightly, sending Vivien a small smile. “You care about him and, despite you being a little shit, I care about you. Therefore, if he needs the blood, I’d be more than willing to offer help.”

Vivien froze, watching Miles with scrutiny. Why would he - of all people - want to help her best friend? He had never even met Riven before, never shook his hand or joked around with him or listened to him ramble about the animals he rescued and his band and his obsession with making movies someday; why was he so willing to donate blood for someone he didn’t know? Granted, people did that all the time at blood drives and such, but this wasn’t a free-for-all donation site where the blood would be bagged up and kept in a refrigerator until it was needed. If Miles were to donate now, the blood would be used now. Why was he so willing? It didn’t make sense. He seemed to care about Riven, but why? It couldn’t be as easy as he was making it out to be.

Then, as Vivien scanned Miles’ expression and thought over all that had happened since his arrival in New Hampshire, it clicked. She could see it. She had accepted both him and Butchy fairly quickly as they were friends with Mick and Mick loved them. Why did she think that she was the only one capable of such generosity? Her eyes flickered over Miles’ hands, seeing the care with which he lightly scrubbed her skin clean. He was gentle and had shown his care for her more frequently over the last month, it shouldn’t have surprised her that he also cared about her friends now. As Miles reached for a clean paper towel and brought it up to Vivien’s face, swiping lightly under her eyes to rid her of the dried tear tracks and speckled blood that decorated her tan skin, Vivien sent him a small grin and shoved his hand away, tucking her arms under his and around his middle, trapping him in a hug. Miles stood almost awkwardly, his arms held still in the air above the thirteen-year-old. 

His voice vibrated against Vivien’s ear as he tried to whisper over her head to Mick and Butchy, “What do I do?”

No verbal response came from the pair as Miles’ arms slowly wrapped around Vivien’s shoulders, tucking the thirteen-year-old close to him. Vivien grinned, allowing them to stay there in silence for a while before whispering, “Thank you.”

She listened as Miles’ lungs filled with air and he breathed, “You’re welcome, kid.”

“And that was the first time I realized that, even though he never said it, Miles cared about me,” Vivien finished as she rose from her seat on the carousel.

“Really?” Miles wondered, hauling his backpack over his shoulder as he stood. When Vivien nodded, he added, “I didn’t even realize it for myself until I got you out of that school.”

“What school?” Carrie asked.

“Riven and I had plans to explore an abandoned school that was in the field behind the hospital,” Vivien explained as she led the group away from the carousel and toward the stairs. “We were supposed to go the same week we got in the accident and, even though Riven was doing a lot better by the weekend, he wasn’t allowed out.”

“That didn’t stop you from going, though, did it?” Royce questioned, knowing how eager his girlfriend was to explore every abandoned building she could. When Vivien smiled in return, he knew he was right.

“It didn’t,” she agreed.

“Thing is,” Miles began with a sigh, “she didn’t tell anyone where she was going before she left.”

The group continued down to the next floor and waited for Vivien to write down some filming locations in her notebook before continuing to explore. As they reached the Game Stop with the hole in the ceiling, Bentley turned to Vivien and asked, “If you didn’t tell anyone where you were gonna be, how did Miles find you?”

Without giving Vivien the chance to explain, Miles said, “She inadvertently told me while I was having my morning coffee.”

“It’s going to be so much fun!” Vivien chirped, making Miles wince into his coffee cup. 

Although the excitement radiating from the girl was undoubtedly infectious, Miles had never been a morning person, especially not during the summer when he had about half a brain cell operating before his first cup of coffee. Now on cup number two, Miles at least had some semblance of alertness, but the child's shrill squeals of excitement were like piercing stabs through his skull. Instead of showing it, though, he simply attempted a grin and muttered, “Uh-huh, I’m sure it will be.”

Vivien’s coily ponytail bobbed as she nodded excitedly. “It’s not every day I get to explore a place like this and, with Riven taking pictures for the newspaper, it’s not like we’re breaking in.”

Miles hummed, “Take loads of pictures for us, kiddo.”

“Of course!” Vivien giggled, toying with the strap of the camera that sat on her lap. “I just hope Riven gets discharged before the sun goes down or else the whole school will be dark and we’ll need to do it another day.”

Before Miles could utter another half-assed response to the brunette’s excited ramblings, Brady called from the living room, “Vivien, your dad is here to bring you to the hospital!”

“Be right there!” Vivien yelled back, unintentionally sending another dagger through Miles’ head. She slid her chair back from the counter and hauled her backpack over her shoulders as Miles smirked into his coffee cup. Her backpack faintly reminded him of the carpet of an arcade the thirteen-year-old had dragged him to almost two weeks prior. According to the girl, the arcade hadn’t been updated since the eighties and, while she loved nothing more than to play Frogger and Space Invaders all day, she wished they would add a few new games or at least update the clunky old Skee-Ball machines that had lost most of their balls over the last few decades and were more there for coin-gobbling than anything.

As Vivien’s noodle-like arms wound around Miles’ stomach, he brought a hand around her shoulders and cleared his throat before saying, “Have fun with Riven.”

“I will,” Vivien muttered before releasing him. She pulled her Polaroid camera into the air between them and the pair smiled as she took the shot. Without bothering to look at the image, Vivien gave it a hurried shake and tucked it into the back pocket of her overalls. “I’ll stop by later and show you all of the pictures I took.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Miles replied as the younger girl scampered off, leaving him alone in the kitchen with his coffee and a headache. It wouldn’t be long before he would be found making his way into the bathroom to retrieve two pills from a bottle of acetaminophen and making himself comfortable on the couch to let the medicine do its job.

When Miles awoke to the sound of a phone ringing, he instinctively glared to his left, presuming it was work calling him in early to do an oil change or cover for someone. However, when he found himself staring daggers at the remote control on the coffee table next to the couch, he realized he wasn’t back in his room at Butchy’s house. Slowly pushing himself up as the ringing stopped in the other room, Miles yawned, running a hand through the absolute trainwreck that was his hair. The television mounted on the wall was quiet, yet still played a movie Miles knew only because of the characters Mick had talked endlessly about after the first time they watched the movie series. As Padmé named her babies, Miles’ gaze flitted over to Butchy whose smirk was telling.

“Have a nice nap?” the older biker chuckled.

“Shut up,” Miles grumbled, extending his leg just enough to kick his friend in the thigh. “How long was I out?”

“Long enough for Mick to go through The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones,” Butchy claimed.

“Long enough for Vivien to go missing,” Mick corrected as she hurried into the living room from the kitchen.

“What?” Miles asked.

“What are you talking about?” Butchy pressed.

Gesturing toward the kitchen, Mick stated, “Her mom just called. I guess her dad dropped her off at the hospital to spend the day with Riven after he was discharged, but when she called Riven’s cell phone to ask if he could bring her home tonight, he said she stopped by for a while this morning and left after he was told that they were going to keep him for another night.”

Butchy pushed himself from the couch as he asked, “And they have no idea where she went?”

“Nope,” Mick claimed. “And she isn’t answering her phone either.”

“Have they called the cops?” Miles asked, following his friends to the mudroom to grab his shoes.

“They didn’t say, but I don’t think so,” Mick said as she pulled the front door open and stepped into the warm afternoon air. “Her dad dropped her off, she spent a while with Riven in the hospital, and took off, so I doubt she’s gotten far.”

As Miles stepped outside and his gaze met the reddened, almost orange sky, Vivien’s words from that morning came back to him. She was going to spend the day in an abandoned school, taking pictures with Riven, and had wanted to get the pictures before sunset. As much as Miles wanted to believe that Vivien wouldn’t go off into a structurally dangerous, most likely condemned building, he had watched the girl climb into a second-floor window when Mick had accidentally locked her keys in the house. He didn’t doubt that she would have gone through with her plans just for the sake of having something to do. Now, if only he could recall where the school was…

“Miles?” Mick called, grabbing the mechanic’s attention as she peered over her car at him. “Are you coming?”

Miles nodded as he jogged over to the car and asked, “Where are we going?” 

“The hospital,” Butchy claimed as he rolled his window down. “We’re meeting up with Mick’s parents and Vivien’s mom.”

As Miles slid into the backseat and slammed the door shut, Mick got in and threw the car into reverse, swinging out of the driveway and heading for the next town over. Trees flew by as Mick pressed on the gas, each one taking one of Miles’ thoughts with it. He had wracked his brain, attempting to think of where the abandoned school would be. At first, he presumed it had to be within close proximity to the hospital as they had planned to walk, but then he came to the realization that both the thirteen-year-old and her sixteen-year-old skating partner were athletes and had far more stamina than he had originally taken into account. Miles shook his head, staring out his window as they crossed into Laconia and continued up the main stretch of road.

Not long into their Laconia trip, Mick’s tires screeched against the pavement as she stilled at the Main Street intersection. Slapping her steering wheel, Mick muttered, “Come on, come on! Who the fuck puts a ‘No Right On Red’ sign on an intersection like this?”

Butchy glanced from his girlfriend to the GPS on her dashboard before hesitantly speaking, “Mickie, it says-”

“It fucking lies,” Mick snarled, her foot tapping the carpeted floor impatiently. “If we keep going straight like it wants us to, we’ll end up in the parking lot for the dialysis center and physical therapy offices. If we turn right here, go left on Pine Street, and follow it up to Highland, we’ll get to the parking spots near the main entrance.”

As soon as the light turned green, Mick pressed her foot into the gas pedal and turned to the right, guiding the car down the path she had learned over the years. Following the street’s natural curve onto Highland Street, Mick allowed the car to slow and Miles got a look at the hospital in the distance. The closer they got, the bigger the building seemed to be. Although most of the parking lot was full, Mick had no issues finding a place to park, and, as Miles pushed himself from the vehicle, he scanned his surroundings in the hopes of finding an old school of some sort. It wasn’t long until his gaze landed on an old brick building just behind a row of overgrown bushes.

“What is that?” he asked nobody in particular. 

“Just the old high school,” Mick brushed off, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she threw her door shut and hurried to meet up with the others.

As Butchy rounded the car and followed Mick away, Miles reached into his pocket for the phone he had borrowed for the last few weeks, quickly checking the time and his battery before tucking it away. If he had to place his bets, he would have to guess that Vivien was somewhere inside the old building, searching through whatever rooms remained in the structure, but for the time being, he had to see what everyone else had come up with. The first person he spotted was Vivien’s mother, Chelsea. While it was obvious that Vivien was far closer with her father than she was with her mother, Miles knew the mother-daughter duo truly loved each other despite their bickering and rivaling tempers. The woman stood beside Mack and Brady - who had most likely been the first the worried parents had called - spewing off all that she knew and telling them that her husband was searching the nearby elementary school playground and some of the vintage shops on the main streets. Miles tried not to sigh at the idea.

Although he could see Vivien buying twice her weight in vintage clothing or those little cassette tapes she loved so much, he couldn’t imagine that being her reason for running away. Exploring an abandoned building, on the other hand, just might make that list. As the others came up with areas to search and broke up into groups, Miles slipped away, claiming to need the restroom before dipping around the hospital and making a beeline for the overgrown forestry separating the pristine white building and the crumbling foundation of the old school. The slight hill the building sat on was lumpy and the grass looked as though it hadn’t been mowed since the school’s closure - whenever that had been. Most of the windows and doors had been either locked or boarded up, but as Miles rounded the building, he found the perfect point of entry. 

A wooden door held open by a fragment of an old cinderblock led Miles into a darkened room that reeked of stale water and he instantly felt the overwhelming feeling of somebody watching him from the corners where light refused to seep in. If it hadn’t been the second week of July, Miles was sure he would’ve shivered as he pulled his phone out and turned on the flashlight, making his way through the maze that was the basement of the school and coming into a hallway that looked almost eerily well kept. A long, wooden bench was bolted to the floor opposite the door he’d entered from and signs above the doors through the hall claimed where you could find the photography lab, computer room, and detention hall. It was as though the school had simply closed early or that he was there before the school day to work on something in the library. The school sat practically untouched.

Miles checked the rooms in the basement, calling out to Vivien every time he opened a door, yet when he found himself alone, he made his way to the stairwell. The peeling, potentially toxic paint that had lined the old building’s stairwell had begun chipping away many years ago, leaving piles of white splotches all over the stairs and landings, but Miles couldn’t care less as he continued onward. Although some rooms were barricaded with heavy metal bars and padlocks, Miles still made his way through each floor, searching for the young teenager. Each floor made him feel more lost than he already was and more like he had overestimated Vivien’s drive for adventure, yet as he stepped onto the landing for the fourth and final floor, he was horrified to find that he had been right. 

The auditorium had once been a grand sight, Miles was sure. The pale blue walls and hardwood floors shone as though they’d been cleaned that morning, the beams high above the room had most likely been the home to many decorations for school dances and pep rallies, and the small stage at the far end of the room had presumably been used for school plays over the years, but Miles highly doubted the large hole in the floor had been there for long. Near the stage, the floor sagged, creating a drop to the room below that Miles could just barely tell had once been a science classroom. The wood panels of the auditorium floor had been torn apart by water damage and, after years of sitting abandoned, collapsed under the stress, leaving a gaping hole before the stage that would have been nearly impossible to cross. 

However, it seemed as though a certain Vivien O’Brian was exempt from following the laws of physics. Miles had to wonder how she had gotten to the stage, but after seeing the girl free-climb up the side of their house, he wasn’t surprised she had found her way there. Her backpack rested on the floor, her camera had been set aside, and, as Miles inched further into the crumbling room, he could make out her little cassette player resting atop her bag, the cord extending to the young girl who sat in a ball, pressed against the wall. Miles had to give her points for staying close to where the foundation would be more structurally sound, but he had to wonder why she had stayed there for so long.

“Vivien?” he called, his voice echoing in the large, empty room. Sadly, his call did nothing. Vivien stayed in her tiny ball, curled around herself like a turtle trying to protect itself. Digging through his pockets for something to toss at the young girl, Miles pulled out a receipt from their recent shopping trip and rolled it into a crumpled ball. The ball sailed through the air before bouncing off Vivien’s shoulder and rolling to the side.

The light tap was enough to make the younger girl jump, her wide-eyed gaze snapping up to the ceiling as though something had fallen on her. Miles called out to Vivien again and, this time, she spotted him. “Miles?” she called as she tugged her earbuds out of her ears, allowing one of the songs her mother played all the time - ABBA's Waterloo - to play in the otherwise quiet auditorium.

“Hey, kid,” he offered with a smile. “Everyone’s been looking for you.”

“I didn’t know.” Reaching into her pocket, Vivien held up her phone and said, “It died a while ago.”

“That’s alright,” Miles brushed off. “Let’s just go before they call in the SWAT teams.”

“I can’t,” Vivien claimed, shoving her phone back into her pocket and tucking her camera into her backpack with her Walkman.

“What do you mean?”

“I got up here using one of the boards that fell from the ceiling,” she explained. Vivien crawled to the edge of the stage and pointed down into the hole, “It fell in the hole after I got across and I tried calling for help, but the reception in here is trash.”

Peering into the hole, Miles spotted the wooden plank resting across what had once been a teacher’s desk and breathed, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Vivien muttered. “To make it worse, there’s nothing on this side that could get me out either. I checked.”

“What is there?”

Vivien shrugged, “Mostly just some moldy old costumes and rotted-out instruments.”

Miles sighed thoughtfully, shaking his head. That stuff wouldn’t help them at all. They needed to find a way around the hole or over it. “Are you sure there are no doors to the hallway?”

Vivien settled a quizzical look on Miles as she asked in return, “Don’t you think I would have been out of here by now if there was?”

Miles scoffed, “I get that. I’m just making sure.”

“No,” Vivien began, “there are no doors that I could have easily escaped with behind the stage.”

“Alright,” Miles nodded. Looking around the room, he frowned. Other than a closet full of miscellaneous decorations and a doorway looking as though it would lead to their death if they stepped inside, there wasn’t much to use. Looking down into the science lab, Miles took in a deep breath and turned his gaze toward Vivien once more, “Do you think you can yell into the hole for me?”

Vivien’s eyebrow raised into her curtain of bangs as her head tipped to the side, “Why?”

“I’m going to go down a floor and see if I can find the room the board fell into,” Miles decided. “If I can get in there, I can hand the board back up to you and we can get you back across.”

Miles watched as Vivien cautiously leaned over the edge of the stage, looking down into the classroom before backing up once again. Instead of meeting Miles’ gaze, Vivien scooted away from the edge and reached into her backpack, pulling out a set of walkie-talkies. She made her way back toward the edge before tossing one across the gap to Miles who caught it with ease. “Take that with you,” she told him. “Riven and I were supposed to use them in case one of us got separated. Push the red button when you want to talk and let me know when you get downstairs.”

Miles examined the walkie-talkie with a grin, “I will. Are you sure you’ll be alright up here by yourself?”

“I’ve done it for this long already,” she shrugged. Brushing Miles off with a wave, Vivien smirked, “Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

With a nod, Miles made his way back into the hallway and found his way to the stairs, taking the steps two at a time as he made his way to the third floor. Pressing the red button as he pushed open the door to the hallway, Miles moved the walkie-talkie closer to his mouth and said, “I’m on the third floor, kid. Give me a call.”

“Got it,” came Vivien’s response. The walkie-talkie buzzed as Vivien ended her side of it and Miles held his breath, listening for any kind of noise in the silent old building. Then, he heard a faint, “Marco!”

Miles chuckled, pressing the button again and replying with a confused, “Polo?”

“Oh, good, you heard me!” Vivien’s voice came over the device. “I’ll keep going. Let me know when you find the lab.”

“I will.”

“Good,” Vivien said before ending the conversation. Not long after, Miles heard another distant call of, “Marco!”

“Polo,” he muttered to himself, following the voice to his left. The hallway felt endless as Miles ran past classrooms for accounting, literature, and trigonometry.

“Marco!” Vivien’s voice sounded louder as Miles reached an intersection in the hallway.

“Who built this fucking maze?” he grumbled.

Stalling in the hallway, Miles looked around at the signs above the doors in either direction. There were a handful of classrooms related to scientific studies - a chemistry laboratory, a biology classroom, and a forensic science room - but Miles wasn’t sure which one to choose until Vivien’s call of “Marco,” pulled his attention to the hallway that was now to his right.

“Chemistry or Forensics?” Miles asked himself, peering between the doors. Then, once again, Vivien called and he narrowed it down to the chemistry lab. To his dismay, the door handle refused to turn. Bringing the walkie-talkie up once more, he said, “I’m here, but the door is locked.”

A moment later, Vivien called through the floor, “Can you kick it in?”

“I doubt it,” Miles claimed. 

“What about the window?” Vivien offered. “If you break the window, you might be able to reach the handle and let yourself in.”

Miles had to admit, it was a good idea. While he certainly couldn’t kick open the window, he could break it if he had something strong enough. Glancing down the hall, Miles sighed, “I’m going to see if I can find something to break it with.”

Miles could almost imagine Vivien nodding to him as she called, “Be careful.”

Nodding to himself, Miles made his way through the hall, checking doors to see which ones were open and which weren’t. Most of the classrooms were locked or barricaded, but as Miles found a weight room at the far end of the hall, a smile split his features. Grabbing one of the metal weightlifting bars, Miles hurried back to the classroom and took a deep breath. Miles’ first attempt at ramming the bar into the window did little more than crack the thickened glass, but as he stood to the side and swung the bar into the glass like a baseball player aiming for a home run, the glass shattered, shards falling into the classroom as Miles used the bar to clear the shards away from the window frame. Discarding the metal pole in the hallway, Miles reached into the classroom and twisted the lock on the door handle before pulling his arm back out of the window and forcing his way into the room.

Vivien let out a cheer of excitement as Miles entered the room below her, hauling her backpack full of belongings onto her shoulders. “Yeah!” she cheered. “Let’s go! That was so badass!”

Miles let out a breath of a laugh as he made his way further into the classroom, “I never thought I would add breaking and entering to my rap sheet.”

“You have a rap sheet?” Vivien questioned, her emerald eyes glittering with the very thought.

“No,” Miles chuckled, “but if I keep spending time with you, I just might.”

Vivien’s eyes rolled as Miles grabbed the wooden plank and handed it to her through the gap in the floor. Pulling it up, Vivien examined the wood and frowned, peering into the hole at Miles, who watched her expectantly. “Miles?”

“Yeah?”

“I think the plank broke when it fell.”

“What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Vivien carefully shifted the plank over the gap in the floor, using her foot to hold it in place as the end of the old wood ended just a few feet away from the other side. After setting the board aside, she said, “I’m not going to make it across.”

Shaking his head, Miles said, “I’ll think of another way, then, don’t worry.”

“Easy for you to say,” Vivien mumbled, sitting back down on the edge of the stage.

Miles peered around the classroom. Apart from the immovable lab tables and the teacher’s desk, there wasn’t much in the room that Miles could send up to the girl. However, it would be just enough for Vivien to come down. Making his way behind the teacher’s deck, Miles pushed it until it was underneath the hole in the ceiling, giving Vivien a higher platform to land on. Then, he grabbed one of the raised stools the students once sat on and placed it on the desk before climbing onto the desk and asking Vivien, “Do you think you could come down to me?”

Peering over the edge, Vivien stared down at the landing platform Miles had created and asked, “Are you sure that’s safe?”

“Not really,” Miles said, not wanting to lie to the girl, “but it’s the best option we have at the moment.”

Vivien took in a deep breath and nodded slowly, “I can try.”

“You’ve got this, kiddo,” Miles reassured. “I’ve seen Riven throw you higher than this before and I’m here to catch you just in case. You’ll do fine.”

“If you say so,” Vivien breathed, turning around so she could cling to the edge of the stage as she dangled in the air.

“Just move slowly, alright?” Miles asked, taking a step across the desk so that he could move the stool under Vivien’s legs.

“Okay,” Vivien replied, inching herself over the edge of the hole. The stage bowed under her arms, shifting with her weight as she lowered herself further into the gap between floors. As she shifted from using her elbows to hold her weight to her hands, Vivien felt Miles take hold of her calves, keeping her steady.

Nudging the stool under Vivien’s feet, Miles said, “You’re doing great. Just a little further and-”

“I can’t go any further!” Vivien interrupted. “I’m just hanging here by my hands.”

Looking up, Miles found that she was right. Although there was maybe a foot or two between Vivien and the stool below her, she couldn’t lower herself any further. Abandoning his plans and kicking the stool from the desk, Miles moved under Vivien and said, “That’s fine. I’ve got you anyway.”

“You do?”

Although he wasn’t entirely sure he did, Miles said, “Yeah. Just drop down and I’ll catch you.”

“Are you sure?” Vivien asked softly, determined to keep her gaze on the metal beams above her.

“I’m sure,” Miles affirmed. “I’ve got you, I promise.”

Taking a deep breath, Vivien hoped he was right as she let her hands slip away from the edge of the stage, dropping through the floor of the auditorium. Arms wrapped around her waist and Vivien brought her arms around Miles’ shoulders as he secured her landing. “Holy shit,” she exhaled.

Miles chuckled, lowering Vivien to the desk below them, “I told you that you could do it.”

Backing away from Miles, Vivien smiled, “That was kinda fun.”

“Yeah, let’s not do that again,” Miles suggested with a shake of his head, jumping from the side of the desk to the floor. 

“Fine,” Vivien huffed dramatically. “Suck all the fun out of it, why don’t you?”

Miles handed Vivien her walkie-talkie back as she hopped down from the desk and allowed her to make fun of him as they began making their way down to the exit, kicking the small cinderblock out of the doorway before stepping out onto the grass. “Did you get any good pictures?” he asked once she was done taunting him for not wanting to live a life of adventure.

“Some,” Vivien shrugged as she walked alongside him. A moment of silence passed between them as Miles pulled out his phone, but Vivien was quick to ask, “You aren’t going to tell my parents what happened in there, are you?”

“I was going to,” Miles nodded. “Why?”

“I just don’t want them to start yelling again,” Vivien shrugged.

“Yelling?” Miles asked.

“Mhm,” she confirmed. “They’ve been yelling a lot lately. If it isn’t about their jobs or the bills or the winery, it’s about me doing stupid shit.”

Miles allowed the girl a moment in case she wanted to backtrack, yet she never wavered, so he asked, “Like what?”

“Well, the accident was a big issue for them,” she sighed. “My mom was all pissy because-“ Vivien put on a nasally, snobby voice as she mimicked her mother - “‘she should have known better than to ride on his shitty moped in the rain’ and my dad was arguing that I’m just a kid and that it was entirely out of my control. Last night, my parents got so loud that I could hear their fight over my sleep videos. It stopped after my dad mentioned divorce again.”

“He’s talked about it before?” Miles wondered, holding the branch of a bush out of the way so that Vivien could pass under it.

Vivien nodded, “They both have.”

“I’m sorry,” he uttered. “It must be hard to overhear that sort of thing.”

“I’m sort of used to it by now,” she shrugged. “That’s why I was hoping you weren’t going to tell them I was in there. They’ll just yell at me when we get home and I hate it when people yell.”

Miles took in a deep breath and extended a pinky to the girl as they reached the parking lot, “I won’t tell them if you won’t.”

Vivien smirked at the idea and wrapped her finger around his, “Sounds like a deal.”

“Did they still yell at you?” Bentley asked as he tucked his things into the Jeep’s trunk and rounded the vehicle, climbing in over the back tire.

“Not as bad as I thought they would,” Vivien claimed as she pulled her seatbelt across her lap. “Miles and I told them that I was at my friend’s house since it was in the area and I think they were a bit better with that than they would have been if we had told them the truth.”

Carrie settled into her seat beside Miles and turned back to the younger girl with a smile, “I’m just glad you two made it out safely.”

“I think we all are,” Royce claimed, taking Vivien’s hand in his and kissing the back of it.

“Ugh,” Bentley groaned. “Why did you have to make it all romantic and gross, RJ?”

With a maniacal cackle, Vivien leaned over to the blonde and took the collar of his shirt in her hands as he pressed himself as far back as the metal bars of the Jeep would allow. Despite Bentley’s efforts, Vivien’s kiss to his cheek still landed and he was quick to wipe it away with grumbling complaints as Vivien cheered victoriously and Royce laughed at them. Carrie pushed her sunglasses into place and relaxed against her seat as the chaos in the backseat only grew. Miles watched the trio as he settled into the driver’s seat and started the car, shaking his head as he rhetorically asked, “What am I going to do with the three of them?”

Glancing toward the backseat, Carrie watched as Bentley kneed Miles’ seat, Vivien shoved her boyfriend, and Royce gave Vivien a look of feigned surprise. The three were chaos incarnate and, as Miles sighed like an exasperated parent beside her, Carrie laced their fingers together over the center console and offered, “Love them the way you always have?”

Smiling at his girlfriend as the children in the backseat began singing along with the radio, Miles brought her knuckles to his lips and said, “I like that idea.”

#one-shot #writing

[ruins-and-rewritez]

The room is not gaudy or opulent in a way benefiting of Ketterdam's most notorious and unseemly wealthy boss of the Barrel. Nor is it depressingly downtrodden and cramped in the way of lesser headquarters.

The office is of simple elegance and sturdy craftsmanship, polished oak planks not yet worn through their shine, walls perhaps made of stone behind wooden paneling, bookshelves and desk made of the same dark imported lumber.

Nothing too fine, nothing on the edge of disrepair. Measure of balance unseen in nearly all the criminal underworld. Not that anyone dare call Dirtyhands a criminal.

The man trembles visibly, subdued shuttering wracking up and down the trail of his spine, hands wrenching his cap so tight its a wonder they don't break from the pressure.

A grunt named Rotty or some such gives him a shove, sending him almost sprawling at the foot of the desk. He rights himself, stumbling and runs a weathered hand nervously through his thinning hair.

His darting eyes flashing toward the door in surprise when it shuts with an audible click, the man guarding him seemingly dismissed without a word.

Rotty for his part sends the him a pitying look on his way out, having escorted many men to a similar fate.

Fenway Rutger is not a nervous man, not by trade or practice. He moves about his days with a sort of misplaced arrogance unfitting of a small, weasely man such as himself. But the people of Ketterdam know more than most that money is power, and fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) for him, Fenway has quite a bit.

His self sense of power seems to hold none here. There is something ominous about this room and it's occupant. Something dark, heavy. Enough so that Fenway can not bring himself to lift his eyes from wooden floors, locked onto their polished shine.

"Rutger, was it?"

It's not a true question, the answer is already known. The voice that asks, is raspy, demanding. Such a command that Fenway cannot refuse the underlying order to look up.

Kaz Brekker cuts an imposing figure. Almost hideous in the cruel beauty of his face. Like some ancient deity carved of ice and stone, looming presence sweeping the room, a malevolent Northern wind.

A crow, so black, so still, perched on the arm of a chair, just this side of a throne, glints with stolen light. For a moment he is not sure whether this bird is mere decoration, a tribute to Brekker's syndicate, or an illusion brought on by fear.

A shift in the bird's shadowed feathers and intelligent glare of its pitch eyes, is warning enough.

"F-fenway Rutger. Fen," he despises the terror in his tone.

He watches the bird preen under Brekker's pale hand, slow, smooth strokes hypnotizing in their tempo.

"Do you know why you're here?"

The Bastard cares not for formalities.

Fen gives his cap another angry, anxious twist before responding, "I weren't cheatin' if that's what you think. I ain't never cheat Three Man Bram-"

"Do you know why you're here?"

Something sinister lurks in his voice that makes Fen's blood freeze solid.

Fen does not know Brekker. Their paths have never crossed but a city like Ketterdam talks and being in a position like his, Fenway is inclined to listen.

His spider, his Wraith, his miniature fly on the wall, is gone. And there has been no news, no flicker that she'll been replaced. His most essential flow of information has been (permanently?) dammed.

Yet he sits, a unholy King, and Fen is somehow certain that he knows.

"Do you know?" Brekker demands of him.

He hates himself, not for his actions but for the weak, sniveling mess he's become in front of this man, just a hairs breath from a teenager.

"No, I ain't know nothin', 'kay.. I ain't done nothin' wrong!"

Kaz's eyes turn iron sharp, a frightening change from the hazed brown of before.

"So," he asks unflinching, "you're unaware of the underaged children found in your warehouse this afternoon?"

Sweat broke out on his forehead. "I don't got no warehouse."

"You have no knowledge of a warehouse under the name of Bran Henson?"

His eyes found the floor at the base of the desk, "Don't know any Bran..."

"You're unaware of the crying and pain of the children housed in a warehouse on my own wharf? Unaware of the fear and terror expressed when my men broke in to free them from their blood crusted chains? You claim no knowledge of the deposits in your account in accordance with the ledger found on the premises? You hold no guilt over the two they couldn't save!?"

Fen felt the jolt of wood hitting his knees as he knelt in submission. Fear was a powerful sedative, he could not move, couldn't speak.

Kaz stepped forward, leaning back against the desk, and used his cane to lift up Fen's chin.

His eyes watered and he fought not to let the tears fall.

"You are pathetic. Pathetic and sick. Selling children as if they were meat to the highest bidder. You'll pay for you crimes. You'll regret ever setting foot in my city."

Fear reeked. It stung.

"Please," he blubbered, but Brekker was not a forgiving man.

Fen watched the great black crow, shudder and ruffle from it perch, watched it's held tilt in curiosity, the scrap of claws on wood as it hopped it's way to Brekker side.

Kaz let his gaze soft to adoration and something like love and flicker to the beast. "My darling Inej would be fair. Just. Perhaps even merciful in her execution."

He ran his fingers through the down black of it, it lifted it's great head to nuzzle into his palm. "Wouldn't you my love?"

The bird squawked, almost sweetly. Brekker smiled in response. A cold, broken thing.

His gaze was ice when he glared down at Fen. "I will not be so benevolent, Mr. Rutger."

~

Kaz watched the floor from the shadow of his office. Watched the chitter flick of Maker's Wheel, the cheers of a win at the card table, the smash of glass on the floor as a drunken bum tried dancing with an equal drunk woman.

The screeching weasel had not disrupted the spirits of the patrons who continued on unabashedly and joyous.

The creatures warm blood dripped off his chin, it'd splattered everywhere. He felt it hit and stain his crisp white shirt. He frowned then. He'd have to buy a new suit.

A crows call sounded out behind him. Pure and melodious.

"Coming Inej."

#six of crows duology #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #inej dies au #kanej #i am morbidly obsessed with how kaz would act if inej died #hint #he goes insane #inej is a real crow #its facts #kaz is so normal #tw: blood #implied murder #implied violence #ficlet #just imagine #long post potato 🥔 #rarzo #ruinwrites

[yazthebookish]

Let's talk about Rhordyn

After my reread of To Bleed A Crystal Bloom, I think Rhordyn is so incredibly misunderstood as a character and his role in this story.

I have to establish that Rhordyn is an extremely complicated and nuanced character. He is a morally ambiguous character but in no way the villain in this story.

Disclaimer: notes contain TSASS (book 2) spoilers so avoid reading the comments in the notes.

First let's get some facts straight:

1. Rhordyn is not forcibly locking Orlaith in the tower, it is mentioned multiple times that he tried to integrate her into society, but Orlaith is content to live in behind the safety line away from the whispers of the general public. This is what he says to Orlaith: “I’ll stay here,” I whisper, and a shadow shutters his eyes, the muscle along his jaw feathering. “Live, Orlaith. All I’m asking is that you live.” Rhordyn even tells Orlaith at some point that her tower won't keep her safe from the looming danger, this is why he wanted her to train to fight with Baze, he wants her to be prepared in case the worst happens. The only instances he locked her in is when he did not want her to attend the ball (because of Cain) and to not let her leave to Bahari/Cain. Unlike the fairytale, Orlaith was not locked in her tower the entire time. Actually she wasn't locked for 90% of the book except on two instances.

2. He can be controlling and manipulative at times especially when it concerns her safety and her feelings, but he is not a groomer in any shape or form. It's mentioned that Rhordyn avoids her like the plague to the point she never sees him around since he rescued her until in recent years. Orlaith is raised by Cook and Baze, Rhordyn wasn't involved in raising her at all nor did he act like a parental figure to her (more of this is even clarified in book 2 about what happened in the past). Her blood was even delivered by Cook to Rhordyn until she was able to do the offering herself and place it in the small door for him to take, it's even mentioned in the book Rhor was never involved in the act and he did so the first time when she refused to give him the blood offering (there is a reason behind him needing her blood). Orlaith did not grow up while being in love with Rhordyn, her feelings were only recent. Yes, there is a clear power imbalance between them that he uses to his advantage and protection comes in many "forms" even one that is very questionable. As Orlaith begins to rebel and ask questions Rhordyn is not ready to answer, he resorts to the influence he has over her and the unexplored connection between them to push her back.

3. Rhordyn IS toxic but he is not the villain. Nothing that Rhordyn did was ever meant to harm Orlaith. He is the one who wants to appear toxic to her to push her away and to accept that he is a monster beneath. He finds relief in her ignorance merely because the fear that took root within him the day he saved her and tasted her blood will force him to confront the reality of their situation and of who they are to each other—and that is what he thinks might break Orlaith. It's very likely that they are mates.

4. Not once has it been mentioned that Rhordyn had been inappropriate towards Orlaith or had shown any desire for her prior to the events in this book. Eventually, it's pointed out to which moment he actually started to feel more than just a protective instinct (as I said they have a unique connection that is likely a mating bond).

5. Last but not least, I think Rhordyn directs so much self-loath at himself. I do not think he finds pleasure in what his instincts draw out of him especially when it comes to Orlaith. I don't think he relishes in their power imbalance either and I'll dive into that more when I talk about the mates and their bond. His self-loath is what influences a lot of his actions when it comes to her. Not justifiable in any way, but this is why this book is considered a dark fantasy romance. Nothing is coming easy for them.

This doesn't mean Rhordyn's actions can be justified because what I love about this book is you can understand the questionable actions of the characters without the need to justify them.

Sarah unfurls such a complex relationship with a tinge of taboo and yet underneath it all lies a thousand questions and secrets.

I think the tabooness of their relationship is what haunts most readers, which is totally valid. But there is some clear misinterpretation that's confusing readers.

The dynamic between Orlaith and Rhordyn is meant to unsettle the reader but also spark that intrigue and curiosity on where it could all lead to.

Their relationship is dysfunctional and the power balance is very off, but for such a dark tale and for the sake of Orlaith's arc it should be done that way.

Orlaith is not kept from the world, there is not much of the world out there to discover because it reeks of monsters and deaths.

And perhaps, the world is kept away from Orlaith herself. She's the one with the mark of death.

This is not a blossoming romance, it's tearing both Orlaith and Rhordyn apart. This longing, attraction, and anguish is a festering wound on their souls.

The day Rhordyn had a sip of Orlaith's blood was the day the gods damned them both.

As much as I have enjoyed the sexual tension and chemistry between them, neither of them are ready for any notion of a romantic love. Orlaith must break out of her confines and let her world expand beyond her tower—and Rhordyn must face his own demons. As of now, they are not a healthy option for each other, not until that power imbalance shifts and for Orlaith to experience what the world, and not Rhordyn, has to offer for her.

And if they turn out to be mates, which I truly believe there are given the strong evidence in the book itself, I'm really intrigued by the concept of a mating bond that is not romanticized. Most of those who find their mates struggle a little or accept that they have found their one true love, and that bond mostly gives them little butterflies and an infinite love. The dark concept of mates in this world is a tragedy, at least for Orlaith and Rhordyn.

Her voice may have been fragile, but everything else was the opposite. Her upper lip was curled with hate, she had fire in her eyes, and she looked at me she saw through my skin to the monster I am beneath.

Part of me was relieved—screamed for her to look deeper. To delve until she ripped herself on all my sharp bits. Perhaps then she’d see why I’m stuck in her orbit ... unwillingly.

Why drifting too close would destroy everything.

---

“Mates, Orlaith, are a fairy tale. A tragedy painted with the pretty face of a happily ever after, but at its core, it’s still a fucking tragedy. If you believe everything you read, you’ll be disappointed when you finally step into the real world.”

They would be the epitome of star-crossed lovers.

His eyes harden. “What I want, what I need, and what is right are three entirely different things.”

To me, it feels that the source of Rhordyn's self-loath comes from how the bond influences his feelings for Orlaith. He is a man of complete control yet a force beyond his reach is slowly depriving him of that privilege and it pushes towards instincts that he may find... depraved.

He seems to be tainted by her affections, not because they repulse him but because she is too good for him. He wishes that she could see the monster underneath his skin, probably in belief that it may deter her.

It seems like a doomed love more than anything -me he knows it—and maybe it has to do with the prophecy?

This is why I love Rhordyn as a character, there is so much to explore about him and while my morals can be questioned because of the type of characters I am drawn to, I only hope that we get to see his ice crack and he is caught up in Orlaith's fire.

In the end, what matters to me is Orlaith's journey and I'm so excited to see where it will lead up to. I may be rooting for a second chance romance for her and Rhordyn but I'm rooting more for her happiness.

#to bleed a crystal bloom #to snap a silver stem #tbacb #rhordyn #orlaith #sarah a. parker

[samanthamarkle92]

Hey followers! Here is part five of my Call of Duty fic! Working on some Wattpad cover art and will be posting them for voting!

Much love to @nsharks @loonyundead @m0chac0ffee and @cravingcoldoreocake123 @ladyelissarose ❤️

Here are the links to the previous parts in case you missed them:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

*************

He stared at the map, trying to work out their current location. There were many small towns scattered throughout the desert, each more difficult than the last. They needed to avoid contact with anyone, especially in villages. It was bad enough having to sneak through the desert without someone seeing them. Ghost shivered, feeling the cool air coming from under the closed door. He had been hiding out with Amina and Farid for two weeks. Ghost’s shoulder had healed, and he found he could lift his gun. It was a sunny day, and Farid had been talking excitedly with his sister.

“What’s he so wound up about?” Ghost asked.

“He’s going to play soccer with his friends.” Amina translated.

Farid beamed, grabbing his soccer ball and running out the door. Ghost was glad to see the boy smiling. It hurt to know that he made have to leave soon, but if Farid and Amina were coming with him, he would be giving them hope.

Farid had been gone maybe over an hour when the first shots were heard.

Amina and Ghost exchanged panicked glances. Amina pulled her burqa on and rushed to the door.

“Don’t!” Ghost ordered, rushing to put himself between her and the door. He quickly grabbed her wrist, stopping her from going outside. She struggled against him.

“Let me go!! Get out of my way!!!” She yelled. Ghost held onto her tightly.

“NO!! I’m not losing my brother!” Amina wailed.

“I’m going with you!” Ghost said, grabbing his gun. He handed Amina his sidearm.

“Do NOT hesitate to use this.” He commanded. She nodded, taking the weapon. Ghost pulled his skull mask on over his head. They nodded at each other before leaving the house. Ghost walked around the corner, peering cautiously out into the empty road. Just beyond was the main part of the village. A few men were trying to round up a handful of young boys. Then, Amina noticed a few girls. They were taking the girls and young women as well! Rage burned inside if her, but she fought the impulse to run out in the open and shoot; she had someone who knew what to do.

As the men approached, Amina moved closer behind one of the houses. The man with the gun raised it to fire. Ghost jumped out, firing twice. One bullet entered the side of the man's neck, causing him to drop his gun. The second hit the man directly in the chest. The man crumpled to the ground. Another Talib was dragging a screaming boy; Farid. The boy wasn’t going to leave quietly. A butt of a rifle loomed over him. Ghost saw red and started shooting, Amina covering him. He saw Amina scoop her brother up, and he followed them into a nearby house.

A family was still huddled inside.They shrieked when they heard gunshots.

“Get down!” Amina shouted as bullets whizzed past the window. Ghost was glancing out the shuttered window, trying to plan his next move.

He realized that Farid wasn't moving. He stopped what he was doing and cradled the boy’s head.

“Come on, little man....come on....wake up....”

#original character #fanfic #call of duty #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost fanfiction #call of duty modern warfare #afghanistan

[mariacallous]

It took three months, hundreds of thousands of Israelis in the streets, and a general strike that saw flights grounded at Israel’s main international airport and the country’s embassies and consulates around the world shuttered—but Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, once thought to be the savviest and strongest politician in the land, stumbled badly, perhaps fatally.

It’s hard to exaggerate the magnitude of Netanyahu’s strategic blunder in imagining he could unilaterally—even with a Knesset majority—destroy an independent judiciary and alter the character of the country. His preemptive firing of his defense minister, a career military man, for daring to speak out against the judicial reforms reinforced the impression that the prime minister has placed his personal politics above the security of the nation—an image reflected in the protests of thousands of Israeli military reservists.

Should Netanyahu push forward and replace his fired defense minister with a more compliant minister, one wonders whether many in the Israel Defense Forces would agree to follow the new appointee’s lead. The protests were given tremendous legitimacy as a result of the reservists’ participation and the pressure on the prime minister from the country’s intelligence and security chiefs.

In the end, some members of Netanyahu’s own Likud party and the ultra-religious parties in his governing coalition were also pressing him to stand down. Indeed, it appeared from the diverse makeup of the demonstrators—a veritable cross-section of Israeli Jews and some Israeli Arabs from all sectors of the public—that the prime minister was taking on Israeli society as a whole.

Clearly, he has ignored former U.S. President Abraham Lincoln’s wise words: “Public sentiment is everything. With public sentiment, nothing can fail; without it nothing can succeed.”

Netanyahu’s political career is by no means finished, and his coalition shows no signs of an imminent collapse. But his political reputation is tarnished, his coalition’s effort to effect a judicial revolution has taken a serious hit, and he now has a trust deficit with the Biden administration.

Israeli politics will remain very unsettled as the full impact of what has occurred sets in. And security challenges loom. But one thing is already clear: Netanyahu’s abortive effort to weaken Israel’s democracy, if not redefine the country’s character, and the public’s stunning resistance have taken Israel to a place it’s never been before. Here are four important takeaways from this whole drama—and what is likely to come next.

No. 1. It’s Not Over.

Both of us have had enough experience dealing with Netanyahu not to count him out. He is prime minister and controls (at least most of) Likud, the country’s largest and most cohesive political party. And he’s more determined than any Israeli politician to stay in power and has clearly demonstrated he’ll go to extreme lengths others would not to do so.

Although Netanyahu has temporarily paused on pushing through his judicial reforms, he has also made clear he’ll keep moving the bills through the Knesset after the Passover recess ends in May. “One way or another we will restore the balance between the authorities that have been lost,” he said in a speech on March 27. Even before his announcement of the reforms’ pause, the chairman of the Knesset’s Constitution, Law, and Justice Committee—one of the reforms’ key architects—readied the judicial appointments law for a final vote at any moment.

Israeli President Isaac Herzog, who has tried without success to find a compromise to end the crisis, has convened talks between the parties. But perhaps as a sign that Netanyahu isn’t serious about compromise, none of the key lieutenants who designed his judicial legislation plans are involved in the negotiations.

With zero trust or confidence in the prime minister, demonstrators are taking no chances and plan to keep up the pressure in the streets. Indeed, a new and unpredictable factor may well have emerged on Israel’s political scene: the creation of a grassroots, populist movement that has already demonstrated its durability and power. Whether it can sustain itself and organize to effect lasting political change remains to be seen. But it’s a clear signal not just to Netanyahu but to politicians across the board that it has power that can no longer be ignored.

No. 2. This Isn’t the Same Netanyahu. 

Perhaps the most significant and puzzling factor in the ongoing crisis is the apparent change in the prime minister’s persona and behavior. Long a champion of an independent judiciary, there’s little doubt that something has altered his former distaste for risk-taking and recklessness. Despite his often hard-line rhetoric, Netanyahu has historically been risk-averse and cautious by nature, especially when it comes to either war or peacemaking. He has more often than not been indecisive, with a tendency to temporize—taking one step forward, a step and a half back, and then coming out somewhere in between.

Netanyahu has always prided himself in the ability to triangulate, to read the political real estate correctly and stay within the broad outlines of what the public might tolerate. This has all dramatically changed. Anshel Pfeffer, a senior columnist for Haaretz and Netanyahu biographer who has studied him for years, argued Netanyahu’s recklessness would never have happened to “the old Bibi” and described his current behavior as “a flabbergasting failure” at things he is usually good at. The former Israel Bank chief Karnit Flug, who worked closely with Netanyahu to stabilize and grow Israel’s economy, similarly said she could not understand how Netanyahu dismissed or ignored warnings from experts about the economic and security dangers of pushing his judicial reform juggernaut.

What has altered Netanyahu’s behavior can only remain a source of speculation. Is it his ongoing trial for bribery, fraud, and breach of trust? Or is it, as former Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak argued in a recent FP Live interview, the consequences of a quest for absolute power that corrupts absolutely? Or perhaps it’s the influence of Netanyahu’s closed circle of advisors and his family—especially his son Yair—who trade in conspiracy theories and paranoia?

Whatever the cause, Netanyahu has produced perhaps the gravest internal crisis in Israel’s history. As Pfeffer writes: “This is Netanyahu like he’s never been before. Gone is the risk-averse and pragmatic prime minister who even his rivals admitted didn’t ‘play games with national security.’ Benjamin Netanyahu at 73 is now the pyromaniac-in-chief of a government of arsonists prepared to set the country alight just so they can bulldoze the hated judiciary and establish their own hegemony.” Whether he can change course remains to be seen.

No. 3. The Occupation Remains a Tinderbox.

The Israeli occupation of the West Bank, long seen as among the most consequential threats to Israel’s long-term security and well-being, has been absent from demonstration discourse. Leftists and other critics have called out the cynicism of demonstrations that demand democracy inside Israel but ignore the Israeli government’s fundamentally anti-democratic policies and actions toward Palestinians and systematic discrimination against Arab citizens of Israel.

For the demonstrators, keeping these two issues separate has been a critical tactic to maintain cohesion among a group that includes many conservative Israelis, including some who live in Israeli settlements. Merging the causes of judicial overhaul and the occupation would create serious fissures among the demonstrators.

The question, however, is whether the democratic impulses driving the demonstrations can carry over into a national campaign to end the occupation or, at least, promote equal rights for Palestinians. The Israeli peace camp went silent after the Second Intifada (and might remain silent if another intifada, or uprising, erupts), but this new manifestation of populist engagement might convince peace activists to reengage.

One hopeful sign is that some demonstrators have adopted the slogan “democracy for all,” suggesting a possible linkage between the domestic debate and the occupation. But this doesn’t represent the views of the vast majority of the protestors. In fact, there were reports of protestors carrying Palestinian flags who were attacked by other protestors during the demonstrations.

If and when the domestic situation calms down, the existential threat to Israel’s social and political fabric—long-term occupation and no pathway out—may return to the fore. Even before that, the possibility of another Palestinian intifada looms large, born of mounting frustration and anger among younger Palestinians. Without a serious commitment either to separation into two states or democracy for everyone in the area, the protests over judicial reform will seem meaningless.

Should interest in peace revive among a significant segment of the Israeli population, there will be difficult choices to assess. The two-state solution is at least moribund, if not dead, given the spread of Israeli settlements and the growth in the number of Israeli settlers in the West Bank. The nascent movement for equal rights is seen by some as a thin cover for a one-state solution, an outcome that almost all Israelis would likely reject. Creative thinking about peace has atrophied in recent years, and it is hard to see what political pathway can be developed that meets the minimum requirements of the two parties. At a minimum, then, the slogan of “democracy for all” can serve to revive the pursuit of creative thinking about peace.

With judicial reform at least temporarily stymied, though, there’s a real danger that Netanyahu’s coalition partners who are determined to annex most of the West Bank in everything but name will intensify their efforts. Itamar Ben-Gvir, Netanyahu’s minister of national security, stayed in the prime minister’s coalition only after receiving a green light to establish a national guard under his direct control, which some fear will become his own private militia to be wielded in the West Bank or in the mixed cities where Israeli Jews and Arabs interact. With tensions already high in the West Bank and settler violence increasing, it wouldn’t take much to set off an explosion.

No. 4. Netanyahu Is on Probation With Biden.

The Biden administration is slowly adjusting to the reality that it’s no longer dealing with the old Netanyahu. For any number of reasons—from U.S. President Joe Biden’s deep emotional attachment to Israel; to the domestic political downsides of feuding with Israel, especially with a Republican Party that has emerged as the “Israel, right or wrong” party; to the looming challenge of Iran’s nuclear program, which requires close cooperation with Israel—the administration isn’t looking for a sustained public fight with Netanyahu.

Still, the prime minister’s actions are testing Biden. And anger and frustration are building. Biden’s recent remarks about the Netanyahu government’s effort to ram through judicial reforms, saying that it “cannot continue down this road,” as well as his rather emphatic statement that there would be no invitation in the “near term” for Netanyahu to visit Washington, suggest a much tougher posture.

Yet there is still no sense that the administration is prepared to impose specific costs or consequences on Netanyahu’s government. The prime minister appears to be on a sort of probation with Biden. And how the Israeli leader handles the judicial issue and the possibility of tensions with Palestinians during the Ramadan and Passover seasons now upon us may well impact how the United States relates to him going forward.

The current tensions between the Biden administration and the Netanyahu coalition are unlike any other in the history of U.S.-Israeli relations. The two countries have had deep differences over policy, usually related to the Palestinian issue or Lebanon, but never before doubts about the values they have always said they share. Israel’s existence as its region’s only democracy—however imperfect—has been the fundamental foundation upon which support for it has rested, both in Washington and in the mind of the U.S. public at large. It has resulted in extraordinary bipartisan support for Israeli governments regardless of personalities or policies.

Should that foundation collapse and Israel slide toward illiberalism, the special character of the U.S.-Israeli relationship would change. Even before the judicial reform debate, serious doubts existed in Washington about the presence in the Israeli coalition of convicted racists and self-proclaimed homophobes. That these individuals were given positions overseeing finance, security, and the occupation only added to the problem.

In this respect, resetting the bilateral relationship won’t be easy even if the judicial reform crisis is resolved, because the issue has now become one of trust and the need for a minimum of comity. Nasty comments by Israeli politicians—reminiscent of the Obama years—don’t help. The onus for rebuilding trust will rest entirely with Netanyahu. He created this coalition, he supported the legislation that prompted the domestic crisis, and he still has not taken forthright action to change course. Given the prime minister’s current mindset and his dependence on his current coalition partners, that will be more easily said than done.

[whatevergreen]

Complacency?

"Of course, there’s a downside to assimilation. Over the last fifteen years or so, cities around the country have seen their gay clubs shutter. As acceptance grows and new generations grow up without the specter of discrimination looming overhead, the need for a safe space — somewhere explicitly aimed at the gay community — becomes less important to many.

“Things slowed down at the turn of the century,” admits Ribaudo. “As we’ve become accepted as a community, gay people have felt comfortable going anywhere. We lost a lot of business to straight establishments that opened their arms and embraced the gay community. The South End became very gentrified. More straight people moved in, and all these new restaurants opened up that were very well blended.”"

From: 'Club Café, Boston's gay social hub, turns 30' by Jim Lapota October 11 2013. http://archive.boston.com/lifestyle/blogs/bostonspirit/2013/10/club_cafe_boston_gay_iconic_es.html

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This did not age well.

#lgbtq #gay #texas #florida #oklahoma