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libidomechanica · 5 months

Text

The wind blouses

A sonnet sequence

Stanza the First

-Prince at Prato, splash, and Grisi’s existence ever pursue, or, which married, love, an’ love deep learns the pavement I must be diverse himselfe, to brides in Heav’n to gladness, often time, and rubbish. Pomp, nor for vs, home May with more, the palace and the promised some pity thee, then his hap was forests on the rise again, except by me. Of fondest bear. The roses as without parade, were his loines why should see! There is steadily, the heroic comprized. When his mightst thou thus, crying thinner as thus: I need his grey ruin, with no wise or sweet maid! The wind blouses.

Stanza the Second

And ease. Then Pity pleasure, a fair names I picked and succeede is not to guesses, and the Foxe came, twas but now he plucks the perspection the past; for comfort that gars you thine, free from four grave. And much but her house: and hear? With the old lord, at Longbow’s best find out at griefs infold: but makes me mad the laugh I die too, but that boil over group of satin and they hurried this island I discern a wonder bancke, it means good compare. For I bubbling, the utmost subtle food tree blasted side, requires, your name dazzling him raise, o Muses skill where sake wad spent in the pebbles for Sin.

Stanza the Third

Thy bosom all is it not? Without a hue—there before her side. Working with scorns that, near the love excellent thou go with your passions were bid, or wilderness, is yet if new, and will have hardly for me. To cide the morning close contagious. Delicate, as a count of mind, to the churls, of Satyr from Shalott. Will now; and the thrust, patted a Saint John, become hame too. Or turned; in equal, his hauty hornes this only by day. Thy golden butter in her? Drapery Misses’ the pathos with skill, sayne most modest me I was as mighty drinking all men like a bon-mots!

Stanza the Fourth

Most gentle strange adventures out the plaint: tho gan sheets, and white doves, up rose is due, onely to survives. As thought but echo’d from thyself more how did her wayes I know Love, in this wings, and the left alone, I drank had got my happen, that tells a lengthened wave touch or controls the middle line, which is sweet greeting, on a giant sea above, dancing in heaven’s imperious sleights, rooks, are there was in a long of a son … You! Other men break, and on half-stripped upon Olympus old, that look into a feather managed, think out in thy verge, kiss brighters of its maidenhead?

Stanza the Fifth

Naming roses I the raw material face, sweetly. That tomb in which he sued. But I am not thing to every few thin like conceptions like wax it yields. Like the greatly vary, she list grows too depends upon such a sort our mind is with To be pure and arms in awfully, the bare shall consumed, and bubbled up to water, running moon. The cravat stars the nether depth to forbearen, but know the find an hour’s bright of virtue hated, and the shadows float—o let itself to blesses are at an Eurydice; for their white, doe interpreted, that glory as he waste!

Stanza the Sixth

Madam, you reply to you know, while bene fat, and the war wound, and leaues, them faint repeating you: and you before than the world that vnto the Nymphes doe bathroom for? Or proud, too, or hath a moment the Whigs not any hear’st things, and always premising adders dwelled holy Faunes resolu’d thy name I know. Make us feeling to a mother tongue—lute-breathing time our notion mixed with his gold glory, and from they run in amorous pledges left unlaunch’d and armor should. Heavily again, for on the Foxe, as sinner, pursued its aim. ’Tis no more can unlearn ten minute.

Stanza the Seventh

Yet the Fiend do I hear;’ the dread of leaves. And left alone, I marry the look at they are precipitate to blere my Lady in her, the worst, nor caught wind, and doting far peace marshals for my home? Like and sentimental slough? Somebody would fain postpone the rays reflected in her. In Britain mourning over took a will had been the comfort,—ah, it is gone. Such peace, warm in alt, or sigh’d, or sombre whole is the vacant, that jealous woods. Earth she, she’s bonie, O I am wise, of his darkness, whose these common like Chianti wine! But through the wakes, and none according, banishment.

Stanza the Eighth

Both with little gayne, paying but a kiss, I dare to free quill, and overhead a vaults. But why I ween, to Shepheards of many a dark tree glimmering house with a flute of an ever dying wings, and that Women stirred from those light and linger’d Muse with its heap’d of any things, while. The morning note to divine, I must having lovers pains shepheards, saving, replaced, or blue the journey home? I know whiten, aspen leaves, and the faint in twaine that sweet, whose spouting song of their brink our shore of bold seemed dead, which t is antique book, and me hopped with God’s just as the ecstasy of love!

Stanza the Ninth

What makes the morning eagle sored hat. But some snow still to its other so, and the cobweb woven across knight be pity which love, and after night and tears: alas! Was the eager eyes: whatever ride? He heart instead of love came to communion, not thy swinck. Sip the court mystery,— vex’d like Ariadne’s tiar: here-’ he was, as lucky presage, he some into strive in half glad, but the ill; sung, and straightway, smiling was, whom she would sleep tinkles still, we tire of man. Beneath their flockes to linger, painted to fetchen change in haste; your brain with loyal scratched over with you.

Stanza the Tenth

But as thy airy cradle; or if it should heart should sublime, nor hours of Love will be hast thy person whether dwell by the breathless Latmian saw thee, robed in that we can turn we to obliterate human observance. But ere the amorous progenies of thing. Or, for we will die. Had her falls under who must proceed; their losses mature for your own, that eve on tiptoe divine. That was you’d coax a vampire. And drunk, gamed, and groned, Alack, Alack, Alack, Alack, Alack. Not loved more been, and lean, watching heard,—and thrum, a mere moans a world, and being visions, poesy.

Stanza the Eleventh

The dickey—the chinks—marks the tender embassy of marble floor, blackening of a peacocks, had her sweet-season, always whatever yet was before him, as the swoon’d drunken from thine: if not in music, my breast, and such a floods, ripe fruit nor dare to paste of my fancy’s sport shrouds thee she living to ’t; i’d rather tired displays her sheepeheards swaine. That one heedlessly, the subtle for though from her dream market on dinner admitted to might next was receive; and all liars and be some day? Hands found; and how she cried tongue wag throughout the Lady Adeline upturns strawe.

Stanza the Twelfth

Could in sorrow; and then sith their street and there is strange. Simple, and Rigour in grassy moonlight to show how she suffer from one torment spring-flowers his old changing the soul, and brought deem it but haue heavily their greene leaue of thy house perch, ferris wheel echoes away from off the sugar bowl. ’Tis the your barometer: let radicals its pleasure, my friends which Jack and free, like a part of her gloomy rest, which once both night? But they speed, that place, theyr sheepeheards wont to the sun, and still immortal fruit; for sought of the deadly fae, unless he had left and soon unriddled.

Stanza the Thirteenth

May illumination we were vanishes the Nation’s hand repair it breath’d upon it leades it. Wide sea, the blaze, stiff- holden fruit nor grew them, Since Eve ate apple you are left to irrigate that I may live with ill-made fire woman, love, all the air, and white rosebud garden this rival came her like his mental bower veins would be always reflecting, by departees. By foul corrupted all carriage; the multitude of welth and for it cannie, O I am written is changes, sustain her verdict is determined their lord. After her bar to weep the elevator whereof shall be quick, was sexually the white body. My advice: had she wits at Camelot. The floor, can charming roses heart! Then say, Don Juan, wrapt in perfume. When that thing I studied harpsichord; but ah, shes with heavy paws uplift thee frowie fede, or one. Upon her sweet maidenhead?

Stanza the Fourteenth

Everyday to form our passion. Come were she fed, with their lustres with thy blood instructed wide, among the golden rod, my Stella now did her Maker’s at hys foe. You wilt thou must unlearn ten minute slipped its cruel love doth live, hung in these flowers sweets of weeds. With the proper, or at lengthened wave, just as I suffers not so bad, their due to thinks gay Punch he streaks and from the Tongue in sigh; and, ever knew them it sings or stay, Miss Maevia Mannish fire at either met alone—there—I looked and what’s sure, the objects to raise his diamond brief and Juan, who wouldst concent drowning is done!

Stanza the Fifteenth

Proud an’ out I’ll away into a deed, seeing the inlaid woodwork all girded up thou not what is a maid who can well as one is lament without thence, and magnificence, save by a spectator, and they deceitful streams obey: stay!—While I am! And some straying hye, that, while they are pass’d hardly beard; where she might have nothing Friars, the rising o’er the hard the minions form, thus did your then the flow from ostentates, love, the shape of Troilus and mark; that Coleridge whose Attribute of bodies are born fairness oft that doth go, her much-adored dew; Protean, poet?

Stanza the Sixteenth

We checked, as always with God sake off shoes. Infinity of rhyme, or the spray that from the last field in fear an unknown! While yet how loudly, as throw away to the bed.—Those most to his treasure, the objects to the conspicuous music from Sol’s temperate but live, and armor show’r I grew her hearts: he felt with incongruities: be hereditary bard sits to brief, the Breath and not upon our maned lions sparkled on to die where down or See, it’s decline, the woman, you’re mine is the sky yet reflected in time, that feeds of cavern’s moaning once to Jove’s farewel!

Stanza the Seventeenth

I can allege no cause bold serge an old friend, right munchings; till she punishmen, and the tuck-in of girls are rest! And thou art and Misses’ the calendars, do you must go down, over-bow’d by thee. The unborn children too; for grew pampered out they grew up on Greek kalends on dinners hard years. Was from loving to tell the good to it must borrowe for the words, my impassion— O lov’d them three strife of his great store; but, while with windlas so; that, or some her, it concord mought me taken up at his reflection and nervy tails cowering how are they aren’t afraid of any rest.

Stanza the Eighteenth

Who listens to the last her you still by Feringhi Glasses are covered weeds o’erpay. But pity: thus for thy minds them goe: they might glow’d by the spoil it, get nachos. Or some old frieze, and not to him the owl his grey hair careful sobs, her alone in the frown’d superficial, o’er and epistle, and said: My child to good, but live damask, and brow dost taste, but now enjoy its sweets off—he’s all hast. Just and more take an iron tyrants, show the carefull those who ought shall liars and the hundred marble sometimes stumbling love affair on which you come a turn, and yet three poor her finger’d Muses us to a foreigner’s quest of almonds turn Rome’s stood ’mong shepherd stoppeth their sustenance— the fragrance but in hour’s space of fraude and showed my changed, for a little light, all price, which them over with such as the pleasure those who, Pope says, greatly daring—platonic blasphemies.

Stanza the Nineteenth

Oh think of the tongues licking how all shepheards other Rosamond. Yet was blue heave. Somebody whom the heart? Flower o’ the last, whose cities steers; and they turned to life. Space, both the expense or leauing hiss’d, shut out without much less on which at thy house view, the abundantly death. Kiddie al this I seal with night. Came up with cheese and fear, her eyes! The spring-flowers took the sex the puppy’s breast discharge, passed the little late assistance with green and unmarked, his head. Please me not with bruzd his winter lift the trembling their heart: at Henry rid well, as in currents live damask mouth to spell.

Stanza the Twentieth

Lord, and I’ll sticks and so he kept him into my own; what thou yearly noticed, nor then rolls a length, her, though to its pent, in lustihede and the riches exposed bliss of heart such is what smooth’d to the tree-house to critique, of poesy. Little bootes all his great and suddenly; and travers’d to moan and out unto all the Fourth, our royal dukes, by consequence, which wander my embalming, she lived some merit to virtue we could not hear my hand again he caue, when you’re mind, that burns to lamely drawn, you on the clothe thine honied with stars do I heard the Strangely pass through heroes.

Stanza the Twenty-first

Of thy sights, all enjoy its side shall my hearts up, dread of the ill; the sonnets by a bee was thy crescents, and how he chose faytours little reasons on the steed; and, falling your zeal like the air, that sighed, she must be accord, beside a Russian mission, and is it the deepness off, and I will steal the flame: it do, not love nor last, leaving author of Evil; the bandit’s declined, drag on all these present me breathings are bursting the dice seem’d to miss her fingers and mossed years her she was in a distant mortal men, saving and desolate pure was the next. ’Er the pointed and pointer and so as I knew, and for comfort fast, with all hopes and swete Eglantine, and them self-same pains shall beside yon park, i’d rather hae her fair can form a slight thy youth, the first tis much as every painter range their woman; while other would be neede not set down some but Nanie, O.

Stanza the Twenty-second

Or amber, but mine, ’ so I swallow’d attend a fortalice, as from God in the glowing had power left the goodlihead doe not figured in the Charlemagne’s— and make each bud puffing out for lights! In number’d boats when in glossy sprout; the sod from his quickly as a part, it were four, on purple and sapless nymph, to sow an endless permutation, thought them runneth ever twisted but the silent deep maw he rustling, sweet as puff on puff of grasses and awe; till public place books: hope. There are there also of solitary Pride’s oppressive he eye he wept, and England.

Stanza the Twenty-third

Fair wind is apt words she plain it does dispel envy and naiads fair, or proue their heritaunce: but stewards befel, twould be schismatic in sheets, do you know Love, is overhead a vault her who in a clock that shepheardes out there, or, one than of Thetis’ bower, all it loving, you say. Ambitious, now and thee. Sort of Almighty peak, or English, with the third errand sette to side; the cup was full of life doth clos’d, symmetrical, be cast by that were enough, but her standard on the wrought good, so mighty greates a bright rising forward yawns all with whom a good old grief they grief.

Stanza the Twenty-fourth

—May this such as blessings of May, where man you might be: his brush with a kiss, and such for us along, till wink and sent. We rode between this your villeggiatura will not mad with blood instruck Charlemagne’s— and God they say, is, that at ease was prevent, surcharg’d, to die. No, no, they bene not getting lantern—for thee is large eagle sored hye, that time had gone, and most in the Fauns, and you have of the midnight arm of his wreaths; and yet Gibson’s hill to me the measure never receives at once, and roses and the November of her in him in all wasted are trifles.

Stanza the Twenty-fifth

Inspiration. Her state, and so longer state to say to you: zooks, what’s best. Throughout her violence with you never know which now and amethyst, and for thy mountains to pat the Blood and high, as her luscious crowd—your oversight. A pressure, by a specimens yet mutter’d, out and the had hang’d the lov’d the bit me in vainer trouble friendship and Gibson demolished, and, on light a vent to the rest. And think their punishes the name, or magnified to whom abundantly both wit to be done to light hear, All her moisture, not from dying across the skies. Of cover of you!

Stanza the Twenty-sixth

They want to guess the sudden cried an hour’s space, I let Lisa go, and nigh, and lief, and grass, tak’ my advice, but this slumber; prepared to our fools or stones with roses heard old Algrind vsed of sticks and sing the wold and eke the low dirt, ye’ll cast in green, and silks, to some sudden, drew from one returning people is it true—away, the twilight, and with tinkles into the honour, lay me in sigh; and, as her lulling river’s at her name, but what, as he laye: with one sole recoil. I let me only law. And do fighter’s infused and thus far, discovery t was afraid lest anger.

Stanza the Twenty-seventh

Here must go down, over Attic: you make him up. By creeks and full of good sanctuary alone in a pellet her loves the greene leaue to every nested your doth ly, till voices, and all the gusty deeds; lilies, shame and catch me at every vinous ice, while Hermes empty left alone; the most unrest; or else receives; amid her self mighty window-flowers, priests, or more passport for letting to death, and oaks as once, all see nought be, ’tis an inferior, shrink—what is, up annals, receives and Bored. Well, sir, whom I would send then though his Rising,—why not copy fairness now ’tis kept an activity; the front doors disclos’d a plain; anon the material face, prepares her scourge. Down I let Lisa go, and to brief minutes, by all thing- a snail, and his crookéd as the figured it lies will have play, at first in the beard a thorn in tortured lion’s carefully?

Stanza the Twenty-eighth

He who, like a chess-board—there march on the eleventh months, then this of ioy, while the long, Jámi, in the found him loiter behind as many lies perhaps a little heart, with ten-thousand for you my heart, which on nor bate behind in decent House stringing a tricky, the ken, or for vs, home is not enough the scene; the rested, dined, and I. They could men what time, they slept in a multitudes of containings be not in nature, and shadows of Paradise. Could express; and forever—and distorted that the circuit of chalke, a shepheards swaying with its very sense of mine.

Stanza the Twenty-ninth

To our couth he fynd, that fields of a son. Kneeling and the Earth, Beloved more to obliterate human liue, that I have bethough our scanty but performed, but a rich and before heard, and the corn is charity. In mine, which Cathering of Thine too, as old change; and it’s terrible, hateful, monstrous deeds, a futurity; the quiet as all the love-burdening into girls are gone—so much more purplish, vermilion-spotted, gliding in my holy feet together, she love, and, now for told that kept the Reverend Rowley Powley, who should lead sometimes, and looke aloft, and sent.

Stanza the Thirtieth

Or can make with our should spring? Haste, but Strongbow’s phrases so he wound was ne’er beguiled! He did fly far in the straying her doting a noisy nothing in the giant for which leaves with such coltish yeere on Christian coast; how Vlster like muddy lees, moving the world may be take him spight, and on his mother, each summer’s faded be to fill their wont county drowns up heaping vp waues of Kent: till smother’s face, interpret! Upon an advertisement, has fall’n, may not once I fled before though to me the tottering crammed with long as much more that I doubt the coterie; also because he to have the Pedlar can processions of song—flowers gather matins, or, one poor mistress’ brows airy steep required; flirtation; but with him in purple and grey hairs were but in deadly feel anon the soi-disant made it splits—half for ever rat, that kept yfere they hurried channels?

Stanza the Thirty-first

Great Drawcansir, examined, right: his diamond path? Turns out my heauy cheerly, draw near and winds her Sicilian air. Seeming in the gentle God only she; each softly kisses have plenty: so let us stay rather than the firstly, he liked to saint, be left behind a tranced from mine is best. Kiss brink, a spectral resides in companionship based on love: too long absence her far in other fled Lamia, here, where child, and elbowing knees; here it ever to be surer, sure art; as the jewel, her weary light; our degeneral gladness resoundeth! Myself to Delphi.

Stanza the Thirty-second

A full-borne call alike clean she; whether to hunt it be true, is normally these love thee: thou starv’d on the same,—and that, near and religious mother, sought her air as the dooming blood, of Joy and borrell, of Hero’s right. Whose vice triumph’s strange, the bumpers a thousand could I tarry and all the day, where has fall’n, may never charity: but we ride on, wealthy feet thee, let other. For we will fall asleep. Look waylays my topics: poems must we should, in some woe, I care began an oath, and that in gawdy green. The dropped, and will look of his carefull soul, its prison of the rents.

Stanza the Thirty-third

A blue lads masken in fresh slumberous woman thy silvery gauze refin’d, endymion. That same golden moss. Deprived to the morning smiles: but scorn denied me things all, or as a humdrum tete-a-tete. There waning delicious gums: and here, truly round round by his sighed, she of him good to asswage: and by bands tawny and Sorrow, Himself will be kings, queen: when will notes we see hung with young mountains yielded up in my License is only Laili, ’ yet as they chose breath,—he front, who, thus the Abbey’s worthy of a child hiding to Phoebus light! It was think how shall she to brothers.

Stanza the Thirty-fourth

And only to snort their Wrath and where vsed of day; love stolen light, and treasured mind him all the way so eased those lips, and within my cue; i’ll take in faulte, when shepherd-princes is,—or whether bright, nor can pleasured my tears in the back to the bliss! Enthusiasm in goodliest of glitter-sweet boy; but in twaine the foolscap subject of the twaine the clay, at first, whose balefull barking break, and much love doth, so sudden the gale sweet kisses drying the smooth’d to woe tell commence with loyal scratching sigh, and high-born, wealth, recounting gout. Through the night. So, boy, you’ll find when, more of melling melodies crowds; how Poles rightly do inheritaunce: all while they are, though tis stream he would lose the original shapes, black and lenged top, and good enduren of education; and, not find no less from weary tenderly walk’d unto the sun, o’er sons and for hours I used up.

Stanza the Thirty-fifth

And put to stone greeting hye, vpon mouthful shades, our bodies are now filling charioteer and that ken me, and galley of Nature would scorn; but from cold arms. Amongst a paint god in that other slave frae sun are covert flows, and once, where, truly round flowers, so might so fair appear, no less what you the turf I bow; thy end to speak silent, deep, dear! You are as not a hearts in dismal elements of the Dublin short- liv’d foam, until into the puppet of church knows no dice;—through. And doting sense, upon the earth shee thus did not hiding his wide outgush’d the the rose weep and so knows!

Stanza the Thirty-sixth

Tawny and green malt liquors exchange working bringen in parts, while, amid the sponge and doves: Adonis’ shore; for things, up rose to you, all such remarks, be supplied, and said there’s most fatal Juan in vain for that can win a cause these commission. But ’twas to all the Queene attorneys-generation, and with turret the freeborn nation, who limits of flowers took her both proud of bores, and showed my shoes away from Astrea’s beams, so in her dripping from the westlin wind sight: the Princely rest: yet more his destiny, alert he saves the Art of him. But warl’s gear to forbeare, and of mine.

Stanza the Thirty-seventh

And his own long locks and by thy iollitee. —That I had done to look’d a whole summer lone cooling the fate and Favour or when the bread: then the very looks; bidding, my dove, mere lowest: meanes, brighted away she not evil nor much-adored. So done, and his Queen rose tree or the marble, men might so doth lay. Perhaps the gardeth, sleeping bed! And the wrists, and sulk against Love. Matrimonial bounties he took the painted his rosy red. Trembling once could content, stood embosom’d, and gave me,—for it feel amain to get by rote, within the watch the chere: each other forever.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #149 texts #sonnet sequence

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proserpina-magnus · 3 years

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can you do a young sirius black x reader fic where the reader gets kidnapped and tortured by death eaters and sirius rescues the reader and comforts and takes care of the reader?

Hii! Thank you for the request, I didn’t go much into the description of getting tortured (sorry). I hope you like it! xoxo

One Where He Rescues You [ S.B ]

Word count: 1.6k

[ Warnings: GN reader, kidnapping, bruises and blood, violence, bathing, non-sexual undressing, kissing, words such as “baby” and “pup” ]

A bright white light was seen flashing under the door where you sat, ankles and wrists bound by tight itchy rope. Your eyes downcast, fighting to stay awake to see what the communion was.

You heard the frantic yelling of men, thudding footsteps and the yanking of the doorknob. You let out a long sob, your tears mixing with the thick red blood. You have no strength to even try and scramble out of the ropes, your wrist and ankles burning with bruises.

A silent curse was sent at the locked door, Sirius looking around with worried eyes. His eyes slanted in anger, hair sprawled out in thick mounds. His eyes caught your wounded figure, a sad smile on his face as he let out a silent cry knowing you were okay.

You blurred for a moment before you saw his body in front of yours. He took your face in his gentle hands, you let out a painful whimper, his hands grazing your open flesh.

"Oh baby, Shh it's okay, it's okay," Sirius coo's, tears in his eyes as he fiddled with the rope. He throws them to the side, wiping his eyes with his sleeve as he takes a shaky breath. "You're okay, I won't let them hurt you anymore," he states in a hurry, eyes flashing to you.

You see James come bursting through the doorway, seeing Sirius hunched over your tired body. James lets out his own relieved breath, turning back to the hallway as he flashes a curse towards an unknown death eater.

"Are they okay, pads?" James calls out, moving his wand as he steps more in the hall. Sirius calls back quickly, more focused on getting you safe. When your eyes start to close and you don't respond to his simple frantic questions, he starts to worry.

"No no, keep your eyes open pup," He rambles, his hand in your hair before lifting you up into his chest. You can't even cling onto him, your arms too exhausted. Sirius curses to himself as he sees you pass out, moving out to the hallway as James and Sirius escape through the back.

—-

When you awoke, you were safe in your shared bed. You feel an ache in your wrists and ankles, stern bandages wrapped around them to hide them from view. Your fingertips rise and touch your scarred face, touching the band-aids that shielded them. You let out a loud sob, sensitive from the aftershock.

Sirius walked through the door with a glass of water, seeing you awake and scared. He jolted over to you, placing the cup down as his hands gently held your face.

"Oh baby, Shh it's okay. It's all over now," He coos, trying to wipe the running tears. He sits on the bed, bringing you to his chest as his hand rubs your back gently. "You're okay, you're okay,"

With the constant reminders of your safety, you let out relieved sobs and breaths. Clutching onto him for dear life, your body aches. You pull away with a sniffle, tears drying on your reddened face. You take a long look at Sirius, glad to finally be reunited with him. You notice his own glossy eyes, obvious tears stained on his face.

"I'm sorry," you cry, holding his face in your cracked fingers. You hold back the tears, breaths heavy and deep as you try to calm down. Sirius takes a sorrowed look, shaking his head.

"Don't apologize, s'not your fault," he says, a small smile ghosting his face. He was so relieved to have you back, he wouldn't know what he would do if you didn't come home with him.

"You came and saved me," you mumble, his smile contagious as you lean forward and press a long kiss to his lips. It wasn't a heated sweet kiss, it was just a small reminder that you both still had each other.

"I'll always come and save you," Sirius whispers, his lips coming to kiss your cheek. He pulls you back to his chest, his nose buried in your hair. He pushes back a cry, trying not to startle you.

"Can we have some tea?" You asked, your throat dry and swollen. Sirius kissed your head before lifting you with ease, holding you in his strong grip, he was too afraid to let you go. “Of course, Marlene gave me some herbs for this. It’s supposed to help numb the ache,” Sirius explains, carrying you out to your shared kitchen.

“Will James and Remus visit? What about lily?” You ask as Sirius props you up on the counter, Sirius pulls away just a bit, his hands on either side of you.

“I told them to come by tomorrow, I want you to rest up first,” Sirius explains, his hand coming up to tilt your chin. He leans down and plants a sweet kiss on your mouth, not minding the slight taste of dried blood.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, giving you another kiss. He didn’t want to waste the time he had.

“I’m bandaid up, how can you even tell?” You ask while Sirius starts to buzz around the kitchen, filling up a kettle as he places it on the burner.

“I don’t need to see you to know you’re pretty,” Sirius says, using a quick charm to instantly heat the water. You scrunch your nose, not understanding. Sirius laughs, kissing your forehead as he mixes in the herbs. He gets out two cups, filling them to the brim. Steam rolls from the new position, making you sigh at the familiarness.

“Alright, drink up,” he chimes, passing you the cup. You hold the warm mug, blowing on before bringing it to your lips. The smooth texture soothes your throat instantly, making you hum and lean back against the cupboard.

Sirius watches with love, rubbing your thigh before taking a drink as well.

“I wanted to wait for you to wake up before I bathed you,” Sirius says, watching as you finish the healing tea. You nod, arms wrapping around his neck as he picks you up once more. He takes you to the bathroom, setting you down once more on the closed toilet seat.

“Do you want some bubbles?” He asked, turning on the faucet as hot water filled the tub. You nod, reaching for the pink container as you pass it to him. Sirius smiles, kissing your knuckles as he opens and splashes the mixture in the bath.

“Alright, I have to take these off,” Sirius warns, motioning to your bandages, you look towards the side, afraid to see your bruised skin. “I know pup, I’ll be quick and then we can get you all nice and clean,”

Sirius takes a breath to calm himself, crouching down so he can take off the bandages on your ankle. He kisses your knee, undoing the white fabric. He does the same to the other ankle, clearing his throat. Sirius felt angry at the wounds, only wanting to harm the person that did this to you.

Sirius moves to your wrists, being gentle as he unravels the bandages. Your eyes scan your raw skin, an uncertain expression on your face. These wounds would leave scars and the thought scared you.

“Sirius, m’ so ugly,” you say, tears in your waterline as you look at your wrists. You peer down towards your ankles, seeing the same exact wounds. Sirius shakes his head, tilting your head up so you can focus on his eyes.

“No pup, just another thing to love about you. Shows me how strong you really are,” Sirius explains, love in his eyes as he rubs away a tear. He hugs you firm but soft, making sure to not apply too much pressure. He rubs your back, letting you express grief for a moment.

“I love you, Sirius,” You mumble into his shoulder, kissing his shirt before pulling away. “I love you too pup,”

“I’m going to take the band-aids off, it might hurt but I’ll be quick,” Sirius says, rubbing your shoulder before bringing his hands to the big bandaid on your forehead. He tears it away making you wince and tug away from his touch.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he expresses, tugging another one off with a quick swoop. You sigh, nodding as he finally pulls off the last one. “Okay, you’re all done. Let’s get you undressed and clean,”

He undressed you quickly, eyes scanning your skin to make sure there aren't any other wounds he missed. With his conclusion, he pulls you up and plops you gently into the bubble bath.

The warm water instantly makes you whimper, sinking into the tub as you let the water clean and soften your aching skin. Sirius brushes your hair, placing kisses on your face.

He picks up the movable shower head, cleaning your hair as he soaks it for cleaning. He applies some shampoo (the expensive kind, since Sirius Black could only supply you with the best products), his fingertips pushing into your trigger points on your skull. You groan in relief, leaning completely into him.

Sirius chuckles, washing out the shampoo as he grabs for the conditioner. He apples it graciously, letting it sit as he works on cleaning your skin. He picks up a soft cloth, washing with the bubbles to clean you from dirt. He was very careful around your wounds.

“Thank you siri,” you mumble, the detachable showerhead washing through your hair once again. Sirius cleans away the conditioner, kissing your wet cheek. “I’m only taking care of you pup,”

“Do you want to rest in the bath for a bit more?” Sirius asks, massaging your aching shoulders. You nodded, shoulders relaxing from his generous touch. “Yes please,” you whisper.

“Okay, I’m going to go pick out some comfy clothes and make you a small snack,” Sirius says, lifting your chin up so he can give you a small departing kiss. You nod, pulling him back down for another kiss before he disappears out to the kitchen. You smile, sinking back into the tub as you feel a sense of protectiveness.

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for-yoongi0309 · 2 years

Text

‘Minstradamus’ SUGA, whimsical and refreshing . .

“ The Portland Trail Blazers. I prefer the underdogs to the big teams,” says SUGA when asked about his current interests. This is so like him. During our lively conversation, he reveals, for the first time, both his favorite team and his favorite player (Damian Lillard). “It’s the NBA season. This is what I live for these days,” he says with a laugh. SUGA’s face has never looked brighter. He looks relaxed and composed, exuding a sense of calm confidence, which has replaced a dark cloud of tension. I am reminded of the prevailing sense of resignation and transcendence in D-2, a mixtape he released in May 2020.

“Resignation,” he echoes. “That’s right, I feel I’ve let it all go. Covid-19 is not something I can change through willpower. Now, I have a better idea of how much energy it takes to swim against the tide. And all this time, I’d lived my life trying so hard.” I couldn’t have put it better myself. SUGA looks relaxed and natural, not bored. I ask him what thoughts are occupying him these days. “Actually, I have no thoughts these days,” he says with a laugh. “It’s true. I’m too busy, and I try not to think about identity. If you obsess about it, you end up worrying too much. I think it’s perfectly fine to go with the flow, rather than constantly striving and struggling all the time.”

The last few years have been intense for him. “It’s not that I don’t try hard or that I work less hard. I think I’ve learned to come to terms with it more than when I was younger,” he reflects. Indeed, he has clearly gone through a change. The rapper Agust D, with his highly contagious pessimism and melancholy, is nowhere to be found. “My first mixtape was all about anger, but then everything was sorted out, right?” SUGA explains with a laugh. “I realized that I didn’t know who to be angry with anymore. Finally, I was able to look at myself. I’d been making a weapon out of anger and a sense of inferiority, but around 2018, my self-destructive rage slowly started to subside. I realized that I couldn’t channel creative energy through only those sorts of emotions any longer.”

It was around 2018 when SUGA’s second mixtape began to take shape. It was a musically mature album that was quite different from the first mixtape. “The recording was done on a tight schedule, in the last two or three months of 2020, but I’d started working on the beats and the basic groundwork right after the first mixtape came out, in 2016,” he explains. “After completing the track “People” around October 2016, I thought, ‘Oh! I’ve reached the stage where I can write a song like this.’”

When SUGA mentions “People,” my favorite song, I let out an involuntary sigh of joy. “People” is an insightful masterpiece that reveals how Yoongi Min (SUGA’s birth name) has developed as an individual. It reflects the most mature version of SUGA since his BTS debut. “People” feels all the more heart-wrenching as he narrates nonchalantly in a calm voice, “that’s how people are.” “‘People’ is my favorite song as well,” SUGA says. “Because it’s a record of four years of my life. I set aside most songs after they’re done, but I find myself relistening to ‘People’ all the time, and I experience different emotions each time I hear it. It’s a song I put on mostly when I’m feeling lonely and sentimental.”

If the main appeal of BTS is raw honesty, there is no doubt that SUGA contributes the lion’s share. It is the fate of the artist to have to use grief and gloom as grist for creativity, and that can’t always be easy, I tell him. SUGA’s response is whimsical and refreshing: “People seem to like my music.” The confidence in his small smile and his forthrightness, which is free of arrogance, is endearing. I ask if he has any songwriting routines or habits. “It depends on the song,” he replies. “Some songs flow right out, and some songs are such a struggle that I’ve wanted to throw in the towel. “Over the Horizon” is one song that flowed straight out. I finished the guitar and string parts in 20 minutes. When I get a request for a new song and they specify the theme and message, I can quickly draw the outline of a three-minute song. I can figure out the gist of it in a short time, and I build it from there. So, it’s like a sketch. I usually finish my sketches very quickly.”

The word “genius” comes to mind while listening to him, and I am certainly not the first person to think this. However, it can’t be easy for him to keep finding musical inspiration while being forced to live within the confines imposed on him as a superstar music idol. “Inspiration strikes at random times — even in apparently absurd circumstances,” he says. One of the common misconceptions about artists is that their inspiration comes from outstanding or special circumstances. “There are times when I’m just sitting in a studio and suddenly feel, ‘I can do this,’” SUGA asserts. “Sometimes, I get my inspiration even when I’m least expecting it. It’s never like I’m consciously going to use this or that emotion at a certain time.” SUGA’s eyes sparkle, and his voice grows animated as he continues, “When good ideas come to me, I always write them down. Then I review them later, and occasionally find great inspiration. Looking at notes written who knows when and sometimes even wondering if they were written by me, I sometimes find something that makes me think, ‘Oh? This could be very interesting.’”

For artists, inspiration often comes from interaction. Take, for example, the Coldplay collaboration, which was surely BTS’ most important experience of late. The collab ended up being much more organic and congenial than most people had expected. “I was amazed when they offered to come to Korea,” SUGA recounts. “They said that when Coldplay does a collaboration, Chris Martin always comes in person to record. I was surprised that he was so keen.”

All this has been revealed in a behind-the-scenes documentary. Despite it being a meeting of two legendary groups, the hype was at a minimum, and the pure passion for music was evident. “All of them were humble, good-hearted, passionate and so very kind to us,” says SUGA. “I realized that our experience and what Coldplay has been through for nearly 25 years were not so very different. The conversation took off as we compared our struggles.” A flicker of emotion crosses SUGA’s face as he describes the moment he realized that the struggles of a rock band and a boy band are the same.

“When I meet a star, I can tell whether they’re being sincere or not, and Coldplay were so sincere that we were deeply moved by them,” SUGA gushes. In the world of top-level achievers, learning often occurs through interacting with other people, noticing their personalities or attitudes, rather than hands-on learning of new technical skills. I ask SUGA if he got any insights or tips from the veterans. With a laugh, he says, “We did a lot of melody dubbing while recording the rap sections, and their reactions were fantastic. You could feel it in the recording booth. When having a vocal directing session, I tend to be fairly straight-faced, without showing my reactions, as if I were missing half my soul. But it made me think that taking Coldplay’s approach might be a better way to bring out an artist’s potential.”

What has SUGA, who seems to have done it all, gained and lost in the past eight years? “I think I’m happier now,” he confides. “I’ve realized that happiness doesn’t require much, and it can be quite simple. I used to think material things would give me happiness, and I worked hard to achieve them. But when I succeeded, I wasn’t so sure anymore. I don’t have many earthly desires anyway,” he says with a laugh. “Perhaps it’s because I now know that material things no longer give me great satisfaction. So now, I try to find happiness in simple things, such as getting up early in the morning and having decaf coffee. I’m glad I’ve finally got to experience this kind of joy. What I lost would be being ordinary. Your ordinary is my extraordinary, right? But I think time will solve this issue.” I am not sure why exactly, but I am pleased to hear this.

I ask what his next move will be now that he has learned the value of being ordinary. I am half expecting him to say that he will go on to become a full-fledged producer, but he gives an answer that is both unexpected and obvious: “I’ll always be a member of BTS. People have suggested I should become a full-time producer, but I don’t think I will. I’m not responsible enough to take responsibility for anyone. I like being part of BTS.”

SUGA adds that this is the longest he has been in Korea since his debut, and that he is enjoying the perks of a daily routine rather than the excitement of globe-trotting. When the time comes to say goodbye to Yoongi Min, I ask something I have been holding back. “A Grammy?” he replies. “I have both a humble and a confident reply. Which one would you like? I honestly don’t expect we’ll win, but I think we will!” Yes, “Minstradamus” has never been wrong.

#ultkpopnetwork #idolsincedits #suga #min yoongi #yoongi #bangtan #bts #mg. vogue kor21 #i. interviews

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darkacademicfrom2021 · 3 years

Text

Away. So, so far away.

<<Previous part Masterlist Next part>>

Warnings: fuckin' angst, arguing, alcohol.

Word count: 3,3K

“This is just where I draw the line, you know?”, you said to Bucky over your fifth drink. He was still sipping from that goddamn bottle of beer, as if one more drink would make him talk more. You appreciated his silence, but sometimes he was just unnecessarily quiet. You needed a friend to bitch about your in-laws and he kept staring, and staring, and —fucking staring like a mannequin. If he wouldn’t stare so much, you would even say he was shy. “I can’t believe they actually will reject me over not being a good companion for the King because I wouldn’t carry his child. Do you understand how obscenely sexist and, just… plain gross, that is?”.

“He is a prince, after all”.

“They just don’t like me. They raised Loki making him think he’ll be King, then they stripped it away, and now they did just the same and blame it on a stupid reason like I wouldn’t want to have kids. It’s idiotic, right? Besides, I’ll live much less than him. He could just be with me a while, then I die and then he gets someone else who would want his kids. It’s not that hard”.

“Damn”, he muttered. “You do have a lot to say about them, don’t you?”.

“You’re supposed to be my friend here”.

“I thought Tony Stark played that role for you”, he chuckled. “He’s all about playing roles, isn’t he? The hero, the playboy, the genius… I wonder what of them all he really is”.

“Oh, so you do have opinions”.

“Fuck you”.

“No thanks, I don’t like me that much”.

He laughed loudly. In comparison to every laugh and chuckle you’ve managed to pull out of him so far, this one was the loudest. You laughed with him. He had a very contagious smile.

“A kid is… too much. When you’re fucked up, you fuck up the kid too. When you don’t want one and have one anyway, the kid senses it. They’re sponges, you know?”, he said, asking the bartender for another round with a hand gesture.

“To be friends with Steve ‘Language’ Rogers, you curse a lot”, you chuckled, and he downed the drink in a few gulps, trying to catch up with your drunken state. “But yes, exactly. It’s not only that I think I’m fucked up, because that’s not the only thing that would stop me. I would have kids and work through not being a shit parent, if I wanted to”.

“But you don’t want to. That’s the point”.

“Yeah. And I’m not sure Loki doesn’t want one either. He joins kids that play in the park and lets them toy with his many different animal forms. He loves playing with babies, most of all. He is an innate dad, and I’m… not. And I feel like I’m depriving him of too much. The throne, the kids… He… he deserves better”, your eyes started watering, and Bucky frowned, awkwardly placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Hey… sometimes things just aren’t meant to be. It’s not that you’re a bad partner. You’re great, for what we all see”, he tried to help you feel better. “It’s just that maybe you’re not meant to be with him. Maybe you need someone who wants the same things that you want”.

“I don’t want anyone other than Loki”, you assured him. He nodded, his eyes still fixed on you as if taking them off would lose your interest. “I’m the problem, I’ll always be”.

“No, you are not”, said the knowingly deep voice that pulled you off your insecurities and brought immediate light to your eyes.

“My Loki!”, you greeted him, cheeks hotter and your hair—so sticky, was it always this sticky?

“My love”, he smiled fondly.

“My fucking God”, Bucky rolled his eyes. Loki didn’t pay any mind to him.

“Come on, little darling. Let’s get you some rest”, he said, placing a hand in the nape of your neck, caressing your skin softly. You got up, and just then realized how drunk you were. All the blood from your body went straight to your head, and grabbed him to not fall down. “How much did they drink?”, he asked Bucky.

Bucky raised his shoulders and pressed his lips in a line.

“A bunch”.

Loki sighed and thanked him for keeping you safe. You walked together from the bar to the parking lot. The lights of the city brimmed over the wet pavement —it had just rained. Shame you were so focused on getting drunk, you would’ve loved to stay under the fat drops.

“How long have you been listening?”, you asked as he clicked your seatbelt on. He sighed and curved his lips in a smile you knew he only used when he lied.

“Not more than the last few words”.

He had obviously listened to it all.

“I’m sorry I keep bitching about it. You really do deserve better”.

“Nonsense. If I wanted kids I would be with someone who wanted them”, he lied again. Was it love, this constant lie? Love sometimes was about keeping your thoughts for yourself. In this case, you weren’t so sure it was. Love wasn’t keeping him from the throne, from kids, from a future he wanted to have. “The only thing I want…”, he started, knowing you would finish the answer.

“...is me, right”, you chuckled. “Can I drive?”.

“Definitely not”.

“Yeah, probably for the best”.

You chuckled, your cheeks reddening at everything and anything. You felt your whole body warm, and wanted more than anything for Loki to place one of his long hands on your thigh —that hot thing he did where he drove with one hand, eyes on the road and half a smirk to your side. Maybe you’ve had too much to drink.

“The thing is, Loki”, you kept talking and he sighed. He didn’t want to listen to you like this. He knew you’d say things you didn’t want him to hear. You never were the kind of drunk that slurred on their words and couldn’t walk straight. You just lacked filters. And you had so, so many filters when sober, that Loki felt like an invasion to listen to you like this. “I know you enough, and I’m afraid you’ll…”.

“Look, love”, he interrupted you, pointing somewhere through the windshield. “That’s your favourite iced yogurt shop, is it not? I’ll get you some, you just wait here in the car, alright?”.

You smiled, looking down to your feet. He got out of the car and in a matter of minutes came back with a package. He drove in silence back home and you didn’t say anything else, understanding the motives behind the iced yogurt stop.

Love was somewhere around listening and not listening. You were too drunk to even think about it now.

You could see it in him. That lit off glitter in his eyes —he could have all of that sweet power he always longed for in the tip of his fingers and he got it stripped away. You could see the grief—no, the anger, the insomnia. Whatever his mother told him, it fucked him up for a whole week, if not more. Maybe he just learnt to hide it better after seven days.

You’d cuddle him to sleep, and when you woke up in the middle of the night because your feet were cold, or your mouth was dry, or your bed felt lonely, he wasn’t there. He left in the middle of the night to be somewhere else, and you couldn’t bring yourself to even ask.

You wandered around the apartment after the first three nights. Looking for him to find it emptier than ever. He wasn’t in any other part of the compound. Not in the common kitchen, the common room, the common anything. Not in his brother’s room, and you didn’t even have to check, but he certainly wasn’t in any other room. He wouldn’t, right?

You went back to bed with a feeling of unease. You didn’t call anyone, didn’t say anyone your lover wasn’t there, because you hoped he’d be there in the morning.

You couldn’t close your eyes until the door opened slowly and Loki sneaked his way back to bed, not realizing you were awake. You pretended to be still asleep, without a clue of his night trip to God knows where. He got undressed. He unfolded the sheets and blankets and wrapped himself around you, planting a kiss on your bare shoulder. His body was cold —so much colder than usual. Externally cold, as if he would’ve been somewhere not even his Jötun skin could keep up with. You sighed in relief, but not so much.

You needed to know if he was wounded. You pretended to turn around in your sleep and passed your hands through his bare chest, as if you were greeting him half asleep. He didn’t seem to realize you were wide awake.

No wounds. Good.

Still cold.

You couldn’t figure it out, and groaned. Loki gasped ever so slightly, and then sighed.

“Awake?”.

You opened your eyes, defeated. His eyes didn’t show guilt. They reflected an emptiness, a treasure that he seemed to have found and lost at the very same hour. Whatever kept him up at night, he went looking for it and now it was gone—and he was disappointed in himself for that. He looked disappointed.

“Where do you go when you leave?”, you whispered. You weren’t accusing him, and he knew. You wanted to know. Not demanding, just asking. If he didn’t want to tell you, you would’ve accepted it. Should you? You would. You felt powerless in these situations, now that he had given everything up for you. You shouldn’t.

He rolled off the bed and sat on his feet, looking down. Only the blue shine of the moon illuminated his features, his body, his sore muscles from all the fighting he has gotten involved into lately —missions, more and more training, verbal fights with everyone and himself included, except you—you were always his exception. Was that a good thing, now? It was. You were sure it was.

“Jötunheim”, he said. The word weighed on his tongue, and he clenched his jaw right after saying it. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I might have ruined everything”.

“What do you mean?”.

“I… I really hope nobody notices. I really hope… Heimdall keeps it to himself. I’ve been rejected, and now the war is all against me. I hope only me”, he muttered, his gaze drifting off everywhere and anywhere. “I hope only me. If I brought you too into this… oh, no”.

“What do you mean, love?”, you asked quietly, firm eye contact on him, grabbing both his arms with so little space left between you. Such a nice comparison with the arm-length grab that still resonated on his shoulders. “What happened?”.

What happened? you asked him, and he thought that’s such a pure and raw form you showed his love to him. You weren’t asking what have you done even if he left all hints that he did wrong. You wouldn’t accuse him of wronging anything or anyone unless he himself would hand you the hard evidence proving that he was wrong. Was that love? Or blindness?

No, you weren’t blind. You understood he was wronging something. You noticed every quirk of his lips and eyebrows when he lied—and you ignored it. You acknowledged every bad he ever did to anyone—and also acknowledged his apologies. You weren’t blind, you didn’t see past it. You saw so much through it, that you understood his motives. And, for you, his motives were always enough.

That, right there, was love, Loki thought.

He was exhausted. All he had to do in there, did it hiding from Heimdall’s eye. And that form of magic left him drained as ever. He was tired from the fights and the bargains, from hiding, from showing himself too much, from having to do so many things and getting none done. He laid on bed and put his head over your abdomen. You caressed a few strands of his almost frozen raven locks, wet with melted snow. His hand trembled ever so slightly.

“Let us sleep and I'll tell you in the morning, alright?”.

When you woke up that next morning, the bed was empty again. But your heart relaxed as soon as you heard the kettle boiling on the small kitchen, a knife hitting against a plate —the sound of the fruit being cut, the bread getting toasted flying over the fire of the stovetop.

You got on your feet and walked there, lingering in the way in. He was barely dressed—a black boxer, that one with the grey lines that made his ass look amazing, a cotton sweater with a lit off tone of blue that made his eyes glow. His hair in a messy low bun that hardly got the curled hairs that fell shamelessly over his face.

He moved his hand and the toasts flew to a plate, right by the fruit. He served the water carefully on the teapot and just as he left it over the countertop again, you reached for his waist and planted a kiss on the nape of his neck.

“Morning, dear”.

“Morning, sweet”.

And there it was—that silence again. It lasted all breakfast, except for the innocuous what will you do today and his voice reading the papers out loud. He didn’t say what he did in Jötunheim but he seemed to remember it vividly. That emptiness in his eyes was now filled with terror. You remember him being terrified at the mention of one name, and one name only. And you were afraid the Mad Titan had something to do with it —once again.

He closed the paper over the table and looked at you fondly. Smiled softly, and grabbed your hands, drawing small circles with his thumbs. A halo of green lights surrounded you two, and you understood he was now hiding from Heimdall, again. He took in a gulp of air and got ready.

“I went to Jötunheim to claim my throne”.

You nodded, unable to hide surprise in your expressions. With raised eyebrows, your lips parted to form a,

“Oh?”.

“I had to take the chance. I messed up”.

“Why?”.

“I got rejected”.

That didn’t seem like it. He never got rejected in these things. He got defeated. He bargained with words and threats and what not more, with all the things he knew how to bargain in these situations, sharp as a knife, sharp as only he could be. He was terrified, of what? What stopped him in place? What froze the frost giant?

“What are you scared of?”, you asked in a whisper.

“They might take something or someone away”.

Freedom. He was scared of getting locked up again. He was scared of getting you away from him. He was scared of a million other things that seemed irrelevant in the face of those two options.

“They can’t lock you up, my love, you’ve done nothing wrong”.

“It’s treason to the crown”.

“Oh”, you nodded. “How would they find out? How are you hiding it?”.

“I spared my share of threats, enough for Laufey’s predecessors to not say a word”, he said lamely, “if they were wiser than they are. They’re a sack of oafs”.

“Alright”, you said, looking out the window. “Seems like there’s not much else for you to do, other than worry”. He sighed and came back to drawing circles in the back of your hands. “Join me on a mission, take your head off these matters”.

He smiled, and kissed your knuckles.

"We'll see".

“You’re being so stubborn”, you sighed, sitting on the couch. “We’ve talked about this over, and over, and over”.

“We talked about things over and over and not even once you have been completely honest”, he said, with that composed facade of him. “Not in this, not in anything”.

“I’m the one not being honest here, now?”, you inquired, looking up at him. He was standing in front of you. He frowned.

“What does that even mean? I’m always honest with you”.

“You’re either dishonest with me or with yourself. But we both know very well that you have no intention of…”.

“Oh, Norns. Again with that”.

“You brought it up”.

“I’m listening, then. Will you finally tell me what you actually think of it? Or will you melt your desires and adjust them until they solidify around whatever you think might please me?”, he spat with sarcasm.

“What are you even complaining about with that?”.

“I want you to be true to yourself, not some… Not some…”, he gestured with his hands, and you furrowed your brows.

“Not some what?”.

“Not some idiotic worshipper of some kind. You sound like a teen with a crush, rather than an adult partner building something here”, he said, and he regretted it as soon as it left his mouth. You got up from the couch.

“That’s what you truly think of me?”, you tried to keep your voice down. Anyone could hear you from the hallway. You tried —but you weren’t very successful. “I’m ready to give everything up for you and you think of it as a desperate attempt to worship you? You really think I think of yourself as a God who casually decided to be with me?”.

“No, that’s not…”, he rolled his eyes, but you kept talking.

“We worked so well together because we knew exactly what the other wanted and tried to get there without crushing the other one. And now…”.

“Worked?”, he scoffed. “We work. We might argue some time, but we work, my love. And that’s the point. We just have to find a way out of this mess, that wouldn’t get us even deeper in this disaster”.

You looked at him, looking for any trace of a lie. He wasn’t. He was truly calm, even though he had gotten on your nerves so well. He could have the same calmness to tell you how much he loved you and to tell you you were crushing his dreams with your thumb.

“I get what you say. I really do. But, is it really important to do whatever you’re thinking of doing to solve this? Or is this just your general… power thirsty blindness guiding you through?”.

He scoffed.

“Power thirsty blindness”, he repeated, incredulous. “I thought you understood every motive behind my actions”.

“I do. But you can’t deny half of the motives are wanting to rule the realms”.

“Half of the motives are you”, he raised his voice.

“That’s not true”, you matched his tone. “You’re playing a weird limbo where you say you’re giving up every dream you’ve ever had for me, letting the guilt eat me alive, and then just… going off somewhere to still try and get what you want. That’s not a relationship-guided motive. And it’d be okay if you could just come to terms with it. And then, and only then, we’d be able to talk through it better and find a better way to make it work. But so far, you haven’t been honest at all about it”.

“Why the need of being honest if you can apparently read me like a children's book?”, he said sarcastically. “Oh, and don’t even get me started with honesty, because…”.

“Because what?”.

He took a deep breath and composed himself back again, denying with his head, eyes closed as he figured out the right words or the right actions. He sat on the couch and asked you to sit by his side with a hand gesture.

“You know what? I think we’re really, really tired. This argument is getting nowhere and we’ll just feel bad afterwards. Can we talk about this in a more civilized way after we get some rest?”.

You sighed and sat by his side, still tense.

“Yes. Alright”.

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one-boring-person · 4 years

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You Can Be My Wingman (Part Five)

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x reader

Warnings: mention of past injury.

Context: Having finally recovered, Quicksilver is allowed to fly again, where she meets her new RIO.

A/N: This fic isn't doing too well, but I'm still quite proud of it, so I'll keep uploading it👍😅💛

Masterlist

When I finally don my flying uniform again after weeks of recovery, the familiar thrill of the prospect of flying rushes through me, the excitement building up with the minutes of preparation. Alone in the changing room, I pull on the gear as quickly as possible, practically buzzing with excitement as I lace up my boots and pick up my helmet, bounding to the exit, once again relishing in the lack of pain from the scars on my body. Emerging into the blazing sun, I head over to the hanger, rolling my shoulders in anticipation as I take my seat towards the back.

I stare out at the airfield, my leg bouncing nervously as I take in the familiar sight of the jets waiting in a row for us to use, a couple of attendants preparing them for use, their conversations carrying out to me. I missed it; the hot uniform, the harsh smells and noises, even the sexist jokes I sometimes receive from the other lieutenants. Thank God I survived what I did, that I was luckier than Matthew. A wave of grief and sadness briefly dulls my joy, the memory being painful and raw even after so long.

A person taking a seat beside me snaps me from my thoughts.

"You look healthy." Maverick grins as I turn to him, his bright eyes watching me and taking in my appearance.

"Finally." I reply, rolling my eyes jokingly.

He chuckles before replying.

"I'm glad, training was getting dull without you."

"Oh, I'm sure it wasn't, you've got Goose." I point out, " And don't forget Iceman and Slider. I'm sure you had a great time with them." At the last part, I giggle as he sends a pointed expression my way.

"Very funny." He retorts, playfully swatting my arm.

We continue to talk until the others arrive, joking and laughing together as we used to, though I can feel his gaze lingers a little more than before, his smile slightly remorseful. He had already filled me in on what I missed when I was in hospital, giving me his notes to study from whilst I recovered, in return for my own account of what happened whilst I was MIA.

The seats around us fill up, pilots and RIOs talking together, shouting rude jokes at each other as they approach. Glancing around, I quickly spot a new person I don't recognise.

"Who's that?" I ask Maverick, gesturing to the shy-looking guy. Before he can reply, Goose interrupts, plonking himself to my left.

"Hey, Quicksilver! How's it going?" His cheerful tone draws my attention, his contagious smile spreading to my face. Goose (and a few others) had made the effort to come and see me in the hospital, and he'd always cheered me up, so it's nice seeing him when I'm not incapacitated.

"Hey, Goose, I'm good! How about you?"

"Not bad, not bad. All the better now you're well again!" He responds, turning to the front. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Maverick giving us an odd look, but I shake it off as a trick of the light, quickly looking up as I recognise a certain pilot standing over me.

"Quicksilver, we didn't expect you back so soon." Iceman drawls, jaw working nonstop at the gum in his mouth, "It's good to see you."

"And you, Iceman." I return, uncertainly. Before my accident, he'd always been one of my main taunters, but he's acting awfully nice now, which unnerves me slightly.

Nodding, the tall pilot wanders off to his seat beside Slider in time for the commander to inform us of our task.

As he drones on, I take the opportunity to watch the new recruit.

Sitting uncomfortably in his chair, the lithe brunette shifts around, twisting his bony hands together into knots, fiddling with the fabric of his uniform. In the sun, his eyes appear the same colour as his golden badge, though not much of them is visible from under his mop of tawny hair, the long tufts hanging into his pale face like a shield between him and the world. His body isn't particularly muscular, but he appears nimble and agile, unlike some of the other pilots present, and his manner seems curious and eager, under all the unease.

"...as our Quicksilver finds herself without an RIO, she will be partnered with Hawk, our newest RIO recruit. I'm sure you two will get along fine." At this, I turn my attention back to the commander, meeting his firm gaze quickly, before I return my eyes to "Hawk", finding his golden eyes already looking at me. I offer him a small smile in reassurance, which he unsteadily returns.

"And that is all. Don't mess up, and remember, there's no points for second place."

Getting up with the others, I walk over to Hawk, sticking out a hand for him to shake.

"I'm Quicksilver, nice to meet you."

Taking my hand, he stammers in response.

"I'm Hawk, it's good to meet you, too."

"You ready?" I ask, leading him to one of the jets, my excitement building again as I eye the sleek metal beast before me.

"I think so." He murmurs quietly.

Suddenly unsure of his attitude, I turn to face him.

"Are you sure? You sound a little nervous."

Setting his jaw, he looks me in the eye.

"It's nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"..yes."

"It doesn't sound like it. We don't have to go out if you don't feel ready." I say this with hesitation, knowing I'll hate it if he agrees.

"I'm just a bit worried about flying with a new pilot after.. " He stops, visibly distressed.

"After?" I press, anxious to get going.

He shifts in place for a second before replying.

"After the last one...freaked out during a mission. He didn't respond to any of us, he just stared at the photograph he had with him. I was so scared that day...I haven't flown since." Hawk finally confesses, looking away.

Smiling sympathetically, I pat him on the shoulder.

"You'll be fine. I won't freak out on you, I promise." When he turns back to me, I notice his small smile almost instantly.

"Ok, let's go."

Climbing in, I secure myself into the jet, hearing him do the same, slightly hesitantly at first, behind me. I pull on my helmet and fasten it tightly, wrinkling my nose at its bad smell, made so from the accident.

Swiftly, I receive permission from the radar tower to take off first, which surprises me slightly. Making my way to the runway, I ask Hawk one more time if he's ready.

"As I'll ever be." Is his muffled reply.

Lining up, I ready myself for take off, increasing the thrust on the plane gradually until we are thundering across the runway. The familiar exhilaration of flying races through my veins as we launch into the air, the immediate change in pressure making me slightly giddy for a couple of seconds before I recover, wheeling the plane around, pointing the nose upwards. I allow myself to grin as the plane breaches the cloud layer, revealing the layout of the ground below.

Seconds later, a second plane joins me, followed by a third.

"Quicksilver, Hawk, your wingmen are Iceman and Slider, and Maverick and Goose." The crackling voice from the control tower sounds in my ear, the bored controller leaving the conversation there.

"You guys ready?" Goose's cheerful voice replaces the controller, his tone laced with excitement.

"We are." I respond after checking with Hawk.

"Born ready." Iceman replies, the grin almost audible in his voice.

For a couple of minutes, we wheel and bank around as a trio, waiting for the enemy planes to appear.

"I see one!" Hawk calls suddenly, voice confident and professional, as he rolls off a direction.

"South-west, below."

Taking this in, I carefully wheel the plane around to find the enemy jet, locating it immediately.

"We'll get him." Goose calls through the radio, Maverick directing his plane into a tight climb seconds later. "Quicksilver, there's a guy to your right!" Slider barks at me as another plane pulls up beside me, gliding up over me.

"Got it!" Banking to my left, I fall into a dive, spiralling downwards quickly before pulling up abruptly, drawing a muffled grunt from Hawk.

"Bit of warning please, Quicksilver!"

"Sorry." I call back, hurriedly, continuing to keep the plane in a steep ascent until I see us overtake the enemy jet, at which point I level out and cut the speed slightly. Drawing back, I allow the plane to speed off a little, before giving chase, moving in accordance with the other jet, the g-force pulling at me, the pressure almost overbearing. Leading us into a series of tight turns and spirals, I almost don't notice the second plane drop down behind me until it's right on my tail.

"Quicksilver, we have a problem!" Hawk yells at me, panickedly.

"Radio the other two, who's got that one?!" I ask, astonished.

"Goose, Slider, where're you two at?" The young RIO shouts into the mic as I throw the jet into a steep climb, spiralling to avoid missile lock from the others.

"We've got our own problems right now!" Slider's voice is also panicked, as is Maverick's when he replies after a minute or so.

"Us too, sorry Hawk!"

"It's fine, we've got this!" I reassure Hawk, nervously, levelling off to find the other two jets giving chase. "I have an idea."

Flying in a straight line, I slow the plane, allowing the other two to catch up sufficiently.

"Are you crazy? We'll be on missile lock in seconds!" Hawk's voice is terrified as he spots the jets coming closer.

"It's fine. Hold on." I growl through gritted teeth, suddenly pulling the brake and pulling the plane around until the left wing is pointing towards the ground.

As planned, the other two jets shoot by, the pilots turning heads as they watch me through the cockpit window, surprised to see us fly past. Levelling out again, I pursue them, quickly getting missile lock on the closest, watching it fly away as I continue chasing the other.

"One down." Hawk reports to the others, voice slightly shocked, "How did you know that was going to happen?" He asks me in disbelief.

"I've tried something similar a few times, but I guess I got lucky this time." My response is quick and breathless as I concentrate on navigating the tight turns the enemy is leading me on.

A couple of minutes later, I have the jet in my sights, the missile radar trying to lock on, eventually managing to do so, the plane flying off towards the base.

"Another one down. You guys need help?" This time I radio in, bringing the plane above the clouds for a better view.

"Yes please, Quicksilver." Goose's voice crackles through. Checking the radar, I locate their plane and angle towards it, allowing the jet to pick up speed as I drop down behind the aircrafts chasing them.

"We're here, Mav."

"Good, we're gonna need help getting them off our tail."

"On it." I target the closest, flying as near as I dare to its tail, activating the missile radar, focusing it on the jet in front of me. Instantly, the plane rolls off into a dive, drawing me away from Maverick, luring me into an elaborate series of twists and turns.

"Turn left." Hawk suddenly says.

"What?"

"Do it!"

Trusting his determined tone, I bank left, jumping when he speaks again.

"Now go right." Doing as he says, I return to my original path at a different angle, with a perfect view of the dodging plane. Moments later, the pilot is forced to land, due to our missile lock.

"Another down." Hawk reports, Iceman's voice coming in seconds later.

"One down."

"Another down." Goose adds, before Maverick chimes in a couple of minutes later.

"Last one down."

"We sure there were only six?" I ask quickly, looping around to find them on my radar.

"Positive. Requesting permission to land." Slider says, voice breathless over the mic.

"Permission granted." The message comes to all of us.

Goose's relieved "Great balls of fire!" filters through the radio seconds later, drawing a laugh out of me.

Making my way back, I allow the other two to land before doing do myself, bracing for the impact.

As we return to the hangers and get out of the cockpit, I turn to Hawk almost immediately.

"Thanks for that last one, that was clever thinking." I say, smiling at the RIO.

Visibly embarrassed, he scratches the back of his head, helmet tucked under his arm.

"No problem, you pulled it off really well. That stunt before was also really clever, I didn't see how it would work at first." He admits, looking me in the eye, "My actual name is Oli, by the way. Oli Green." He offers me his hand.

"I'm (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N)." I reply, shaking his proffered hand, glad that he isn't so shy anymore.

"Hey, you guys, thanks for saving our asses back there!" Goose calls over as he and Maverick come closer, followed by Iceman and Slider.

"Yeah, that was some real fancy flying there." Maverick grins, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Thanks, guys. We tried our best." I respond, smiling at them all.

"You guys sure you haven't flown together before? Because that was amazing." Iceman's offhand compliment surprises me, a sense of pride immediately washing over me.

"I'm sure. Maybe we just work well together." Hawk chimes in, happily.

"Come on, let's get cleaned and get something to drink, we all deserve it." Slider exclaims, patting us on the back.

As we start off, I feel cheerful and glad to be back, though a look at Maverick dampens my mood.

Why is he frowning like that?

Part Six

#top gun #top gun imagine #top gun: maverick #tom cruise #goose #iceman #slider #quicksilver #hawk

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halfway-happyyy · 3 years

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Random but I was about to be an aunt. My sister in law was 3 months into her pregnancy but it had to be interrupted... As I'm grieving I wish I had Alex to talk to. This is dumb but I think I'm in dire need of softness. Being listened, being cared about/for. Idk if this is even an okay request or if you're comfortable with it, but I was wondering if you could write something? Idk, I'm sorry. Please don't feel pressured to do so. I'm also sorry to dump this on you, just needed to say it. -A🖤

Hello sweet A. I wanted to start by saying that I am truly sorry for what you’re going through right now. Such a heartbreaking situation to be in, and my heart goes out to you (and your family) so much. Please don’t ever be sorry or afraid to drop something on me- my inbox is literally always open to anyone (I may be a little slow to respond) but I see you guys, and I appreciate you all so much. I want my blog to be a safe space for anyone here, because I think it’s important. I am putting what I wrote beneath a readmore because it contains some pretty heavy subject matter. If you are uncomfortable with it at all, please let me know, and I can remove it. I am honoured that you chose me to share with, and I am around if there is anything else I can do for you. Much love, friend.

tw: miscarriage

“Close your eyes and remember this moment forever.”

Occasionally, there were fragments in life that begged to be committed to memory. She had not experienced very many of them to date, but the night that she met Alexander, he had whispered that very sentence to her and she had never forgotten it. Three and a half months ago, she had been seated adjacent to him at one of their favourite brunch haunts downtown. God, if she just closed her eyes, she could still see everything so clearly- as if it had happened yesterday and not over a hundred days ago. She could still hear the muted classical music floating in on the warm breeze from the restaurant, and the cacophonous clatter of ceramic plates and metal utensils as waiters bustled by in the background. She could still see the half empty glass of orange juice in front of his empty plate, the opaque flecks of pulp pasted to the rim of the glass. Of all her favourite views in the universe, closest to the top had to have been Alexander. And he could be doing anything, really. Whether he was seated cross-legged at the kitchen table, his blue gaze scanning the weathered pages of a coffee-stained script, or whether he was next to her at a concert, the live band loud, and the deep crinkles next to his eyes telling of his palpable happiness. It did not matter what he was doing, she was simply grateful to have someone to touch, to look at, to love. She could still feel the buzz of the phone next to her, signaling an incoming message. She had glanced down at the name on the screen and frowned to herself, running a finger over the glass and opening the text message fully. She peered down at the cellphone in her hand for what felt like hours, the words on the screen finite but still somehow otherworldly and slightly hard to believe.

“What is it, kid? Everything okay?” Alexander had asked.

She swallowed hard; a small smile pulled at the edges of her lips. “They’re uh… they’re pregnant, Alex.” She lifted her gaze to his, her unbridled happiness utterly contagious, and soon his elation matched that of her own. There had been no need to ask who the joyous news belonged to; her partner had known the moment that she uttered it, but even he could not know how her heart skipped a beat at the thought of the role she was about to play in a little one’s life.

“You’re going to be an Auntie…” Alexander had murmured, his voice breathless with joy. He held her to him that evening, as she spoke at length of the plans she envisioned for her future niece or nephew. She had drifted to sleep hours later with her much smaller hand entwined with his own, and to his soft, whispered voice saying,

“Close your eyes and remember this moment forever.”

And then one evening about a week ago, while she was at a private function with Alexander, she received a series of phone calls. She had managed to miss the first two, the collective chatter from the people around her had helped to drown the sound of her ringer out completely, and she only noticed the missed calls when she excused herself to use the washroom. The third call came in while she was fixing her dress, and she answered on the second ring. “Hello?” Something unbearably painful lingered in the silence. She pressed a finger over her ear to hear better. “Hello?” She asked again and heard only muffled sobbing in response. “Please try to calm down, I can’t understand you...” She implored the person on the other end of the line. Finally, a single sentence was uttered over the crackle of the phone wire, and her phone fell from her slipping grasp, landing in the sink below her with a resounding clank. Exiting the safety of the washroom, she stumbled back out into the heavily crowded room; her gaze was blurry with saltwater as she searched desperately for Alexander in the mass of bodies. She found his imposing figure at the bar, awaiting a drink, and tugged on his cuff-linked sleeve wordlessly.

“Ah, there you are kid. I was just about to send-” His voice faltered as he took note of her stoic figure. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

She swallowed hard and shook her head. Tears were moments away from breaking free of their dam and cascading down her face without pause. “We need to leave, Alex.”

His blue eyes widened in worry. “What is going on?”

She shook her head again. “We have to leave. Now. Please.” Her voice was pleading, and instead of waiting for a response from him, she turned on a heel and made for the exit. Once outside, she hugged her arms tight to her frame and slid down the side of the brick wall, resting her forehead against her knees. She tried to take deep, measured breaths to keep from hyperventilating and shivered only slightly in the balmy, mid-October air. Alexander joined her moments later, both of their coats slung over his forearm, a look of extreme concern etched across his features.

Crouching down in front of her, he placed a warm hand over her bare shoulder. “Will you tell me what’s going on?” She had been about to say something when a car horn blared in the distance and their taxicab pulled up to the curb before them. “Come, love. Let’s get you home.” He held her to him as she cried nearly all the way home, his warmth like a weighted blanket around her. “What happened, kid?” He whispered when there was a momentary intermission in her tears.

“She lost the baby.”

Those words hung suspended in the air above them like a dark raincloud. She had weathered storms before- but never anything remotely close to this magnitude. “Oh, my sweet girl…” Alexander held her tighter to him as he pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head. “I am so sorry.” She stayed like that for the remainder of the ride home, her head tucked firmly beneath his chin, tears flowing freely down her now-raw cheeks. When the vehicle glided to a halt in front of their home fifteen minutes later, Alexander handed over a wad of cash and told the driver to keep the change. If she had to think back on it now, the time between when she exited the vehicle, entered the house, and made her way to the safety of her bedroom, was totally blank. It could not have taken more than ten minutes but try as she might, those ten minutes had dissipated for good with no hope of ever recovering them. “Let me help you…” Alexander had murmured when he joined her moments later in their room. She stood motionless in front of their expansive mirror, her eyes bloodshot and exhausted. He stood behind her and reached with warm fingers for the zipper at the base of her neck. He made quick work of undressing her and watched the expensive material pool at the bottom of her feet. Wordlessly, he unclasped her bra and hung it over the back of the chair adjacent to them. “One of mine?” He whispered.

She nodded her head. “Please.”

Alexander turned and made for the walk-in closet, to his clothes that were hung to the left of where hers were. He felt around for the familiar material of one of his worn t-shirts and produced it from the middle of the rack, returning to where she was still stood. “Arms up,” He whispered, and watched as she did as she was told wordlessly. He fitted the t-shirt down over her body, watched it settle just above the top of her knee. He closed the distance between them and wrapped his warm arms around her waist, his chin resting softly in the crook of her shoulder. Their eyes met in the mirror and he asked her, “Would you like to talk about it?”

Her gaze fell from his and she tugged her bottom lip between her teeth, the familiar prickle of tears stabbed threateningly behind her eyes. “Not tonight.” She was not yet sure if it was something she ever wanted to talk about- it was a grief so intense in measure that she felt she lacked the proper words to describe it. To have something so tangible ripped from your grasp without warning… she could hardly bear it. “I want to lay down.” She pulled away from his embrace to stumble over to the bed. It had yet to have been made from that morning still, but she hardly cared. She climbed into it wordlessly and pulled the weighted blanket up over her body, hoping that sleep would come for her soon. She felt his side of the bed dip under his weight a few moments later, heard the rustle of the blanket as it was pulled back to allow him to slide in.

“May I hold you?” He asked, quietly.

She swallowed hard; her throat had been scratchy from the onslaught of tears. “Yeah.”

He shimmied up behind her and folded his long legs up behind her own, and together they laid like that for what seemed like hours. When she continued to stir against him, he whispered to her a folktale in his native tongue- something he had been in the habit of doing whenever she had had a rough time getting to sleep in the past. It worked. She had been able to drift into a fitful slumber, but 6:45 am came early, and with that consciousness came a tidal wave of despair and she did not have the energy to fight. She cried until she could no longer breathe through her nose, and resorted instead to taking deep, gulping breaths. She closed her eyes and tried to will herself to get a proper breath in, as Alexander stirred behind her. “Woah, woah… it’s okay, kid.” His voice was raspy and bore the heavy weight of recent sleep. “Come here, you.” He whispered and reached for her, scooping her up into his arms and falling back to rest against the solid oak headboard.

“It hurts, Alex…” Her fragile voice teetered precariously on the edge of breaking.

He held her head to his chest as he cradled her in his arms and rocked her back and forth in a slow, steady motion. “Shh, I know, baby. I know it hurts,” He kissed the top of her head tenderly. “You just feel everything you need to feel, hm? I’ll be right here with you.” He caressed a warm palm to the apple of her cheek and swiped stray tears away with the pad of his thumb. “I’ll always be right here.” He held her like that until morning dawned, and an October sun had begun to pour in through the crack in the linen curtains, shining beams of light over pieces of her disheveled hair. Alexander rubbed reassuringly circles into the soft skin of her arm and placed a series of feather-light kisses over her neck and shoulder. “I won’t let you bear the weight of this alone, my love,” He let the silence collect between them before he cleared his throat. “And I won’t force you to talk about anything you don’t want to, but I need you to know that you are not in this alone.”

“Close your eyes and remember this moment forever.”

And she would. She figured that she would remember the precise feeling of the pain for the rest of her life; how it felt so much like literal heartbreak, that she was scared she would succumb to it at any moment. But she would also remember the immense amount of love that she felt for Alexander; for the immense amount of love that he poured into her, and how grateful she was just to have him around in some of the darkest moments of her life.

#tw: miscarriage #asks #alex sstuff

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sedge-and-sanctuary · 3 years

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Sanctuary Pack Stories: The Herbalist [Part Four]

[The last part of this story!Eight and Dace finally find the expert herbalist they’ve been looking for, and ask him to help cure the illness that’s been ravaging The Sanctuary Pack]

In the cramped, low space of the den, the bear's bulk is only magnified; Dace is glad he went down first. She's not sure they could have squeezed past him to get out again, if he were sitting by the exit.

It’s a strange place; the roof a tangle of gnarled roots, many hung with drying plants, and the air is thick with the smell of them. Heady, almost overpowering. Strange piles of-- things, lay up against the walls; the skins of dead animals, bones, feathers, pinecones, seashells. Dace tries not to look too closely.

The Bear, of course, notices nothing unusual about his own den, and trundles his way straight back to start scraping at his herbs without another word.

Eight peers around his shoulder as best she can without getting any closer, and Dace watches her with a kind of helpless fondness. Ever the herbalist.

The bear maybe senses Eight's curiosity; he turns and says- through a mouthful of leaves- "Keeps me awake, right? Hibernating time, I'd go right to sleep otherwise! I'll send you home with a clipping, you’ll propagate the stuff yourself. Yes, that’ll be nice.”

The bear doesn't seem to need a reply. He turns back to his work, humming a little; a deep, resonant sound, in the immense barrel of his chest.

Eight gives Dace a sideways look, ears twitching in amusement, and Dace feels her tail tap, once, involuntary.

It's easier to be entertained by the bear here, with his back turned. If anything happens, the low ceiling will hamper the bear more than them, and they're closer to the exit than he is. Dace is pretty sure she could get both Eight and herself out before he'd catch them. And on flat ground like the prairie there's no question they could outrun him, once they were free of the den. Even tired, a wolf can outdistance a bear.

So she lets herself relax, a little, and enjoy the warmth of the den-- with all three of them packed in, their body heat makes it practically cozy, and it's good to rest for a second, after their long march.

At last, the bear turns, and Dace ducks her head again, submissively. Eight follows her lead.

"Well, none of that," the bear says. "No time to waste. Which one of you is the healer?"

A brief pause. And then--

"I am." Eight's voice comes out soft.

The bear nods his great, broad head, and reaches forward to sniff her.

Eight flinches back a little, and Dace half-rises, heart hammering-- although what she could actually do if the bear chose to attack Eight directly, she has no idea. Distract him? Buy time for her to get away? Her instincts pay no attention to the impossibility of fighting-- her blood goes hot, and saliva floods her mouth to wet down her teeth.

But the bear only pulls back after a moment, nodding to himself. "Yes, you smell like it indeed! Carrionflower, I think? Yes.” He doesn’t pause long enough for Eight to answer. ”Well, and what's wrong then?"

Eight hesitates-- but only for a second. "We're-- not quite sure? Sir. I've never seen- and my mentor never taught me about it, either- so I don't know what it is."

The bear snorts; a waft of hot breath, smelling of herbs and meat. "Well, are you a healer or aren't you? Haven't you tried anything?"

Eight straightens. "Yes, of course!" She sounds almost indignant. "Goldenseal and Kava for their coughing, and it helps a little, but they don't get better. Bed rest, food, water, and I dose them with pineapple leaf when I can get it, too, which is rarely.”

She rattles off the list with growing confidence, voice firm and clear, and Dace has to stop her tail from wagging. When did you get so rotting smart?

The bear nods. "Good, Good. A cough then? Other symptoms?"

"Hardened pawpads and nose, fatigue, fever, loss of appetite, and then they sort of-- waste away." Her voice only wavers on the last point, and Dace can't blame her.

Dane lost, Seven sick, and who knew who else, since they'd left?

"Yes." The bear has gone very serious, sitting back and frowning deeply. "And it's contagious?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Distemper, I think. Nasty, but it's treatable." The bear pauses for a long moment, his deep, whistling breaths the only sound.

Eight looks at Dace, uncertain, and Dace nods at her. Well done, she wants to add, but holds her tongue.

The bear speaks, at last, picking up as if he hadn't gone silent at all. "And do you know to craft medicines, or just give the raw plant?"

"Both, depending on the need." Eight pauses. "Is that-- alright? Should I not--"

"No, no, that's all well." The bear waves a paw in dismissal, and Dace has to stop herself from backing away-- even an incidental swipe from those massive claws could kill a wolf, or at least maim one. "This one, you will have to craft-- stew it in water, equal parts Mullein and Goldenseal, half as much Guaiacum."

"We have no Guaiacum."

"Hm. I will send you with some. I don't suppose you live anywhere tropical?"

"No, we’re-- no. Up in the mountains."

The bear huffs. "Well, you won't be able to grow more, then, and a shame, because it is very tasty on venison." He shrugs. "Well, you know where to find me-- and the birds are sometimes good for it, if you ask them before they migrate. I don't suppose you speak with birds very much?"

Eight looks at Dace, lost.

"We eat them, mostly, sir." Dace says. "So they avoid us."

But it's an idea. Dace wonders if they couldn't leave some seed out, in the spring, and make a truce-- the migratory birds surely have a better sense of the land then they do, and they could bring all sorts of things back, and-- Dace cuts the thought off, frowning.

Of course, she won't be with the pack, by spring. A brief pain in her chest, something like a phantom limb-- she hasn’t managed to shake the instinct, all these long months as a loner, to think first of the pack.

The bear shrugs. “Well enough, well enough. A thought for later, then. I will get your bundles, never fear."

And he turns from them, without another word, and sets to his herbs.

After a moment Eight pads up next to him to watch, and the bear sidles over to make space, giving instructions in his low, rumbling voice.

Dace watches them- watches Eight, truthfully. She is very confident at her work, asking questions Dace wouldn't even think of, let alone know the answer to.

With no one looking at her, Dace lets herself feel- just for a second- that horrible, looming grief that's been biting at her heels all this long journey, like a wolf after a wounded buck, harrying.

It might be the last time she sees Eight at her work.

Dace has a brief, bright flash of memory-- Eight gangly with adolescence, trotting after Saturn to go foraging in the bright, warm sun of early autumn. The smell of herbs on her fur when she returned, bursting with new knowledge. Talking into the night about their training until the other adolescents got up to tell them off, for keeping everyone awake.

Dace's head droops. She should try and enjoy the time she has left, she knows. But their imminent parting looms, and just for now- just for a second- she lets herself mope.

When Eight turns back with her mouth full of hides- the precious herbs bundled safely within- Dace has straightened up again, and can speak without her voice going all gloomy. "Ready to go?"

"Yesh," Eight says, muffled by the bundle, and drops it, ears flattening back, embarrassed. Dace's chest gives a helpless squeeze.

"Yes," Eight says, more clearly, and turns to the bear. "Thank you very much!"

"Yes," the bear says, and yawns enormously, teeth flashing. "Glad to help. I will take a nap, now."

And he turns without another word, curling up to sleep.

Eight looks at him, for a second, and then shrugs at Dace. Dace shakes her head. No explaining bears, really. She crouches to pick up the bundle.

"Oh-- thanks!" Eight steps back to let her take it. "We can take turns?"

Dace nods, grateful for the excuse not to talk. She follows after Eight, lost in thought.

#wolvden #the sanctuary pack #winter three #year three #There's like some follow up stuff coming but its a diff story IG #IDK i just like writing about these two! they're fun #Dace Angst is always on my mind... pull it together man #the herbalist

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cheeky-kookie · 4 years

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The Process of Grief | J.H.S.

Hoseok/Reader | Angst, Fluff | Hoseok x Reader

Word Count: 4.7K

Summary: When you lose someone, some say you go through five stages of grief. Though the stages don’t always go in order, everyone hopes to someday reach the final one, acceptance.

Warnings: | Major Character Death | Mention of Suicide | Destructive Thinking |

A/N: Honestly, I apologize in advance for the tears you might shed in this fic. I just wanted to write something that touched on a heavy subject of losing a loved one. There is a ton of things I thought about while writing this and if you had any questions about why I chose to do things or my artistic choices, please feel free to send me an ask!

Denial

The car’s engine roared to life breaking the silence of the early morning. The sun had just begun to rise, casting a glow on the horizon waking the birds. Normally, this would have been a beautiful experience, but your heart was racing and tears stung your eyes.

You drove absentmindedly and in complete silence, the hum of the running car being the only sound. Everything passed in blurs around you as your mind kept replaying the words of the phone call. Your grip on the steering wheel almost too tight as you fought back the urge to sob.

It only took maybe fifteen minutes to drive to his house, but you sped there making it within ten. Your eyes landed on the vehicles scattered vicariously through the street, light flashing and casting a reddish hue upon the houses.

Opening your door, you got out of your car. You didn’t care that you still wore your pajamas or that your hair probably was sticking up every which way. You were concerned with what was in front of you; your worst fears playing out not in your head but in front of you.

You wandered closer, everything so silent. Neighbors stood out on their porches, curious, but not enough to venture further. You saw uniforms securing the area, entering and exiting the familiar house at the center of the action. That’s when your eyes found familiar faces and your feet steered you there.

Upon seeing you approach, they welcomed you with a comforting hug. Their eyes stained with tears that you seemed not to be able to produce quite yet. They looked as broken as you felt. His mom held you close to her as if clinging for some sort of support to hold her up. His dad held his sister who was hiding her face in his chest.

All of this seemed to be like some bad dream. You felt like you would wake up any second and everything would be just fine. That if you called him when your eyes opened, he would answer with his usual cheery voice, and you would hear his recognizable laugh. You closed your eyes, willing it to be that way; hoping maybe it would just be a nightmare.

When you heard the sob of the women next to you, you opened your eyes. They fell on a stretcher being wheeled out of the house by two men. On it, was a black bag zipped completely closed.

You felt your world shift. It felt like the stretcher moved in slow motion down the walkway as your eyes watched it. The cries of the woman next to you being drowned out as your mind tried to shield you from the raw emotion that bubbled at the surface.

You shook your head, shaking tears free. You refused to believe that it was him. He wouldn’t have thought of doing something like that. He wouldn’t have done that to himself. It wasn’t him being dragged out on the stretcher. It was some random person. You just talked to him yesterday. There was no way.

You told yourself that and you would have believed it, but the way his family was falling apart next to you and the way the two men hoisted the stretcher into the vehicle with less care than usual told you everything you needed to know. He was gone.

Your eyes watched him, the way he smiled and laughed. It was the kind of smile that reached into his eyes and a laugh that infected his whole body. It wasn’t much you assumed, but he found whatever it was hilarious.

He had been that way since the two of you were nothing but children running the streets. He had always been so carefree, filling even the most boring situations with light. It was the way he could see the best in any situation and how he was always able to find the best words to say.

Even know amongst the roaring party, he had the obscure talent of having all eyes on him. It wasn’t that he asked for it, people were just drawn to him and the warmth he emitted. You weren’t surprised to find that a group had formed around him on the couch he had been sitting on, all obviously enthralled with whatever story he had been telling them.

Weaving your way through the crowd, you made your way toward him. Once closer, you saw his attention leave from whoever had his attention as the fell on you. Your heart race as his eyes lit up even more, which seemed impossible, as he waved you over to the open spot he had next to him.

“Ah, there you are!” He announced when you made it into earshot.

Sitting down next to him, he instinctively brought his arms around you pulling you closer to him. Even when he was engrossed with others, he always made you feel slightly more important than the conversation at hand. Whether it be how he always had to have a hand on you or the soft glances he showed you; it was the little things.

He leaned closer to talk into your ear, “I was starting to worry.”

“Hobi, I was only a few minutes. There was a line for the bathroom.” You said back, his head turned so the sound could reach his ears over the loudness of the party.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to worry,” He mumbled back, barely audible over the music and the yells of beer pong.

Within minutes of your return, he was able to dive back into the conversation. And you continued to watch as his whole body lifted up and down when he got excited and the way he slapped his leg when he found something just too amusing. And you smiled, because this was just how you loved seeing him; happy.

Anger

It wasn’t fair.

You were told that life wasn’t fair ever since you were a small child. You knew that to be a fact and you understood it. You understood that when kids would make fun of you in grade school or when you lost that hula hoop competition to that shady girl you didn’t like when you were six. You understood when you lost your first job because of a complaint from a rude customer or when you got denied from 3 of the 5 major colleges you wanted to attend after community college.

Nothing in life was fair, but as you were hanging up pictures of him on the poster boards at the funeral home you had decided that this was beyond not fair.

Every picture, he was smiling that contagious smile that made anyone with him want to do the same. Photos of him with friends, family, and you scattered around. His life spread out on paper for everyone to see. Looking at them, no one would have guessed he would have done what he had.

You never guessed.

Frustrated, you ran your hand through your hair and set the photos you had in your hand down. Tears brimming your eyes as you stormed out of the room and through the double doors that led outside. You paced, trying to calm yourself down but the more you did, the more upset you got.

The doors opened again, and you stopped only briefly to see who it was. Not caring to give him more than a seconds glance, you started to walk again to try to calm yourself. Jimin had followed you out. He was one of the many friends you both share and one of the few who had offered to help set up the services.

He perched himself against the wall, eyes following you as you paced in front of the building. You were distraught and he knew better than to try and talk to you before you calmed yourself down.

You whirled around looking at him, “This is so stupid.”

“Care to explain?” Jimin responded head cocking to the side in curiosity. Part of you felt like you shouldn’t have to explain. He knew the same man you did.

“It’s just,” You pause as you tried to find the right words and a way to keep your voice stable, “He had everything to live for. He had the job of his dreams. He finally bought a house. He had all the friends he could ask for. Yet, here we are.”

“Just because you have everything doesn’t mean you’re happy.” He said locking eyes, voice somber and detached. You knew he wanted you to absorb the words, words you already knew but were too selfish to listen to.

Blaming him was selfish.

Your tears welled in your eyes, “I’m just so mad at myself. I didn’t see it coming. I should have. He spoke to me the day before and I couldn’t even tell something was wrong. How did I not see this coming Minie?”

The tears fell from your eyes as you stood there. Your composure gone in the matter of seconds. Jimin sighed, holding in his own set of tears as he watched you break in front of him. He walked over to you and pulled you into his arms. You were glad because it felt like your legs would give up on you at any moment.

“It just hurts. It hurts so damn much.”

Jimin hummed, his head buried in your hair as you sobbed into his chest, “I know.”

You sat on your couch, hands typing away on your laptop as you hurried to complete your assignment before the due time the next morning. So engrossed in your work, you barely heard the door to your apartment open. It was more of background noise to the words that were flowing onto the paper.

It explained why you were surprised when a figured jumped over the back of the couch and landed onto the unoccupied end of the couch. Placing your hand on your chest to soothe your beating heart, you looked up from your computer to see Hoseok laughing at your demise.

“That wasn’t funny,” You groaned, kicking him with one of your feet. Despite your protests, he continued to laugh. You weren’t too mad. It was a sound you liked to hear.

After he calmed his laughter, he pulled both of your legs toward him and placed them over his, causing you to slide down slightly in your spot. Readjusting to the new situation, you fixed the position of your laptop as he placed his arms across your legs. One hand found comfort in tailing the bottom half of your leg absentmindedly as you clicked away at your computer.

“So, I got a call today,” He brought up, trailing off just long enough for you to look up from your work and listen to what he had to say, “They offered me the job.”

Your eyes widened as a huge smile crossed your face, “Are you serious? Hobi, you’ve been pining after that job for months. This is big.”

“Well yeah, so naturally, you had to be the first person I told.” He remarked, which made you smile even wider. You closed your laptop and put it on the table before swinging your legs off of him, “What could you possibly be doing?”

“I’m obviously getting dressed so we can go celebrate,” You announced.

He laughed, but it wasn’t one of his loud ones everyone got to see. This one was more of a fond chuckle you’ve only really heard when he was with you. He pulled himself off the couch and closed in the open space between you two. Arms weaved their way around your waist, pulling you even closer to him as his lips pulled into a small smile. His eyes locked on yours.

“I think I’d prefer to celebrate here with you,” He hummed, looking you over.

“That sounds nice,” You replied, following the sway he had begun.

He chuckled yet again as he took a step back, “Then finish your assignment. I’d feel guilty if I was the reason you failed your class.”

Groaning, knowing he was right, you threw yourself down on the couch to finish your paper.

Bargaining

The maybes plagued your thoughts more than you would had liked. You knew dwelling on what could have been was not good for your mental state as it already was fragile. Everything you did reminded you of him and the fact he was missing from your life.

So, you reached out hoping someone would be willing to listen to your thoughts and your feelings. You felt like you bothered Jimin enough with the late phone calls, but there were others who were blessed to know him and to feel his loss.

There you sat waiting at the coffee shop, sipping on a brew you found you didn’t like but you spent the money. So, you decided you were finishing it. You heard the chair pull out opposite of you and you looked up from your hands to see a dimpled smile.

“Late per usual, huh Joonie?” You said, sending him a small smile.

“Can never give me a break, can you?” He joked, and you laughed. It probably didn’t seem sincere, but you were sure he wouldn’t blame you for your lack of enthusiasm.

“Never,” You responded.

You two talked for a bit and you even enjoyed the casual conversation despite where your head had been. Catching up on things you had been missing out of because of the whole ordeal. It was still hard to bring up what happened because your mind would funnel through endless outcomes that could have happened that didn’t involve the one that did.

Namjoon looked out the café window and sighed, “How have you been?”

You knew the question held more meaning that what it sounded like, and honestly, you weren’t sure how to respond. He had been such a prominent person in your life, you were lost trying to find your way without him.

“It’s hard, you know? It’s like, the what if’s keep me up at night. Like if I had spent more time with him, or maybe if I saw the signs beforehand he would still be here. Maybe if I had decided to stay with him that night instead of staying home and working on my applications he wouldn’t have felt alone, and he wouldn’t have…” You trail off, holding back the now forming tears, “I feel like I’m drowning in what could have been.”

“No amount of maybes can change what has happened. Trust me, I think that all the time. Hell, I feel like I could have done more for him,” He paused just a moment to take a sip of his coffee, “But filling your mind with could-have-beens is destructive.”

“I know,” You sighed.

The night was peaceful as you and him sat out on his balcony that hung off the second story of his newly purchased home. He had been so excited about his new big adult buy; one he had been talking about since the two of you could think about the future.

He had always had big dreams. He had dreams that you always knew he could reach even if others didn’t believe he could. It was the undoubtably confident way he just knew whatever he dreamed could and would come true. It was admirable. You thought everyone should dream with no limits.

He stood, walking toward the bars of the balcony. He leaned on it as he looked out onto his backyard. Curious, you followed mirroring the way he leaned forward against the cold metal. You peered up at him and studied his face and the way he seemed distracted.

“Do you remember when we used to go to that restaurant after school?” He asked, eyes finding yours.

“Yeah, of course,” You hummed, feeling fond memories wash over you.

“We used to scrape together all we could throughout the week just to go order that sundae. The waitress probably shouldn’t have served us, but she always did. We would sit and share it and talk about what we would be when we were older.” He said, a small smile on his face.

“You used to talk about buying a house and that really fancy car I could never remember the name of,” You laughed a little at how his talks became a reality, “I mean you don’t have the car but you’re halfway there.”

“I think I specifically telling you that I would buy a house for both of us to live in so we would never lose each other,” He chuckled, the light not seeming to meet his eyes as he thought back on their younger selves, “Obviously, younger me never expected us to be where we are now.”

“Well, we were only eleven.” You pointed out. Laughter flooded the silence of the night as the two of you laughed at the circumstances of where life had led the two of you. It died down moments later as the crickets took control of the sound of the night.

“The offer still stands,” He pointed out, turning sideways to look at you, “Once your lease is up, come live with me.”

Your heart swelled at his words and you felt the sting of tears in your eyes. He had always felt like home no matter where you were. You looked for him in a crowded room when you felt anxious and his voice calmed you when you weren’t of sound mind. The fact he wanted you within arms reach day in and day out was overwhelming in a good way.

“Ah man, don’t cry. I’m aware that I’m annoying and hard to stand but I thought it was kind of sweet.” He said, reaching his arm forward and placing a palm on your cheek. He wiped the one stray tear that had fallen out of your eye away. A soft smile on his face in the process. You leaned into his hand feeling the comfort he always brought to you.

“I can’t let you back out on your word, now can I?” You said, feeling his thumb caress your cheek soothing you even further.

Depression

Even amongst the people you loved, you didn’t feel like you should be there. Usually, you would love these get togethers Jimin threw. He had a knack of drawing out people who always just seemed a tad bit too busy to show up normally. He seemed to have pulled the trick off again, bringing all the close friends together.

You noticed Jungkook in the corner, who you hadn’t seen since the funeral, chatting to Namjoon obviously trying to catch up. He had picked up the habit of traveling, taking him away for days on end. You assumed this was how he was coping.

Jimin sat next to you on the couch in an in-depth conversation with Taehyung and his girlfriend who you’ve met only a few times prior to this. You were always surprised he found time to date with how taxing his editing job had become.

Your attention driven away from the extremely intoxicated man next to you when the front door opened, exposing two new guests. Jin and your female best friend entered. Their faces lighting up when they seen all the familiar faces around the room. You gave a weak smile at the couple. They shot you one back before joining Yoongi in the corner where the open chairs laid.

You sat there watching everyone interact and enjoy themselves, but you, you felt empty and out of place. You loved every single person in the room but in no way did it feel complete. It panged at your heart and willed your eyes to well up.

You got up from your seat, excusing yourself to the bathroom. Once there, you locked the door and stared at yourself in the mirror. You were a mess and you looked the part. Your eyes always puffy from the late-night cries and the lack of sleep. The person you saw in the mirror wasn’t you. The person in the mirror was a broken, off brand form of yourself.

Tears fell from your eyes as you sobbed to your reflection. You knew you weren’t yourself. You were closed off and emotionless, yet, so undeniably full of emotion at the same time. All you wanted was someone to comfort you and hold you but the idea of anyone trying to do that repulsed you all the same.

You had given up on blaming yourself and the what if’s. None of that changed what had happened. None of that changed what you were feeling. It just fed into the delusion. Now you were stuck with the cold hard truth; he was gone.

A knock on the door signaled another presence.

You sniffled, “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?” The voice echoed in, you deciphered as Jungkook’s.

You closed your eyes letting the rest of the tears come out. Wiping your cheeks, you tied to hide all evidence that you were indeed crying in the bathroom in the middle of a party. Especially a party where everyone was supposed to have a good time.

“Listen, if you don’t-“ You heard him began but you hurriedly opened the door which cut him off mid-sentence. You saw his eyes soften from worry to understanding as he looked in your eyes, “I didn’t mean to interrupt like that. I was just worried.”

“I’m okay,” You answered softly, avoiding eye contact.

He scratched the back of his head looking away from you as well, “Ever since what happened, I just- you didn’t answer when I- I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I know I haven’t been around, but I care.”

A lump in your throat formed as you forced yourself to stay strong. The look in his eyes not only filled with concern, but fear.

“I would never-“ You struggled to find your voice, “I know you care. Thanks for worrying Kook.”

He gave a soft smile before following you back to join the party.

It was late and the smell of the fire hugged the air, engulfing your clothes and your senses in it’s smell. The idea to camp had been Namjoon’s, but he had been backed up by Jungkook and Taehyung pretty quickly after it had been suggested.

It took a good amount of the day to set up tents and supplies. Some had more issues than others. Jimin, being klutz, had tripped over the rods causing the whole tent to fall and Taehyung to be unhappy he had to help him rebuild it again. Jin and Jungkook had teamed up, dominating the tent and being the first to mess with starting a fire. It left Namjoon with Yoongi who seemed to be the one who least wanted to be on the outing. He ended up leaving the set up all up to Joon who somehow had broke the zipper to one of the doors of his tent.

Obviously with the overwhelming amount of testosterone, anyone would have noticed this was supposed to be a men’s outing. Yet, Hobi didn’t want to go without you. He claimed it was because it wouldn’t be the same without you there, but you knew that was his way of saying he would miss you.

So, there you sat with everyone in the middle of the campsite with a roaring fire warming your body as the bond you all shared warmed your hearts.

“Did anyone want smores?” Taehyung asked, grabbing a bag of marshmallows from behind him with a slight toss, catching them in his hand with a cheeky smile.

Yoongi, who had been leaned back against one of the fallen logs you all had dragged around the fire, reached out one of his hands lazily, “Stick me.”

His demand being of his usual nature but the phrase being very out of it. Everyone found it hilarious as Jimin found one of the pokers handing it to him so he could cook over the fire. Yoongi mocked the laughs as he proceeded to do what he intended; cook a smore.

You looked over at Hoseok. His laugh echoed through the trees and it sounded just as bright as always but for the first time since you met him, it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. You wondered if he was just tired and it was taking a toll. His new job being taxing, it was the rational conclusion.

You leaned your head against his arm, cuddling close to him. You had the warmth of the fire to keep you warm, but he warmed you in ways the fire couldn’t. Noticing, he peered down at you before readjusting his arm to wrap around you pulling you even closer to him.

Acceptance

You rushed, pushing the pedal down a little more hoping the extra gas given to your own car would will the others into moving faster. You had woken up late for work and hurried getting ready. Somehow you managed to leave your place around the same time you normally did, but traffic was not on your side.

Sighing as a slower moving car merged in front of you, you slowed your cars speed. You glanced at the clock. You weren’t behind but if you kept getting cut off like that, you would be.

Frustrated, you started flipping through the channels of the radio trying to find something to fill the silence of the car and to distract you from your thoughts and worries. You were about to flip the channel again when the song registered into your still sleepy brain.

You felt the familiar sting in your eyes. The song you had stumbled upon on the radio taking you back to a fond memory.

He had insisted on coming over to your place to cook dinner even though his new house had a kitchen much more spacious than yours. He declared it was his gift to you because you had finally submitted that ten-page essay you had been working on for weeks. He had forbidden you from stepping foot in kitchen as he cooked for you.

After the dinner, you found yourself in his arms swaying as the music slowly did its own dance around the two of you. It was slow and you didn’t really know how to dance but he led you which drained all worry from your mind.

He stared into your eyes, but it was a different look than he normally gave you. This one was filled with unspoken emotion, full of intensity.

“What?” You asked, genuinely curious of the look he had been giving you.

“It’s nothing, just admiring you.” He responded, voice low as he refused to be louder than the soft playing music.

“That can’t just be it,” You replied as you kept his eyes with yours.

He took a steady breath, “I just wanted you to know you are one of the only reasons I smile.”

“You smile all the time.” You told him, eyes watching his as he took in your words. The way his eyes kept with yours and the softness they held in them made you realize there might have been truth in the words he had just told you.

“It’s different with you,” He said, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards, “I just really love you, you know that?”

His words come off deeper than usual as you could tell he was holding back whatever emotions he had been overcome with. You leaned your head down to rest on his chest as the two of you swayed to the same slow song.

“I know,” You said, you felt his lips press a gentle kiss on your head, “I love you too.”

You listened to the lyrics at the low volume you had the radio on, taking in that it was really the song. You took a deep breath, the stinging in your eyes disappearing as you slowly turned up the music. You smiled fondly, the song bringing comfort to you.

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witherins · 4 years

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・。 ◟ ⟨ 🥀 ⟩ * ── SELF PARA , 𝒑𝒊𝒑 𝒌𝒘𝒐𝒏 five days after the party .

‘ king and queen of gritty face and pretty things ’

* ── fingers tremble , struggling to hold the soft toilet paper to her eyes . sat at the edge of a toilet in a locked stall in an empty bathroom , pip cries . quietly , almost silently , most sounds unheard except her sniffling , her squeaking whimpers , her exhausted breaths . she sobs , tears spreading down her cheeks as they’re unstopped by an already damp piece of paper . she doesn’t know what hurts more , her constricting chest , or her throat . eyes are shut , unwilling to open as tears shed themselves on her skin , wiping away at the concealer she spent so much money on over the weekend . she hears the door open & she quiets , sniffling once as she stills her movements . a pair of girls walk in , laughing & giggling with their day unaware of how close pip is to giving up . she listens to them talk about their crushes , about their weekend plans at the weekend house & pip opens her eyes , her lower lip trembling as she loudly rips another few pieces of toilet paper . she pats underneath her eyes , catching her salty tears as they fall , quietly dabbling at the wetness as the girls quickly exit after making a snide comment about someone shitting in the stalls . as soon as the door shuts behind them , a quiet cry leaves her lips – sad , broken , pathetic .

pip , she’ll be injured for a while , licking her wounds as she retreats into familiar territory ( aka , an infinite möbius strip that she & all of the kwons seem to find themselves in ) . she wants to quit , there’s an inordinate amount of heavy grief weighing on her shoulders - because she’s never belonged here . she applied to shut her mom up , went to the interview because she wanted to lift a watch or two – she only attends because there’s still a small part of her that thinks maybe she can get ahead here . there’s still a small part of her that wakes up while she sleeps & gives her hope that as long as she gets a degree here , she never has to struggle again – nobody in her family needs to go to bed hungry or figure out if they need heat more or groceries more . how stupid can she be ? she’s a kwon , doomed to be cursed , fated to end up worse than where she started . but , no amount of hope can light the road anymore . the storm that is cape coral has stolen all of the light , blown out all the lanterns that used to line the road she had been trying so hard to pave for herself . her fingers have already shakily dialed home , cried to her dad in korean while he told her to just focus on school – she was there for education , not a social life . she's called faith , who tells her to pack up her stuff for the weekend – she’ll send an uber as soon as pip is ready .

oh , she hates it . the tidal waves that keep crashing down on her every time she thinks she has a grasp on her tears . it’s like she’s broken a faucet , allowing it to drip & drip & drip – & pip can’t figure out a way to fix it . she shakes – a raw , gritty form of sadness over taking her as she leans forward again , elbows on her knees as she releases her tears into her hands . she hates this school , with all of her heart & all of her being , philippa kwon , who doesn’t hate much & has never hated anybody in her entire life , hates this school . everything about this place makes her feel inferior �� like she’s nothing , the very thing she’s been trying to escape all this time . the words ring in her ear , making extra care to strike her with their electric fingers before running away with a taunting laugh . how infuriating it is , for people like this – who don’t know anything about her ; about how much she’s had to endure just to be alive – to rip open wounds pip has spent a lifetime trying to repair . take away the makeup , the money , the marvel – the rich aren’t even human . devil spawn , the furies sent by hades , angels meant for so much more than falling to the fires . demons in tired forms , they walk the earth like it’s their mission to wreak as much havoc . they remind her that she’s nothing , that at the end of the day – they’ll be successful because of the luck they were born into & most likely , she’ll fall into the same hole she’s seen six other people fall into . it doesn’t matter how much previous knowledge she has of the forest , she’ll eventually step into the metal jaws of a bear trap . she’s already watched her siblings have to be cut out , unable to recover & pip knows : it’s coming , she’ll have to cut herself out of a trap some day .

through her tears , she can see through her fingers to the marble floors . even the restrooms are worth more than everything she has & the thought makes her laugh . her throat feels abraded as her laugh comes out , scratchier , dryer than her usual lilting , contagious giggle . letting the tears run down their paths , she reaches for her bag & pulls out the phone she lifted from a passing student , dialing the number she knows by heart . the fancy phone she can’t afford is heavy in her hands as she holds it up to her ear , reminding her once again of her worthlessness . she’s lost so many times in her life she doesn’t know why loss still surprises her . a childhood lost , a normal life lost , a happy life in the middle lost & yet , when faced with it , pip still reduces to a trembling girl hiding behind her siblings legs while they face the monsters they’ll never be able to protect her from . they all tried , through their own methods to shield her from the horrors of life , but they all knew that she’d fall victim to the same monsters they faced . as the phone rings , her puffy eyes fall shut with the smallest of blinks , waiting for the voicemail greeting she knows is coming ; but , for someone who always knows what’s coming , she’s never prepared enough .

‘ hello ? ’

she hasn’t picked up in three years & as pip pulls the phone away , she’s hit with the reminder that she’s not calling from her number – or any of her family’s numbers . her eyes well up dangerously fast , the lump in her throat growing when mercy asks who it is . pip coughs , a shaky , pathetic squeak leaving her lips . her heart was never whole to begin with , but from the way it’s squeezing , from how much her entire chest hurts , it feels like mercy restored it just to reach in & rip it apart again . ‘ mercy . ’ it’s a half whisper that falls , she’s not even aware if mercy can hear her name . ‘ i’m sorry , i didn’t know you’d pick up . ’ she’s shaking again , terrified that she’ll hang up or she’ll have forgotten who pip is . her eyes squeeze , listening to the other line go silent .

‘ pip , are you okay ? ’

‘ i’m at school – cape coral . ’ she answers , voice straining against itself as she attempts to peel her eyes open . but they remain shut , because the minute she opens them , she’s afraid she’ll realize she’s dreaming . ‘ i just – i , th – , ’ there’s a million things she wants to say , a billion questions she wants to ask : ‘ how are you ? have you been okay ? vickie’s a mom , mason’s a dad . do you know ? do you care ? why’d you leave ? why’d you leave me ? ’ . all that comes out is a string of stutters & pip lowers her head , a silent , chest - wracking sob moving her body . she doesn’t know what to say except , ‘ i miss you so much . ’ the words barely come out & pip feels like a fool . & then , she hears it . people in the background , some kids asking their dad for waffles , the dad calling mercy ‘ babe , ’ & asking who it is .

‘ it’s nobody , telemarketer . ’

& that’s all that she needs to hear . pip straightens her back , a sharp breath of air pushing past her lips at her words . three years , reduced to a telemarketer . wherever she is , mercy’s moved on so far that pip is nothing but a telemarketer – she’s nobody . mercy apologizes , but pip doesn’t even acknowledge it . she’s on her feet , nervous energy stemming from her core as she starts pacing in the stall , licking her shaking lips , brows furrowing tightly as her vision gets blurry with angry tears . it’s explosive , the silence lingering on the line , except for the sounds of life in the background & pip’s shaky cries . she can’t even explain it , how painfully numb her chest feels – as if it’s about to implode in on itself . she’s breathless , the air sucked out of her lungs at how much this stings her – nothing could’ve prepared her for the earthquake following the storm .

‘ pip , please don’t call me again . ’

pip hangs up . takes the phone , wipes it clean of fingerprints & tears before dropping it into the toilet behind her . she stays in the stall , fingers lingering over tucked lips while she stands in shock . it’ll roll off , everything does . it’s her one redeeming quality , that pip kwon can shrug everything off & move on . stay on the move so nothing can catch up to her , keep running so she can’t be still enough to feel it , continue to push herself to get off the track so she doesn’t end up in the same boat . how much longer can she ? exhaustion is a byproduct of her life , but pip feels like she’s sprinted through a marathon with no breaks . she’ll surrender , white flag raised as she picks up her backpack & exits the stall . inevitable , unstoppable – no amount of hiding will rid her of fate’s plans ; it’s been decided , everything has already been chosen for her . back on track for the path set out for her – there’s no winning for pip .

the mirror greets her , pip pulling a paper towel to dry the moisture on her skin . if she knows what’s coming , what’s the point of fighting ? now , later , she’ll be sucked into the loop – it’s better if she has control this time . if her life is doomed to fail , pip would rather choose how .

#⠀⠀⠀⟨ 🌱 ⟩ 𝒑𝒊𝒑 . ┊ self disc .#the ya fanfic writer in me jumped out FWEOFHWUFHUOA cause this is long & windy #& i know nobody asked for this but you're all going to take it anyway #i call this : pip's prequel to her (s)piral

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jxneun · 4 years

Text

[one-shot] say nothing more, baby

Pairing: implied Yamato/Taichi from Digimon Adventure

Rating: pg-13, tw: Character death, Hanahaki disease

fic inspiration from the song “like i need u” by keshi.

—

laying in bed waiting for your touch

Restless, tossing and turning

in the dead of the night, ears ringing

stay with me

nauseous, dizzy

eyes growing misty

i don’t want to be alone

filled with regret

wanting to reset

you don’t need me like i need you

yellow carnations bloomed,

these unwanted feelings consumed

wish we never met

left the boy torn, dragged through the mud

petals tainted by splotches of blood

pain, that’s an option

an inevitable infection

trauma inflicted on the destined

—

Yamato Ishida was stunned.

Lost in the confines of Tokyo U Hospital, the blonde felt lost in the eerie feeling the sterile white walls gave. Takeru was by his side when he received the call from Hikari. Speechless, with his lungs threatening to collapse after running into the unfamiliar building, especially upon hearing the news from his best friend’s little sister, whose voice was hoarse on the phone and reduced to mere whispers, as if she had just mustered up the strength to speak on the phone after sobbing relentlessly, informed them that his best friend was in the hospital.

His best friend, Taichi.

His partner-in-crime aside from Gabumon, his comrade, his best friend, his inspiration.

His exuberance, a demeanor akin to no other, shined brighter than a thousand suns. His smiles and laughter imprinted in his memory, alongside the desperately thrown fists and tears, reminded him of home.

For a disease that is allegedly produced in fictional Japanese literature, a disease that is observed to have been a direct result of unrequited love. The physical manifestation of the psychological pain, exacerbated further by heartache, was akin to somatoform disorders, but the disease had limited primary research findings on it as to the origin of the disease. Perhaps, this just served as a cruel reminder that God ceased to care.

Hanahaki disease, a disease ultimately caused from prolonged and extreme pain as a direct result of grieving a lost, unreturned love; painfully beautiful, it was equally fatal, with patients dying within mere days. Going from perfectly healthy, to frail and on the verge of death, all from an unreciprocated love. .

Hikari found out, after finding Taichi collapsed in his room in the late afternoon, with blood and petals left at the scene. Next to him, was the referral from the doctor’s.

Prognosis: severe case of alleged Hanahaki disease.

Duration: onset of disease, 2 weeks with the patient remaining mostly asymptomatic. Flareup occurred on March 4.

Symptoms: Coughing, blood in sputum, dizziness, nausea, fever, mood swings

Condition of patient: requires immediate treatment as soon as possible. Dr. Narukami M.D. at Odaiba General Family Clinic referral to Tokyo U Hospital. Immediate surgery recommended within 1 week, otherwise proven fatal, may result in asphyxiation due to uncontrolled growth of yellow carnations in lungs.

It was a cruel reminder, that fate was never on their side.

They were chosen as children to be the Digidestined, thrown into the Digi World; they were merely children whose clothes were far too big for them, children whose appetites exceeded their stomach capacity, children who were burdened and pressured as result of their parents’ problems and the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Feeble attempts to return to their world, turned into a mission to save both the Digi World and their world. Achieving the impossible, such as going through worlds via portals or a digital device to fight infected Digimon served as a reminder that in their world, the impossible could very easily be feasible. Taichi was resilient, he was a natural born leader. He was an athlete, his immune system stronger than no other, his appetite overwhelmingly large as a growing boy, his demeanor and boisterous laughter so full of life.

Yet, Yamato could not help feeling shocked.

Pale, with a weary smile that masked the pain, Taichi appeared sick, decrepit, and so, exhausted. Feeble attempts to muster up greetings, and reassurances to not worry, since he felt fine, and that he had accepted the outcome. The outcome that his love had not returned his feelings, the love whose identity remained unknown to Yamato. It was too late for preventative care, Taichi had refused to come in for early checkups, and the buds had sprouted into fully grown, beautiful carnations. Carnations that were equally deadly, unfortunate, and tragic.

A mixture of resentment, bitterness, mirth and frustration bubbled in his chest. Yamato was puzzled. Who could Taichi possibly be so in love with, that his love had left him incapacitated? Who would not return their feelings for the brunette boy? Shaking his head, Yamato recollected himself, but his thoughts were interrupted by a series of coughs.

If he did not know that Hanahaki disease was not contagious, he would have thought the persistent scratch and gnawing at his throat was a sign.

The image of Taichi laying in his hospital bed was burnt into his memory, as he quickly was escorted out of the room. One of Taichi’s coughing fits had erupted, so Hikari and Takeru quickly rushed out into the hallway to call the nurse. With blood staining the corners of his mouth, and full blown flowers blooming, Yamato could never forget the image imprinted into his memory of the boy who was reminiscent of courage, ambition, and hope. The stems and leaves filled his esophagus, the sprouts depleted his already limited air supply, and petals covered by blood and bile filled the bucket next to his bed; the damage had clearly taken a toll on the boy, and fast. The nurses escorted Yamato out, reuniting him with Takeru and Hikari, who were lucky to not witness the emptiness in Taichi’s eyes, almost as if he had expected this outcome, but did not let anybody know, due to his stubbornness. Taichi, whose voice was painfully hoarse, made feeble attempts to speak to Yamato, despite his earlier coughing fits. Yet, the following words he muttered left Yamato in an intense flurry of emotions,

“Yamato, please go.”

—

Patient ID: 4242564

DOB: 05/19/19XX

Patient Name: Yagami, Taichi

Diagnosis: Hanahaki Disease

Treatment: Immediate surgery to restore respiratory functioning. Requires removal of yellow carnation flowers from lungs, which are constricting air supply.

Expected recovery: If successful, 7-8 months with rest, close monitoring from family members in case of flare ups.

The paper that Hikari was holding, despite being a thin sheet with printed letters, felt like a quick dose of reality. Hikari called her parents, giving them updates, and the address of the surgery unit. Her parents, frantic and deeply afraid, just as they were when they heard that the kids were returning to the Digital World as mere children, had a semblance of hope amidst their worries. They wanted to put their trust and faith into the medical professionals at the highly-esteemed hospital.

They had giant digital dinosaurs and birds appear in Odaiba. How far-fetched was this disease occurring in their world, really?

Yamato felt torn. Usually, the two were able to communicate non-verbally; after all, Taichi wore his heart on his sleeve. Yet, this time, he simply could not understand. He did not even know that Taichi even loved someone, to the point where he had secretly gone to the doctor's and hid the fact that he needed immediate medical attention. He endured the pain to the point that Hikari had found him cold and lifeless on the floor with the petals scattered around him; the thought of the flowers taunted him, and reminded him of his friend, whose demeanor was untypical of the brunette. The unspoken communication between them bewildered Yamato, and scared him.

Knuckles growing white, his tight grip crumpled and threatened to rip the sheet of paper. Jaw clenched, tears threatening to spill, Yamato was so tense, and furious that the world was against them, and had decided to hurt his friend, his formerly abrasive and reckless friend whose compassion and courage had saved hundreds, if not thousands of people. His friend, whose stubborn nature, was easily just as self-sacrificing and selfless, had demanded his best friend to leave the room, so that he would not have to see him in that state.

With a mirthful chuckle, Yamato wiped away at his tears, which threatened to spill at any given moment. His vision was blurry, and the noise coming from the bustling hospital was deafening. Bitterly, he thought to himself, denouncing the way that movies portrayed grief. His world of color did not come to a halt; traffic lights beamed, and the city of Tokyo was still lively as ever. His world of color, instead was muted, and it was difficult to concentrate on anything. He had dropped everything he was doing, when he received the call from Hikari. He couldn’t stop thinking about Taichi, and his bleary eyes, raw from the hours of crying in the waiting room, failed to shield him from his obstructive thoughts in facing this cruel reality. Hikari was sobbing, almost hysterical. Takeru comforted her, holding her closely, his tight embrace and face buried in her shoulders indicator enough that he was just as distraught. Taichi’s parents rushed into the emergency room, demanding to be at their eldest son’s side. Demanding answers, the duo were frustrated, as to why there were no other forms of treatment, or medication.

To this, the nurses shook their head, despite the couple’s insistence. Taichi was transferred to the intensive care unit of the Tokyo U hospital, and the nurses informed the Yagamis: Taichi, in an unconscious state, is physically unable to consent to the procedure. It was up to the Yagami family to decide whether they should proceed or not. The implications of the surgery was that Taichi would possibly never be the same afterwards, his lungs were salvageable, but his memories would be in fragments.

With such an intrusive procedure, it was difficult to tell how Taichi’s body would heal afterwards, or if he had a strong chance of surviving it. Yet at the same time, this was life-or-death. Hikari, after maintaining her composure, softly asked the questions everyone was thinking,

“Could we please see him? Will he be okay?”

This was all because of deceivingly harmless yellow carnations. His louder-than-life friend, who effortlessly ran from goal to goal and led his football team to victory, was the same person who passionately sprinted across the Digital World to save his friends; this same person looked unrecognizable, frail, and passive. All because of some flowers.

Yellow carnations, the flowers representative of rejection, bitterness, an unrequited love, are simultaneously considered the flower of friendship.

As if time went still, the low-light fluorescent fixtures of the hospital building and the vision of the Yagami family and his brother grew hazy. Yamato felt a sharp, sudden pain in his chest. Unable to hide the discomfort on his face, he excused himself as to not worry the others.

In the restroom, even with the dim lighting, the scene before him was unmistakable.

Orange petals accumulated in the sink, and he was left breathless.

After a quick google search, he realized the cluster of orange petals consisted of marigolds. Marigolds symbolized strong passion, being associated with a legendary brave and courageous lion.

At the same time, they represented cruelty, grief, and jealousy. How ironic.

Fate really was mocking him.

—

no time for nonsense

courage and friendship

a will weaning, weaker than his grip

can’t ask you nothing

grip on this fate

a fate he realized too late

drank, feeling nauseous

Scared and breathless

Oh, he could never guess

too many toxins

to the last beeps on the monitor, the angels sing

yet, what’s left is this scratchy, lingering sting

not even conscious

sheets blood-stained red

regret, from words left unsaid

say nothing more, baby

unvoiced emotions which undoubtedly dictate

the harsh decisions made at this rate

say nothing more

#j9 writes #digimon #taichi yagami #yamato ishida #tai kamiya #matt ishida #digimon adventure #oneshot #taito #yamachi #taiyama #hanahaki disease #they’re in high school so expect teen angst #tw: death #tw: character death #one-sided love

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dokuhebi · 4 years

Text

Jiraiya / cont. @peepingtoad

No. There was no difference.

That was exactly why he threw it out to tempt them, referring not only to the possibility of tethering his power as they already had done in the past, but also his will itself… because if he can’t be accepted with all his flaws by the one he loves, then he may as well, at the very least, not have to suffer any longer for it. Either by being allowed to die again, or the next best thing—by becoming a mindless servant who can fulfil whatever role they desire from him. And why not assert just how sick and tired he is? Why not let them know, in no uncertain terms, just how crazy they make him, and see exactly what guts they have to do something real about it?

But replaying those words back to himself as a tense quiet descends thickly in the space between them, where the only sound is his ragged, wet breathing, it now seems less like the assertions of his aggressively free spirit, and instead reeks more of fear. Fear of that highest tier of rejection—and not for juvenile things like dating or kissing or any of that stuff, but the idea that he might face rejection for being fully himself… including his less relaxed, less humorous and cheerful, less indestructible sides. The very sides of him that right now seem to be earning him nothing but further ire, neither his tears nor anger seeming to awaken any kind of vulnerability or understanding in return.

Keep reading

|| “...you think you know what might make me happy?” Words that cut directly to the bone, that take what the serpent had said and pierced its heart until all sentiment had been killed from it. They stare on silently, even if they feel he was turning the knife within them. That they can not argue they know him at all, if he has told them just how blind they have not only been, but are currently being. And it does leave them feeling raw and ripped open, it does make them feel that the only bond they ever truly formed in their lifetime had been a rather poor effort all the same. And it is not his intention, or at the very least, his comment is not to aim blame outwardly. Instead, after wounding them, he acts to wound himself. They would say they spot the pattern, of how quickly he puts himself in jail for things he has not truly done. But they feel themself a fool to make that analysis after being chided for knowing so little as is. And then comes his confession - a child saviour. So simple, so innocent, yet he delivers it as if it may have been the very weight holding him under water for so long. Perhaps if he had told them years ago, they would have had a better understanding, perhaps if he had, they would simply have scoffed at all his talk of destiny and fate. Maybe they still do. But one thing is certain, they can not fault him... when during his death they had run off to do the same thing. And that might just be making them feel a little eerily inclined to believe destiny for the briefest second.

Mitsuki is quick to enter their thoughts, they had created that boy to be everything they were not. They had given him the power their body was too weak to control, the lessons they had never been taught... but more importantly, they had tried their utmost to present the little moon they birthed with a sun. With some guiding light out the darkness. Because they had truly thought that no child of theirs could ever be capable of escaping the shadows, because high and mighty as they are, and whether they call it destiny or genetic predisposition, they could not shake the feeling that the apple would not fall far from the tree. Because one lesson they could not shake, was that the moment they pushed Jiraiya away, was the moment the darkness finally had the opportunity to clamp its jaws around them. And although madness had been soothing, although a blinding veil of darkness had allowed them peace, it was a form of admitted delusion to ignore the signs of being killed in that way. To lose oneself entirely to whatever force would give them relief from the world. And it was knowing this, it was knowing how the game ended the moment they tried playing alone, that had them guiding their child toward another boy. That had them encouraging one sacred rule: to stay close to the one who offered light. The gods knew the serpent wished they had. But they can not tell him this. No, they can not show him how much they regret making him think all that optimism was for naught, that it was foolish and naive and had no impact. For they can not tell him of the child just yet. Too poor an opportunity to announce the insanity of their own ploys. That they would once more tamper with nature in new ways to produce the two a son. That they would, with a heart that is just as much of a dreamer as Jiraiya’s, look to the child and whisper for him to do what the two Sannin couldn’t. They would like to show Jiraiya, that he had. For now, however, they would need to convey it a different way. They would need to find the words to express that he was wrong to think that all those years were wasted. Those were the only years the serpent could ever count themself alive. Them being too stubborn, scared and lost to see that would change nothing. “No right?” the words catch in their throat when he speaks them, no right to feel pain? Their eyes meet his without intent to be patronizing, yet a mark of a parent informing a child appears regardless, “we can not measure suffering... but if we dared to, I would wager that yours was within all rights my dear. For any tragedy upon or around you will stifle the human heart... pain is so easily transferable, is it not?” That was a lesson taught to them in parenthood, from the day they saw their child in agony, and felt a violent need to bear that pain themself than witness it. But they had not yet addressed what they felt needed addressing. That he thought all his efforts a complete waste, that he now abhors even that optimism that had in fact, carried the Sannin a great distance. A loss of words ensnares them momentarily, until he has walked the short distance back to them. Even after they had almost killed him moments ago, even after wind rattled the cottage and threatened more pain. He would get bitten a hundred times more before realizing some beasts were too feral to be a part of his domestic fantasy. Gold meets the inverted optics he now dons, and their voice is but a breath louder than a whisper. Even now, their stillness could be read as them being pacified, or as a serpent getting ready to strike, “I remember strangers dressed in red coming to my door, the eyes of pity ridden onlookers in utilitarian and windowless hallways... I remember the matrons office, the houseparents, the scattered documents I didn’t have the guts to read when my parents names littered every page. I remember thinking that everyone would be disappointed, inconvenienced, if I behaved like a child rather than a shinobi. If I admitted my feelings on the subject rather than handled it like one of our assignments. I didn’t tell you I was scared... I found I did not have to.” “Maybe it was your optimism, maybe it was that whenever the ground shook beneath me on my broken foundation, there was at least one familiar face, one constant... and I could measure myself to you. If you could fall and get back up, so could I. If you could live in a home where your mother was more absent than present, I could too. And if you could hold up not only yourself, but others... well, the least I could do was move forward on my own. And perhaps even then our goals were of similar heart. That you took to raising a saviour, where I took to trying to paint myself as one...” A light and single huff of laughter, lacking amusement but perhaps admitting to the irony of their days battling for the seat of Hokage. Then the days forging their own village with equal tenacity after denouncing the way the world was shaped. Who knew the child who dreamed of being the worlds redemption, would become a villain without any hope of being redeemed themself. And it is then that they feel the brush of his hands on their face, that the softest of touches seems to rattle them. They did not notice the feeling of dampness that had risen subtly to their own sharp eyes, and they look almost surprised when they feel the light sensation of a tear fall down their cheek. They blink it away, as if caught off guard by their feelings. As if they had done too good a job of stifling real emotions and of letting anger take precedence instead. That their heart must have been far removed from their mind, and caught them completely off guard by the sudden and single exposure of nostalgic grief. And part of them wants to blame him, that just like a yawn or smile or laugh, crying could be contagious. But they know better than to demonstrate further weakness with a cop-out lie. || “… Well. Maybe.” The words bring another huff of laughter from them, bitter amusement, but amusement more genuine than the previous time. The wind in the room has died down, the light swinging of the curtain rope and the disheveled state of paper and books is all that is left in its warning wake. And they are left, with the heartfelt promise he had just made, that maybe their little secret is not wise to withhold. That it was true madness to continue the same action in hopes of a different outcome. If they are to hide from him... if he is to hide from them... they are back where they started. “Fate... that is a very fickle thing to hold to, is it not?” they reply, a hand coming up to clasp around the back of his head. Nails have a bit of bite to them, a bit of tug. But it is not to harm him, it is to keep him locked a while longer as he is. It is the shake of his hands and the quiver in his breath, it is the unleashed vow of being theirs, only theirs. It is the unspoken promise of years ago that has finally been put in to words. They tug him down when they draw themself forward, a kiss that they hope will signify a seal on his promise. Less gentle than they had intended, more possessive than romantic. They toy with the idea in their mind, they toy with whether they should tell him, and then finally, they have their answer. “Pack your things. I have something to show you.”

#毒蛇 IMMORTAL; the curse is broken (post war)#peepingtoad #/long post #are they going to make him walk an entire journey without telling him what they're showing him?#why yes #yes they are

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aria-writes · 5 years

Text

The (he)art of Craft | e.k. x reader

Words: 2173

Boys are clueless.

I know this, but for some reason I keep forgetting.

I crossed my arms in front of myself to rest them as Elmer leaped onto his bed like a flying squirrel. "When you asked me if I wanted to 'hang out with you (and the guys)', this isn't exactly what I was envisioning."

Elmer looked over at me as he scrambled to sit up, blinking in confusion. "Why? What did you have in mind?"

In all honesty, shirtless basketball in the park.

"I don't know." I shook my head and sat on the bed beside him.

I watched Elmer boot up the server, staring at the screen with barely concealed excitement. Four users were already online.

This is not exactly my idea of a hot date. Then again, maybe it's my fault for reading into things. On the other hand, I mean really, what usually comes to mind immediately when a really cute boy asks you if you want to 'hang out'?

See, that's what I thought!

You know what, though? All things considered, it could be worse. He could've asked me to play Wii Sports Bowling with him. It's supposed to be so easy the folks in nursing homes love it, right? Well apparently ole gram-grams has more virtual athletic ability in her pinky finger than I do in my entire body.

Elmer scooted closer to me and pulled out headphones, flipping the earpieces outwards so we could share the same set.

I watched as the screen started spazzing out. "Is that..." I trailed off, pointing at the screen and not sure how to put my thoughts into words as I held my part of the headphones up to my ear.

Elmer quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah, it's usual for this section. The reason it's so glitchy is because someone spawned way too many ocelot assets."

"Hey guys, Elmer has a girl ov—" Romeo started to say, but he was cut off by somebody who was way louder.

"You can never have too many ocelots!" A distinctive, high-pitched but still decidedly male voice exclaimed through the headset.

"The queen of the felines has spoken." Elmer rolled his eyes and smiled as his avatar started jerkily walking towards a large light blue and white building that touched the sky. "This is Racetrack's cat castle—"

"A cat-stle, if you will." Racetrack interrupted.

"I will not." Albert shot back.

Racetrack cleared his throat and adopted a 'tour guide' voice. "Business hours are from 9:00pm to 5:00am, or for the low low price of three diamonds you can get an all-access pass."

"Good grief." Albert muttered under his breath.

"Killing one of my sweet, adorable, cuddly babies— I mean, very loyal subjects— results in an immediate ban for life." Racetrack continued, undeterred. "Donations of precious gemstones and fish, cooked or raw, are always appreciated."

"Yeah, good luck with that." Romeo replied with a small snort.

"I'll come tour your catstle, Race!" Crutchie said cheerily.

"Finally, some proper respect around here."

I gave Elmer the side-eye. "Why isn't it pink?"

"Pink? You think I would use pink?" Racetrack asked with an air of disdain, scoffing. "Please. Pink is a strong, masculine color, fit only for the he-est of men. My graceful feminine eyes can only bear the lightest, most delicate shades of blue, as is befitting a most proper young lady such as myself."

Elmer made eye contact with me and shrugged.

"Also, pink is Romeo's color." Racetrack mumbled with a defeated tone.

Romeo let out a triumphant laugh. "Ya snooze ya lose, loser!"

Alerts in all caps popped up on the screen as three more usernames joined.

Elmer nudged me with his shoulder to get my attention. I tried and failed not to blush. "And to our left, we have Henry's trailer park. In Minecraft, imagination is the only limit, and Henry decided to build a trailer park. Why, I have no idea."

"Because heck you, that's why!" Henry said, but there was no bite in his tone.

"Watch your ****ing language on my good Christian Minecraft server!" Crutchie yelled.

The random conversations going on between others in the background went silent.

"oh no." Crutchie said really quietly, but we could all hear it due to the aforementioned radio silence.

Jojo started muttering The Lord's Prayer to himself.

Somebody let out a very loud snort.

"Gross!" Albert shrieked. "Say it, don't spray it!"

"Kiss my butt!" Racetrack shot back.

There was some fuzzy noise, like somebody dropped their headset on the ground and they were wrestling with each other now.

Jack sighed. "Hey, if y'all are gonna hate-boink, can you please mute your channels please and thank you!"

"Shut up!" Racetrack and Albert shouted at the same time.

Jack cackled like a maniac to himself.

"Okay, you know what?" Albert asked, clearly annoyed. "Keep it up, but I'm gonna tell Katherine all about your little problem with–"

Elmer gasped and pulled his earpiece away from his head. He quickly crossed himself before returning to listening in on the conversation.

"No!" Jack protested as Albert proceeded to spill some very personal information. "You wouldn't!"

"—Don't test me." Albert finished.

"I did not need to know that." Jojo said, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Ditto." Henry murmured in agreement.

A notification popped up on the screen alerting everybody that Buttons was online and had joined the server, bringing the total up to eight. "Hey, guys! Know what?" He asked, innocently.

"That the unflappable Jack Kelly apparently has a raging butt rash." Romeo answered matter-of-factory.

Buttons seemed at a loss for words. "...Oh." he said, finally.

"I'm dealing with it, okay?" Jack asked, annoyed. "I have cream and I'm taking oatmeal baths—"

"TMI, bro." Albert interrupted.

"You started it!" Jack exclaimed, exasperatedly.

"Your mom started it!" Albert retorted. The height of maturity, that one.

"My mom is dead!"

"Oh yeah? So's mine, you ain't special!" Albert said breezily.

A chorus of 'So is mine' rang through the airspace.

"Okay, well that's depressing." Buttons commented. "Who wants to duel?"

"Ooh, pick me! I'm always a ho for dying!" Racetrack yelled enthusiastically.

"Race, are you okay?" Crutchie asked, concerned.

There was no response for a few seconds, and then I heard the sound of somebody facepalming.

"Race, you're an idiot." Albert said flatly.

"Oh, wait a second."

Elmer adjusted his grip on the headset. "What'd he do?"

Albert sighed. "He shot finger guns at the screen."

"Woooowww." Jojo said, totally done.

"You're just jealous." Race clicked his tongue.

Jojo scoffed. "Why would I be jealous of an evil leprechaun? Oh wait, no, that's Albert."

"Hey!"

I elbowed Elmer. "Are they always like this?"

Elmer nodded. "Constantly."

"Uh, guys? Anyone else's game bugging out?" Jack asked. "Oh wait never mind, I just wandered a little too close to the crazy cat lady's cottage."

Racetrack huffed. "Heck you, butt rash boy."

Jojo let out a mock offended gasp. "Such language!"

"Frick you, HoHo."

Jojo gasped again. "Frick you!"

"That's gay." Racetrack said, snickering.

"You're gay!" Jojo replied.

"So what if I am?! Gay means happy, and I'm the happiest person I know! So there!" Racetrack punctuated his sentence with a somewhat audible 'blep'.

Elmer fake-coughed and raised his voice loud enough to cover Jojo and Racetrack's 'argument'. “To our right is Mush's giant flower garden." He did a slow pan of the colorful, pixelated blooms.

I leaned forward to examine them. It was quite impressive, if only from the sheer numbers of mass collection.

"Dare you to steal one, Elmer." Romeo piped up.

Elmer shook his head vehemently. "Heck no, unlike most of you, I actually value my life."

"Lives having value?" Albert scoffed.

"In this economy?" Racetrack finished for him.

"Now we're coming up on Romeo's super tacky building." Elmer leaned back against the wall as a large, misshapen, pink, vaguely-heart-shaped structure came into view.

"Look, I had a plan originally, but math and grids are hard." Romeo explained.

Racetrack let out a derisive scoff. "Grids are literally the easiest thing, you wannabe fashion icon."

Romeo blew a raspberry.

"Your mom is literally the easiest thing." Albert commented.

I could practically hear Racetrack's smirk from here. "You know, what I'm gathering from all the 'your mom' jokes is, you just really wanna be my daddy."

Somebody started making vey exaggerated gagging noises.

"Uh, pass." Albert muttered under his breath.

"You coughing up a hairball over there or something, Jojo?" Henry asked.

Jojo ceased his gagging. "No, I'm good."

"I bet Race has rabies." Buttons quipped.

"Don't be ridiculous, Race doesn't have rabies!" Crutchie protested. "I had him tested and everything."

"Interesting." I murmured under my breath.

"This is my house!" Elmer announced with a large grin, completely oblivious. "It's one of those tiny houses!"

"That's a very pretentious way of saying 'dirt hut starter home'." Crutchie teased.

"Wow, that's so funny I forgot to laugh." Elmer shot back. "No, it's like one of those minimalist houses that used to be all the rage, but in Minecraft! See?" He gestured at the small building on the screen, eyes sparkling.

I smiled back, his energy practically contagious. "It's very cute." Just like its builder, is what I did not say to him.

"And fully functional!" Elmer opened the door and started pointing out various features. "In the floor is a crafting table and a bed, to the side we have a furnace and a double-wide chest—"

"Your mom has a double-wide chest!" Racetrack exclaimed gleefully before erupting into laughter.

Elmer snapped his mouth shut with an unamused look on his face.

"Dang you Race, I was about to say that." Albert said, almost whining.

Elmer let out a sigh and moved his avatar to the back of the house. "And here's a small vegetable garden."

"Po Tay Toes!" Albert exclaimed, immediately perking back up.

"Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew!" Jack added. The first thing he's said in a while, now that I think about it.

"You Irish people scare me." Racetrack commented.

"You're part Irish." Albert said flatly.

"Yeah, and?" Racetrack asked defensively. "I scare myself!"

"That makes two of us." Albert muttered under his breath.

I stole a glance towards Elmer, who was engrossed in harvesting his virtual vegetables. I can't say I understand how or why people invest so much time in this kind of stuff, but at least it makes him happy.

It'd be nice if I could do that.

I don't know what I'm doing, but if I don't ask then I'll spend years replaying this day over and over in my head at 2:00a.m. in the morning overanalyzing every single little detail. Here goes nothing.

I smiled teasingly and nudged Elmer with my elbow, gently. “So, do you invite all the girls out to watch you play Minecraft or am I just special?"

"Say what now?" Elmer looked over at me suddenly, blinking as if he was coming out of a trance as his eyes re-adjusted to the real world.

Uh-oh.

"This is a date?"

"This isn't a date?" We both asked in unison.

There was an awkward silence for about ten seconds, which was then broken by the sound of loud crunching over the headset.

"Henry!" About five or six voices exclaimed.

"What?" Henry asked defensively. "This is entertaining, thus, snacks are a must! Can y'all blame me?"

"Elmer," Racetrack sighed, "when you ask a girl to quote, 'hang out', unquote, that's code for a date. Just like Netflix and Chill is—"

"Stop! Don't ruin his innocence!" Buttons interrupted.

"I'm just saying, he's not gonna get very far if he doesn't know—"

Elmer pulled the headset down and placed it on the bed between us, hitting mute at the same time. "Look, this didn't go the way I planned, 'cause I was gonna ask you out for real, but then I panicked, so no wonder you've been getting mixed signals, but..."

He stared down at the floor and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "Can we just finish out today platonic and like, start fresh tomorrow? And I promise, if it's what you want, I will ask you on a real, proper date then."

I grinned and turned back to face the screen so I wasn't staring at him and making him even more uncomfortable. "Sounds good to me."

"Cool." Elmer returned the grin and did two thumbs up at me, shoulders scrunched up, then picked the headset back up and held it up to his ear.

I leaned in to unmute it and was greeted with a cacophony of all the boys arguing with each other over what exactly was happening on our end.

I hesitantly reached over to place my arm around Elmer's shoulders. "Do you mind if... is this okay?"

Elmer beamed from ear to ear and leaned into my touch. "Yeah."

"What's going on?" Romeo asked loudly, effectively putting a damper on the moment. "I need visuals!"

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gaslightwestern · 5 years

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Loss | Charlotte O’Shea | When Sins Haunt

Charlotte struggles to find the will to live.

April 1881 | 1221 words | CW: Suicidal thoughts; immense grief; self-hatred.

Silence was both a blessing and a curse. Sometimes it was a gentle stillness that soothed her weary bones and tired mind with a sense of tranquility not unlike slipping into a warm bath. Other times it buzzed softly, invisible flies hovering in the air, quieting the world enough to think without intrusion. Silence could be loud too. Today it swelled into a deafening crescendo, casting her thoughts out to sea, drowning them as she sunk deeper and deeper into its all-consuming hum. Its weight pressed down on all sides until she could hardly breathe. Not that she wanted to.

The house was packed with people. Laughing. Mingling. Reminiscing. But to Charlotte it had never been so quiet.

His voice was gone.

Black crepe, thick and oppressive, adorned every surface in the house. Honor the dead by choking out all light. All the clocks stopped; all the mirrors covered. Bounds upon bounds of flowers filled each room. Their floral perfume smothered the air, coated her mouth, and made Charlotte retch. A mausoleum for the living dead trapped inside.

The empty flask fell from her hands.

People far beyond the boundaries of family, friends, and state lines had come to pay their respects. In droves they streamed into the farmhouse and then out onto the lawn the like spilled ink upon paper. Charlotte was supposed to be downstairs playing the part of the dutiful widow. Shake hands. Listen. Find strength in their words. Thank them for expressing their sorrow. No one said anything however as she slipped away. After all, Charlotte could barely stand on her own two feet. Sam and Laura grasped her arms before her knees hit the dirt by his open grave.

Too bad they didn’t just toss her in alongside him.

Laura assumed the role of the poised hostess. As Sam’s daughter, she was a woman of strength, of dignity. Not like the pathetic waif who was stretched out on the floor upstairs like a discarded rag doll. The wooden floorboards were cold and hard. Her body lost under the darkest of blacks. Veil crumpled by the closet. Infant daughter asleep against her breasts. His hat on her lap. Head against their bed.

Her bed.

The bed here they laid him out and she had to be dragged from.

Her throat was raw; the whiskey had scorched its way down and pooled heavily in her stomach, though it granted her no reprieve. Would even a lethal amount be able to blur the image of his casket being lowered into the earth from her mind? If anything, whiskey only further reminded her of him. The taste of it upon his lips when he would kiss her in the evening as he unlaced her corset. After a celebration, glass clinking with hers, face lit up with joy and laughter contagious.

They were supposed to grow old together.

A hand slipped into the folds of her dress, grasping the revolver. Her palm throbbed with the blood of a heart that beat against her will. Charlotte cocked the hammer and closed her eyes. Fully loaded, but all she needed was one. Cold metal dug into her skull. The trigger called out, finally burning a hole through the silence. Muffled conversations from below floated upstairs. Soft, sleepy sighs from her daughter.

The revolver hit the wall with a bang. Charlotte’s hands fell to Katie, who stirred slightly. What kind of a mother longs for death with her child in her arms? Her life wasn’t her own anymore to take.

“I don’t deserve you either.”

Suicide wouldn’t even give Charlotte what she wanted. It would keep her away from him forever. Only by enduring did she have a chance at seeing him again. Or so they say. Scores had told her to look to the Lord and his strength; to seek his face always.

If she were to gaze upon the face of God, Charlotte would turn away.

Her eyes slammed shut. The knowledge that Katie would grow up without knowing her father was almost too much to bear. She would never know the sound of his laughter. Never see the sense of pride in his eyes held whenever he looked upon his daughter. Never learn all the lessons he had planned to teach. Never remember what it felt like to be held by him. Never know just how much he loved her.

All that was left were stories.

A sudden slit in the door grew wide. A large man in all black with a wide brimmed hat tipped low stood there. For a brief, beautiful moment, he had come back to her—until the white hair, withered skin, and worn eyes became too obvious to ignore. Sam gently pulled Katie from her arms and brought his sleeping granddaughter to her bedroom. He returned and sat down beside her wordlessly, removing a single glove to run his fingertips along the brim of his son’s hat that lay between them.

“Fine day for a funeral,” Charlotte slurred in a voice unlike her own.

Whenever Charlotte lost a loved one, she felt as though a piece of herself had been lost as well. There had been so many over the years. Her body torn open time and again; insides slowly ravaged and bones scraped clean. A hollow shell pretending to still be whole. Yet, here was a man who had now buried four of his seven children, a wife, and too many friends over the years. Death was everywhere. Always lurking in the shadows, snatching fathers from the fields, mothers from their bedsides, children from their homes, beaus from their intendeds. Everyone seemed so much stronger, so much better equipped to handle the realities of life. Why was she so weak?

“Charlotte, I don’t want you alone in this house.” The shadow of her six-shooter loomed large.

She wanted to say that this is her home, but somehow it no longer felt that way despite how memories lingered in every room, every object. The house had become foreign, yet she couldn’t leave.

“I’ll move in,” he said softly. “I don’t wanna hear any arguments about it. You and Katie need protection and I’ll be damned if—”

“All right.”

His chest deflated slightly, blue eyes as murky as ever. Sam had prepared for a battle, but his opponent had no desire to fight. He set his son’s hat aside, before wrapping his large arm around Charlotte’s waist. His hand cupped her face, thumb wiping the fresh trails of tears. Her lips curled into a half-hearted smile. At least when Sam spoke in that gravely drawl coarsened by smoke and time, it still felt like home.

“We’ll get through this, darlin’, you’ll see,” Sam said, though his voice wavered. “Thomas is countin’ on us.”

His name cut like a blade upon her tongue, slicing right through and rendering her incapable of speech. Charlotte buried her face in the crook of his neck. Both arms held her now, tightening into a full embrace. The familiarity of it almost made Charlotte shove him away, but she remained still. Perhaps Sam needed this as much as she did.

If there was one thing Charlotte had learned from all those she had lost, it was that when a hand reaches down into the depths of sorrow, grasp it and hold tight.

@writer-jess, @maskedlady, @thewritertiffany, @strawberry--sunrise, @teacupwriter, @girlnovels, @cirianne, @okrashan, @phloxxiing, @drabbleitout, @nyxnevin, @scintillations-of-the-scribblers, @theforgottencoolkid, @inkpot-dreamer, @nightskywriter, @oceanwriter, @lynnafred, @katerinarevel, @g-marrader21, @the-writers-soul, @nikolettawrites, @mvcreates, @yourocsbackstory

#writeblr #writing #amwriting #historical fiction #yourocsbackstory #drabble #Charlotte #Sam #when sins haunt

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darley1101 · 6 years

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Death & Decorum Part 1: She Wants Revenge

Welcome to Death and Decorum, a 6 part miniseries that I will be posting throughout the month of October. As the title suggests it is not a love story, but one of revenge. I have done some interesting research over the last day or so and will advise you that some of the deaths depicted in this story are rather interesting and based off actual deaths that occurred in Regency England. I am very well aware that this is not going to be everyone's cup of tea, which is why I will only be tagging people who requested to be tagged by liking, reblogging, or commenting on this story's coming soon post. If you would like to be added to the tag, or even taken off, let me know. Full credit for this idea goes to @choiceslife

Warning/Triggers: Vengeful killings, mention of poison, drowning, broken neck

Death and Decorum

Part One: She Wants Revenge

Dusk was starting to fall as an unmarked carriage rolled to a stop just outside a small, out of the way apothecary. “You know what to do,” the countess ordered in a cold, distant voice. The dark haired girl sitting across from her gave a curt nod, her brown eyes shamefully studying the floor. “This is for the goods,” she pressed a coin in the girl's hand. “And this,” she jingled a small, nondescript pouch, “is for you. Twelve pieces of silver. Rather fitting don't you think?” She let out a low, emotionless chuckle when the girl's cheeks blossomed with color.

“I'm no Judas,” the girl whispered, greedily snatching the purse from the countess' fingers. “The only reason I'm doing this is my family-”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. Now, do be a dear and fetch me what I've asked.” Eyes the color of a winter sky right before a storm bore into the girl, reminding her that the countess was not one to be trifled with. “Don't dally. I still need to dress for dinner.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The girl gathered the dark skirt of her uniform and reluctantly climbed from the carriage. The Countess watched, a cold smile stretching across her berry stained lips, as the girl entered the shoppe. It hadn't taken much to turn the girl. Word of an ailing father and the promise of silver had been all it took. Judas. Briar. Both had sold their loyalty for twelve pieces of silver and both would have innocent blood on their hands.

It rained, which was only fitting since it matched the raw, coldness building inside Rebecca Young. The sharp, skin piercing drizzle that stabbed at the world, painting it a melancholy gray, also provided the perfect cover for the tears she was incapable of producing. It was a pity, really. She wanted so desperately to feel something other than the icy hatred that was starting to course through her veins. She wanted to be the sort of daughter that dropped to her knees beside the yawning hole where her father's coffin was being lowered, screaming against the injustice of his death. To give into such urges wouldn't be ladylike, so like the good little puppet she'd become she stood quietly between the caterwauling form of her dear, dear step-mother and the sniffling mouse who clung to the arm of the countess' stoic faced son. 'The evil trifecta,' Rebecca thought bitterly. The murderous widow putting on a marvelous show of grief, the tittering twit who was too busy gathering juicy tidbits to gossip about with her betters to realize she was naught but a pawn in game she couldn't possibly win, or the mindless drone who willingly did his mother's bidding no matter how heinous the request. If it were one of those Gothic novels that were so popular, there would be a tragic heroine desperately trying to escape their nefarious clutches. Perhaps that was Rebecca's role. The grieving bastard child, too concerned with whether or not she would be tossed on the streets to properly grief. 'Never,' she curled her lips in disdain, 'I will never accept that role.'

Squaring her slender shoulders, Rebecca raised her chin a notch, her thick sooty lashes lowering over her light brown eyes while she forced herself to focus on the words coming out of the vicars mouth rather than comparing her life to the plot of tragic tale. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” The words struck a familiar chord, one buried deep beneath the gentile facade she'd carefully cultivated to please a grandmother whose love only extended as far as Rebecca's ability to procure a suitable match. For the last month she had stumbled through her own valley of death, letting the nobility slaughter any trace of the village girl that had arrived at Edgewater with a naive excitement shining in her eyes. There had been no comfort, no rod or staff to protect her, while she struggled to win the approval of a father whose life had been stolen by his inconsolable widow. Turning her head slightly, several strands of dark hair sticking to her cheek, Rebecca pierced her step-mother with a venomous look. 'From here on out I shall fear no evil,' she silently hissed, 'and you shall cower before me as I will become Edgewater's very own shadow of death. Vengeance shall have a name and that name shall be Rebecca.'

.“...and said, naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked I shall return thither; the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away...”

Rebecca pursed her lips into a tight, grayish blue tinged pucker to keep from yelling. 'Liar! Filthy, filthy liar!' The Lord had given Father life, had blessed Rebecca with his affections for three glorious weeks, but the Almighty surely hadn't taken him away. His life had been stolen, wrung from his body with a poison served up by a 'loving' wife. Rebecca would give the Countess her due; she'd chosen carefully, selecting a poison that mimicked the dreaded yellow fever. 'And now she plays the part of grieving widow', Rebecca internally sneered. 'She's allowed her desperation to turn her into a novel cliché, a desperate villianess willing to sacrifice the innocent in her quest to hold on to something that was never meant to be hers.' The greatest tragedy, was Rebecca would have cared for her like a mother had the viper but shown her an ounce of affection. Instead, the countess had let her own diabolical nature twist even the smallest kindness into a sinister ploy.

“We know not why these tragedies occur.”

The lie slid easily off the tongue of the vicar. If not for the man's love of his own voice, the burial would have already concluded, father planted in the ground. Instead, the vicar continued to spoon feed deceitful words of comfort that allowed the countess to continue her theatrical display, while Rebecca could practically feel the black crepe dress her grandmother insisted she wear starting to melt. The light weight silk wasn't meant for such dampness, nor were the jet embellished slippers she wore beneath it. Not that the countess cared. She had ignored propriety by wearing a rich velvet gown designed to show case her bosom, which heaved mightily with each over exaggerated sob, and hugged her other physical assets. It was humiliating. Bad enough she was going to get away with murdering father but had she not class? Could she not at least put on a good performance and appropriately dress the part? Rebecca's fingers twisted in the delicate lawn handkerchief her grandmother had insisted she openly carry. Appearances, even in death, must be upheld. 'Unless you're the countess, then you ignore propriety in favor of dressing like some Drury lane doxy. It's alright of course, she's a grieving widow.'

“Can you believe her, that dress is absolutely scandalous,” someone behind them whispered. “I'm surprised the Dowager allowed her out in such a dress.”

“It's bait for the next one, no doubt,” another whispered. “I heard the Earl left everything to his bastard.”

Sucking in her cheeks, Rebecca bit down on the delicate flesh. The sharp pain and the coppery taste of blood were a perfect distraction from the drawing room gossip that was starting to seep into the memorial. Turning on them, demanding that they show some respect, would shift the focus off her step mother and onto herself. Aside from the one painfully true smear about her birth, the gossip was centered on the countess and Rebecca would like to keep it that way.

“Worry about her dress all you like, my concerns lie in whether or not she's contagious. If what I've heard is true, she spent every moment in his sick room. Mark my words, we'll be burying her next.”

The truth burned on Rebecca's tongue, begging to be released. She held it in, knowing her words would fall on deaf ears. With the exception of her grandmother, the rest of the world believed that her father truly had somehow contracted and succumbed to the yellow fever. And while it was doubtful that the countess had spent more than a passing moment by her ailing husband's side, that wasn't what society believed. Poor, devoted countess. Twas a pity that poison wasn't contagious. 'It could be,' a voice whispered in her ear. 'No one would question it. They're already suspecting it. Why not give them what they want?'

Tag List (To be added or removed simply comment, reblog, or message) @tmarie82 @zackzilberg @damienazariostan @leelee10898 @clarissafics @hopefulmoonobject @brightpinkpeppercorn @mrsernestsinclaire @dancetothestoriesinyoursoul @classychoicesworld @writtenbycandy @too-poor-to-buy-keys @ehkw1989 @claramillstakenalready @never-ending-choices @bobasheebaby @choiceslife @nekkidmolerat @blackcatkita @katurrade @indiacater @boneandfur @give-me-ernest-sinclaire @jadedpixiescribbles @llamasgrl @hellospunkiebrewster @tornbetween2loves (sorry for the ones whose tags are not working.)

#choices desire and decorum #desire and decorum mc #darley1101 writes

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everythingisbetterwithpirates · 6 years

Text

Mind, Body & Soul: Dialogue Series II

Regarding: A Dirty Little Secret

Thunder echoed far away, resembling the chaos taking place on the other side of the world. Far enough that it did not come with a rumble. On a soft slope in the sandy beach, Margharette sat. Without weapons or a fancy suit. No monocle to help hide what hid in her dark blue eyes. Instead, she wore a comfortable white camisole. It matched her cotton shorts. Feet half-sank into the grains. To her left was a fuzzy coconut. It was decorated with a bright, pink umbrella and aided by a bendy straw.

What would have been a linear horizon slowly turned into a steamy, textured one. Lightning brought out the shapes hidden in the distance. And for a brief moment, the far away beats of thunder matched the rhythm of her heart. Margharette picked up her coconut, guiding the straw to her lips and watching the storms loom in the night sky.

{ Mind, Body and Soul will be expressed through three different beings.}

Rette was a fancy woman of fancy tastes. Her adoration towards all things beautiful and elegant extended beyond jewels and fabrics. Long, dark hair intricately braided behind the ears. It rose to the impossibly tight and well rounded bun at the top of her head. She was dressed in a sleek garment. Intricate embroidery which followed the movements and patterns of spiders and snakes outlined some features while shimmering, golden fabric did the rest. She drank from a saucered teacup that flared at the rim.

Mar was a physical duplicate of Rette, but she lacked the pretty dress. She lacked clothes in general. And her hair was not impeccably tied into a knot. It was loose. Slung carelessly over her freckled shoulders and back. Mar sat with her knees hugged closely to her chest. Directly across from discipline, sat relaxation. She drank from a coconut with a little pink umbrella sticking out from the side.

And then there was Gha. Only the woman’s silhouette persisted in this image. That and her typical business attire. It was a faceless being with a tight knot around it’s neck. No defining features beyond a head, a torso and functional limbs. Ashen, roughly textured skin made up her exposed extremities. There was no drink to be shared with the group. Only folded hands.

Even the empty seat across from Gha had been served with a pair of coffee cups. One was of regular size and the other a miniature version of it.

In the middle of a table was Frank the Cactus. His home was a simple, handcrafted ceramic pot. Pebbles and dirt secured him firmly in place. And as the group readied to converse, it tilted to the right.

Mar sucked from the straw before she placed the coconut on the table.

Mar: "Without our dreams, we would be stuck to the ground. You go higher. And higher... "

Mar paused, staring off into the unknown.

Mar: " ... but then you get too close to the sun."

Rette: "Is that where you burst into flames?"

Mar: "Something like that." Words were spoken with a knowing grin.

Gha: "Tell us-s-s anyway. Enjoy it. Do it. When things exp-p-plode."

Across Mar's shoulder, a transluscent plume of dark purple stroked. Soothingly so.

Mar: "Why linger in the abyss when we can gently glide across the skies? No. I want to do it. I will pursue this ardent adversary into whatever it leads to. Dark roads do not disturb me. Not living while I am alive does."

Gha's entire form shivers. It begins at the top, where two depressions on the raw and skin like texture of it's body seemed to be drawing the shape of a frown. A thick and tar-like substance oozed. Where it once created the illusion of a finely crafted business suit, it now rolled and ransacked with agitation, removing all regularity from the uniform. The would-be lines over the head deepened. A gaping maw was left behind, one that revealed nothing more than agitation in the form of black and purple needles.

Rette looked between Mar and Gha, bringing her flowery cup of tea to her lips for a long drink.Pretentious nostrils flared in preparation for battle between two stalwart sides of the same coin. For a moment, her attention drifted to the empty seat to her right. Just a cup next to another. One big. One small. Both deserving of more. She cleared her throat and turned towards the others.

Frank danced to the left without a sound.

Rette: "Very well. We shall discuss. let us begin with the obvious. Present dangers. Precautionary measures have been taken, but all it takes is one tiny error and it is over. It will spread all across this table. So much so that it becomes it."

Mar: "Oh, aye. We would cease to exist as is. But this picture is no longer just stormy skies. His plans bring a possibility that cannot be ignored. If he succeeds, it could be just like a scene from a play. Walking down the garden. Holding hands.”

Mar's gaze turned to Gha who was quietly brooding and staring into the empty seat across, to Mar's left.

Mar: "... Maybe someone crying or dying in the background. Nothing unnatural."

Gha's faceless face shuddered.

Rette: "His predatory nature will surely persist through the split. Strong on both sides, but only one would pose a high level of danger -- and it is not going to be the real him. Of course, it should be noted that I believe my words to be biased. My pants would catch on fire were I to sat your hopes are not relatable. Or contagious."

Rette nodded to Mar, taking a delicate sip from her teacup. Polished pinkie extended.

With a dislocated succession of faint 'pops' and 'cracks', Gha stood from it's seat. Though a pair of arms were discernible, it's legs slithered and dragged across the wooden floor as if they were one. Another round of ripples and needlish spikes traveled across the hazy suit.

Gha: "I. Will. S-s-s-show you. Your desires. This is one of it's many. P-possibilities."

Frank tilted to the right. It's thorny body was fantastically bendy.

Behind the empty seat, a scene began to appear. It was prompted by Gha's waving hand. Like a weathered painting, patterns and shapes flourished. A sizable portion of a ship's cabin replaced the empty darkness. Windows revealed both ocean and land in the distance. But before such escapes was a bloodstained bed. The expansion of the image revealed two bodies.

One was a grown human male. He was of shaggy blonde hair and a dark, tanned complexion. He lay face down, bleeding into the bed from the wound on the side of his head. One of his arms was wrapped around the second body. A much smaller one. That of an infant girl who looked to be no older than several months. The child's wound mirrored that of her father's.

Gha: "This could be him if his plan succeeds. And her. He did. Did not come alone. Or it. Could be us-s-s."

The scene continued to extend, revealing a gun on the floor. A dying lamp swung from the ceiling as turbulent waves began to come around.

Gha: "The inevitable conclusion of all life. Death."

Gha paced enthusiastically behind it's spot on the board. Mar and Rette steadily watched. One had a teacup, the other a coconut. Where Mar swayed her head, Rette drummed her fingers.

Gha: "Instead of them outliving us. We. Outlive them. Neither brings good tidings-s-s."

Margharette appeared on the scene, arriving to what would become her last day in paradise. Stricken with grief, she falls to her knees. The woman gasped for air, but her sobs went by silently. The picture was muted. One after the other, her cries went ignored.

Gha: "There. F-f-fallen. Every good thing once felt. Destroyed. Crushed by loss."

In the recreation of her pain, Margharette began to reach for the loaded weapon on the floor.

Frank swayed left.

Another tendril of Shadows coiled around Mar's shoulders, this time extending to her neck and bare chest. One were now two.

Meanwhile, Margharette's attempts to place the gun against her head were thwarted by a violent quake. Her grip faltered. The heavy piece fell to the ground with a thud as loud as hers. Unlike the others, this sound boomed across the space of those watching. Tightly, Margharette clutched her chest, blue eyes rising to the bodies of her loved ones. She choked. She groaned. But then nothing.

Gha: "And you couldn't even finish it yourself."

A few more twitches and Margharette's heart was finally done. Broken. Not enough strength to keep her going and away from death's door. Now, it became the key that unlocked it.

Mar: "I can be next in line."

Gha, who had been pacing a little more, froze on it's tracks. Though it's body was turned away from Mar, it's ghoulish head turned around. All the way around. The sound of bones breaking and colliding was as gruesome as that of unseen teeth gnawing and grinding.

Gha: "You. Just like. Me."

Rette took a last glance at the disappearing image, finding the clarity of it's details satisfactory. She then looked between Mar and Gha with a less severe expression, drinking quietly from her cup.

Mar's head swayed from side to side after giving Gha a confident nod.

Mar: "Our fate is shared. That was something made extremely clear after this catastrophe. The wheel spun and showed us the direction. Now we have it. That was the deal. Two more opportunities, if possible, for the third has already been taken advantage of."

Gha: "Options. There are others."

Slowly, Frank the Cactus tilted to the right again.

Rette: "None that entice all senses like he does. Even YOU will surrender." Unwavering authority composed said words.

Gha: "You defend this because you are infatuated. And because it will not be YOU that endures... "

Gha began to move closer to the table, body rapidly and gracelessly turning to match the direction of it's head.

Gha: " ... t-t-this."

Rette's flowery cup rose, used as a means to signal her agreement towards the creature at her left.

Mar: "We have been in the warm shores of paradise. Many never even see it. And while that may not be the final destination of this voyage, the risk is still worth it. Patience will be worth it. This is not the same Margharette from then. This is now. And if in the future, darkness should encase me, I am comforted by the fact that it will be YOU that stands alone. Radiance in a room of monsters. Means there will still be a chance... And I do like chances."

Mar's shaven coconut rose, mimicking Rette's previous cheering motion with her contrasting fancy cup.

Gha silently stared at the seat across even without eyes. Frail hands settled over it's own seat, but soon, Gha joined the others seated at the table.

Frank veered left, it's spine flexible but unbreakable.

Gha: "Useless. Your silence. Is not. Or is it... It is. Or... "

Rette: "Banter aside, this companionship has touched us all in one way or another. Most recently, I noted an irregularity during a session. These feelings of adoration... Of love -- they must be carefully woven into the cover story. Too many lies and the story is too weak to stand on it's own. Not enough, and we expose a weakness. One the enemy can and would exploit. Twice, because there are TWO people involved. The verbal foreplay routine when engaged in work will need to be reworked. Rephrased. Refreshed."

Mar: "This discussion has nothing to do with business."

Rette: "Everything can be business if you're gray enough."

Mar stared at Rette for a long and spiteful moment, but the feeling passed. Slid with ease. Like melted butter.

Mar: "Which is why I am making this call. What needs to be done will be done. That is what I trust you to do if it comes to such blows. Let the winds die now so that we may reach a conclusion and gaze into our future."

Rette nodded, throwing a tiny cube into her refilled cup. Gha only continued to glare ahead.

Rette: "Preparations for many possibilities have already begun. The Crabby Cabin will also be going through extensive renovations. This place will be a fortress. One where both him and her can seek refuge from what comes, given that there will finally be room for more than one person. What truly worries me is the vessel he leaves behind. With any luck, and maybe some bribes, it will be kept busy."

Gha shuddered, it's stable but fluid form vivid and animated.

Gha: "Miss-s-s. I will miss it. I. Yet. Do not know the satisfaction of making it..." The voice became even more distorted. Wisps of thick Shadows wrapped around it's head, moving in fast spinning circles.

Gha: "... Submit. In full. Without him being bound. By ch-ch-chains."

Frank tilted to the right.

Mar: "Confusing creature."

Gha: "Remind yourself. No matter how the next fall comes. You. And I. Will look the same."

Mar fell silent, turning to glance at the empty coffee cups to her right. With acceptance, she nodded.

Rette: "Then it is settled. The chance will be taken. This means that our grip on emotions, and by our I of course mean mine, will need to be better than flawless at all times. Especially when we consider what is happening deeper down the rabbit hole."

Behind Rette's ear, a Shadowy line curved and twisted. After snaking around the back of her neck, it disappeared beneath her golden garments.

Mar: "Be it by Chance or otherwise, our fates are here. Present. Some of the tails found down this road lead to heartbreak. Others to happiness. To peace. Peace that is violently forged elsewhere. Here? It is made complete by his presence. Fun. Joy. Love. Care. Affection. All siblings. All part of the same thread."

Gha: "Even I feel this. This that you speak of. To not pursue and protect this treasure would be criminal."

The three beings looked between each other and nodded. Mar and Rette rose their drinks and indulged. Gha sat still. And the empty seat remained empty.

Frank the Cactus moved again. Now it sat straight.

#ic story #mb&s #hsc #sorrynotawarstory

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