Pavitr definitely told his Maya Aunty about Miles’s embarrassing mistake btw trust me

Five Stages

This was an early draft of Seven Steps that didn’t quite work, but I got attached to it. It’s still messier than I’d like, but I think this is as good as I’m going to get it. So here’s 3.7k of an AU where Tobirama died instead of Izuna, which comes with its own problems

1.

Hashirama has never forgiven Izuna.

Madara watches them together, and while Hashirama is never less than polite, there's a distance between them even strangers from other clans can see.

There's a distance between Hashirama and Madara as well. It’s new in the scale of the time they've known each other, but it's older than the shrine in Hashirama’s house.

They don't talk about the shrine.

Other than the practicalities of growing their village, they hardly talk at all. The growing silence is making Madara nervous.

He needs to know what this means, and if Hashirama won't say anything on his own, Madara will make him.

They’re up on the cliff where they first imagined Konoha, away from the rest of the village. When he wasn't in his office or at home, Madara knew Hashirama would be here.

Bracing himself, Madara asks, “You’re thinking about Tobirama, aren't you?”

Sitting beside him, their legs hanging over the edge like when they were children, Hashirama nods.

“Izuna bore him no ill will,” Madara continues when Hashirama says nothing. “Your brother died because our clans were at war and Izuna was stronger.”

It's true, and it isn't.

Madara’s brother knew what Hashirama seems not to understand- Tobirama loved him.

After years of deadlock, all it took for Izuna to get the upper hand was a feint toward Hashirama.

From the way Hashirama has been acting, he doesn't know that, and if Tobirama decided not to tell him, Madara has no reason to speak up.

“I know he didn't,” Hashirama says. “People die during war. That's why I worked so hard to end it.”

Madara tilts his head, studying Hashirama. “Then you also know you keep Izuna at a distance, don't you? The rest of the village can see it, and they avoid him.”

“And the rest of the village understands why,” Hashirama points out. There's an edge to his voice that appeared when Tobirama died. It's a legacy of sorts- Tobirama died, but his standoffishness took root in his brother. “He was my only remaining brother, Madara. Would you have welcomed Tobirama if he'd killed Izuna?”

“No, but you're a better man than I am,” Madara says. He won't pretend to be benevolent. They both know better.

“I'm not.”

“Aren't you? Izuna lives. You won't welcome him, but you won't hate him either.” He shrugs. “You won't even send him out on missions where he'd be in danger. As your brother must have told you, we’re prone to self-destruction. If you set him on the path, Izuna would get himself killed.

“Yet you don't. You won't accept him, and you won't make use of him. Make up your mind.”

Hashirama draws a long breath in. “What purpose does this serve, Madara? We've made peace. Our families are flourishing in the village we built. Why are you trying to make me fight with you?”

“You're too quiet,” Madara says simply.

He could elaborate. He could list the signs he’s seen of Hashirama losing his confidence. He could tell Hashirama that even other Senjus are beginning to worry. He could look Hashirama in the eye and tell him that no one can understand why he's mourning so hard for a brother he didn't love.

He never feared Hashirama on the battlefield, but he doesn't want to show his guts to this man who won't show his own.

Madara has tried to have this conversation before, but Hashirama has always dodged it.

Out here, they don't avoid each other.

Hashirama sighs. “I miss Tobirama.”

“And?”

Hashirama frowns at him. “And? That's all. Tobirama was here, and now he isn't. So I miss him.”

“It can't be that simple.”

You didn't actually love him.

“Why not?” Leaning forward, Hashirama looks out over their village. “You only knew Tobirama as an enemy, so I don't blame you for having no love for him. He was stubborn and too smart for his own good. He saw the world as it is, not as it could be. He didn't know how to make peace, and I don't think he wanted to. But he was still a good man.”

Madara shakes his head. “I'm not questioning that you loved him.”

“Aren't you? You're a poor liar, Madara.” Without waiting for Madara to answer, Hashirama sighs. “You don't understand why his death bothers me.”

“We’ve both buried far younger brothers. What is it about this one that's so special?”

“You're still trying to provoke me into a fight.” Hashirama closes his eyes. “I understand now. Thank you, Madara, but I can't be angered out of this.”

The longer Madara looks at him, the worse the prickles of fear grow. “You'll stay like this, then?”

“Not forever.”

Unsettled, Madara says, “I've never heard you talk like this.”

“You've never heard me talk about Tobirama.”

“Can you blame me? You're the hokage. My clan’s position-”

“Is secure!” Hashirama snaps, eyes snapping open. His voice is loud enough for the words to echo, and his forehead is furrowed in anger when he turns to glare at Madara. “I've encouraged the other clans to extend their welcome to the Uchihas. Already, there are friendships forming between your clan and the others, mine included.

“In what way, short of embracing Izuna, have I not shown our village that I want your clan here, Madara? Tell me so I can address it.”

Madara considers the question.

“There aren't any,” he admits slowly.

“Then let me have this.” Hashirama rubs his face. “I just need time to stop feeling like I’m holding Tobirama's body.”

Madara remembers the way dread crept up his chest when Hashirama noticed Izuna standing over his brother.

Tobirama had caught Izuna’s fireball squarely, but he hadn't died immediately. Izuna had been intending to drive his sword through Tobirama in an act of mercy.

Madara had called him away before he could, unwilling to risk Hashirama misunderstanding, and Izuna had run to him before Hashirama reached Tobirama.

Being touched must have been excruciating, but Tobirama had only let out a single, agonized whine as Hashirama gathered him up, ignoring the way his own body was being burned by Tobirama’s nearly molten armor. His skin had cycled between burning and healing.

Tobirama’s head had lolled unnaturally against Hashirama’s shoulder, his breath rattling. Hashirama had begun to walk away, only to pause when Tobirama said something, his voice too low to reach Madara or any other Uchiha. Whatever it was, Hashirama’s eyes had gone wide before he took another step.

Madara had felt the same sense of foreboding the rest of his clan must have as Hashirama carried Tobirama away.

As one, the rest of the Senjus had retreated silently.

They'd met on the same battlefield the next morning, and if Madara hadn't known Hashirama, he would have thought the look on Hashirama’s face was simple exhaustion.

Hashirama hadn't called for a truce like he had in the past. He'd sprinted forward alone, his clan hanging back as his hands formed a series of seals Madara hadn't seen before, and in the space of a second, a massive wall of roots had erupted from the ground, throwing nearly every Uchiha into the air and wrapping around them before dragging them back to the earth. Madara had been the only one who'd escaped it. He'd braced himself for Hashirama’s next move, but he'd had no way of preparing for what Hashirama had actually done.

Tobirama must have taught his brother something new before he died because as Hashirama ran toward Madara, a second Hashirama had materialized behind Madara and forced him to the ground.

It hadn't been a clone; clones have no substance. Madara’s Sharingan can see through them easily.

Pinned to the ground, legs bound by roots and hands pinned by this second Hashirama, Madara had found himself at the mercy of a stranger.

“Yield,” the original Hashirama had said when he arrived. He'd looked down at Madara over his double’s shoulder, features pinched. “Please, Madara. Don't make me lose you, too.”

As Madara lay on the ground, immobilized, he’d known one thing with absolute clarity.

If he refused, Hashirama would kill him.

In the present, Hashirama rubs his forehead. “I’m sorry, Madara, but I'd like to be on my own now.”

The look on his face is eerily similar to that day, so Madara nods and leaves.

2.

Madara crouches in the brush near Hashirama and waits.

Hashirama has a habit of talking to himself aloud; eavesdropping on him when he thinks he's alone is the easiest way to figure out what he's thinking.

It doesn't take long.

“Well, Tobirama,” Hashirama says, squinting up at the clouds, “the impossible dream wasn't so impossible.

“I found the scrolls you told me about, and I think I picked the right people to make your plans real. The Academy I wanted to build is almost ready to open, and the children have already begun to adjust to their new playmates. The adults will take time, but even Madara is optimistic.”

Madara fights a snort. Optimistic is overly generous.

That's Hashirama, though, isn't it? Always seeing the best outcome. Tobirama must know to account for that.

“But you should know,” Hashirama says, tone darkening, “I had to destroy some of what you left. I know you made them as a last resort, but, Tobirama, some of what you created was evil.” He shakes his head. “I'm glad you died before I saw them, because I would've had to ask you if you'd tested them and you would've told me that you had.

“You always did take after Father.” Tilting his head back, Hashirama sighs. “Was it my fault? Was I so consumed with making peace with Madara, I didn't notice how far you’d gone? Or were you always going to go this far?

“Konoha may be safer without you. Do you know how much that hurts? To be relieved my own brother is dead? You were the only one left, Tobirama. You were the only one who became an adult, and I can't even mourn you properly.”

Hashirama hits the ground next to his hip with a fist. “And you had the audacity to tell me as you died that you wanted me to make the life with Madara that I wanted. How long did you know? Could you really only tell me to be happy with him because you were dying?”

Recognizing an opportunity when he sees it, Madara gets to his feet and emerges from his hiding spot. “No, he said it years ago.”

Hashirama looks over sharply. “Madara? Didn't you leave?”

“Obviously not. You should pay more attention,” Madara chastises as he returns to Hashirama's side. He sits down heavily. “As I said before, I have no ill will toward your brother, so it costs me nothing to tell you he said nearly the same thing to me.”

“When did you and Tobirama see each other when I wasn't nearby?” Hashirama asks. His brow is furrowed again, but without anger to make it threatening, he only looks confused.

Madara chuckles; the memory is a favorite of his. “It must have been a decade ago. I was feeling nostalgic, so I went back to the river. Your brother was there, washing up. I didn't recognize him at first.”

“You didn't recognize Tobirama?” Hashirama asks, suspicion heavy in his voice. “Even without the ruff, he wasn't difficult to identify.”

He gestures at his face and waves his hand above his head.

“I couldn't see his face, Hashirama.”

“Oh of course.” Hashirama nods. “He would have been washing it.”

Madara lays his hand on Hashirama’s shoulder. Hashirama’s brain is trying so hard not to accept the obvious. “I came up behind him, Hashirama. That part of him didn't match his face.”

“Madara!”

“He didn't notice me at first either, oddly. He must have been too absorbed in what he was doing around front-”

“Madara!” Hashirama hisses.

“He was cleaning that stupid mantle while he bathed,” Madara tells him, having a good time now that Hashirama isn't so distant. “I saw his back, nothing more. Don't be disgusting.”

“Could you please get to the point?” Hashirama asks, pained.

“The point, Hashirama, is that Tobirama was naked in a river, I caught him by surprise, and he wasn't stupid enough to try to fight me unarmed and undressed. So he glared at me pissily. He’d already squeaked when he spotted me, unfortunately, and there's no coming back from that.”

Madara had spent years poking fun at Izuna about not being able to beat a sensor type who got so caught up washing his clothes that Madara could have killed him.

The joke isn't funny anymore, but for a time, Madara had finally had a rejoinder for being unable to outwit Hashirama.

“I don't know why I didn't try to kill him,” Madara continues. “Regardless, I didn't, and he told me that if you and I made peace, I should remember how happy you and I had been together. If there was a way to make you happy like that again, I better take it. He was quite emphatic about that.”

A high, miserable sound bursts out of Hashirama. 

Madara lifts a hand and squeezes his shoulder. “Izuna told me once that he wishes he hadn't told our father about you. He was trying to protect our clan, but who knows? Maybe if he'd spoken to me first, you and I could have made peace in our own way.”

“You think Tobirama felt the same way.”

“I didn't know your brother, but it seems likely.”

Hashirama leans into Madara, safe from the knowledge of how much Tobirama loved him. “Is it terrible to wish he'd lived because he'd do paperwork for me?”

Madara snorts. “I've heard your cousins express a similar wish. It was Tobirama who kept your work in order when our clans were at war, wasn't it?”

“He was so organized,” Hashirama says wistfully. “He was a pain in the ass, but he was a good second in command. Everything I came up with, he improved. Our clan became more dangerous simply by becoming more effective.”

“This is the most pathetic thing I've ever heard, Hashirama, and I heard you ask me out.”

Hashirama slumps over with a whine, leaning into Madara heavily. “It wasn't that bad!”

Madara huffs. “It was mortifying. I almost said no just to preserve my own dignity.”

Hashirama whines again, leaning into him harder, and Madara shakes his head.

“You could argue that the hokage making a fool of himself to ask me if I'd like to get dinner wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to me, and you did pick a nice place.”

Madara moves his arm so he can rest his hand on Hashirama’s waist.

“And you made a fool of yourself after dinner,” Hashirama says smugly. The tables turned, he perks up. “Having to be escorted home, how embarrassing.”

“Shut up!” Madara hisses. “I'd been drinking.”

“Perhaps because you were nervous about being on a date with me?”

“Don't think you're too old for me to throw you in the river.”

“But you're so small, Madara. Are you certain you could lift me? I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Temples throbbing, Madara gives Hashirama a pointed shove, and Hashirama yelps in surprise as he tips over.

“I could have fallen off the edge!” he complains from the ground.

“If you couldn’t recover from a little nudge, you'd deserve whatever happened.”

Eyes narrowing, Hashirama asks, “Is that so?”

Madara nods. “Of course.”

“I see.”

Madara sees the counterattack coming, so when Hashirama flies at him, Madara is ready for it.

They wrestle on the edge of the cliff like they did years ago. Madara resists the urge to cheat and pick Hashirama up- he's so big, no one tries to lift him, so he doesn't know how to get free.

Madara has a suspicion that isn't the real reason Hashirama’s eyes go wide when Madara manhandles him, but that's a theory for another time.

He pins Hashirama in the end anyway.

“What's with that face?” he asks, poking Hashirama’s cheek.

Hashirama’s expression shifts from distant to rueful. “I was just remembering that the other kage think I’m incompetent.”

Madara hums. He went to the kage summit with Hashirama; he saw everything Hashirama did. “A mistake on their part.”

“A potentially lethal one for our people. If Tobirama were alive, they wouldn't think they could take advantage of us.”

He's probably right.

Sitting up, Madara puts his hands on his hips. “I'm smart, you know, and I’m not hamstrung by liking people. That's why people think you aren't smart. You're too friendly.”

“That does seem to be the problem. Unfortunately, you get this look that says you're thinking about doing something reckless, and everyone knows you're impulsive,” Hashirama adds pointedly.

Madara lifts his chin. “I’m not that bad.”

“Yes, you are. I know you.”

He does and he doesn't. Hashirama doesn't see darkness, only places where light could be. He refuses to accept that there are places that have to be kept in the dark. 

Tobirama understood that. He, like Madara, lived in the world where men like Hashirama can't go. He saw the necessity of violence and didn't try to reason with it.

Madara can only guess at the contents of the scrolls Hashirama inherited. Perhaps they were indeed unconscionable, but perhaps they were practical plans for surviving the inevitable threats that will come to them. He doubts Hashirama will ever tell him.

“You know me well enough, I suppose,” Madara allows.

He’ll do the things in the dark that Hashirama can't.

Hashirama reaches for him, and Madara lets himself be tugged down until he's lying on top of Hashirama. He doesn't like the position; it leaves him vulnerable.

The weight of Hashirama’s arms resting on his back has slowly begun to feel more like a shield than a restraint.

“Tobirama kept a list of all our dead,” Hashirama says slowly, his chin brushing the top of Madara’s head. “Not just that they'd died but how they'd died and where they were buried. Our father used to tell him it was pointless. I thought he was keeping a tally of lives to get revenge for. We both told him to stop, but from the stack of scrolls I found, he never did.” He takes a slow, deep breath in. “Looking back, I think it was just his way of accounting for them. He wasn't good at showing love, but he did feel it.”

“You want to continue what he started,” Madara surmises, “and you want Tobirama to be the first name.”

“That’s right. Although, I was thinking of doing something public and less detailed. This is everyone’s village. I want our names to be recorded beside each other as comrades.”

Madara thinks it over. A public record of all the ninjas who died for their village feels right, and to mix their clans would build camaraderie.

“Individual clans would still keep track of their dead?” he asks.

“Of course.”

“And the recording of names- how would it be done?”

“By when they died. If we don't have a precise order, we’ll go by name.”

Nodding to himself, Madara accepts that Hashirama’s idea for the memorial is a good one.

The problem is Tobirama.

The Senju name is all over the village. Giving Tobirama, who died before Konoha was more than a wish, such a place of honor would further tilt the scales toward Hashirama's clan, but denying Hashirama a way of acknowledging his brother will only upset him, which Madara has no interest in doing.

“Dedicate the memorial to him,” Madara suggests after a long moment. “This wasn't his home, but the tradition came from him.”

Hashirama hums thoughtfully. “Instead of inscribing his name on it first, you mean.”

Madara nods. “Let the honor of being recorded first go to someone who belonged to Konoha. If it's a Senju, so be it, but it shouldn't be your brother.”

Hashirama squeezes Madara hard.

“This is a new world,” he says, voice rough, “but none of the brothers I wanted it for got to see it.”

Madara thinks back to the brothers he and Izuna don't talk about. None of them will see Konoha either. They aren't even water to nurture Konoha’s growing roots. They're just dead, buried without ceremony or a name on their hasty graves.

“That's the cost of surviving,” Madara reminds Hashirama. “Even in this village, we’ll have to carry our dead as we move ahead.”

“I should live for them as well as myself, you mean?”

Madara scoffs. “Don't be absurd. Are you going to make every choice according to your dead brothers’ desires? What will you do when those desires conflict?” He lays his head on Hashirama's chest. He doesn't know what his other brothers would have wanted; they died too young to live on in anything more than name. “You carry them by remembering them.”

How does Hashirama remember his brother? What love does he have for Tobirama that's so small he let Izuna live?

“Then I’ll make sure Konoha flourishes,” Hashirama says, his voice low and determined. “So long as someone who calls Konoha home survives, Tobirama will, too.” He squeezes Madara too hard for comfort. “We’ll all live on in each other.”

Madara lets Hashirama keep this dream. Leaving things to others has never been in Madara’s nature; the future is too important to be delegated so flippantly.

“Did you know that when you disagree with me, your nose wrinkles?”

Hashirama sounds tired, so Madara only nods. They can argue later.

It's the middle of the afternoon. The hokage shouldn't be out of his village’s sight for long, but Madara is going to keep Hashirama here for a while. No one else can stop Hashirama, and for the moment, that's what he's going to be.

“Let's go drinking tonight,” Hashirama suggests. “As war buddies.”

Madara hums his agreement. They'll remember the dead, rib each other for strategic fumbles, ramble about the future, then stumble home together. They'll crawl into their shared futon and fall asleep together, and when they wake up in the morning, Hashirama healthy and Madara hung over, they'll continue living.

They'll carry all they have and more because a good shinobi endures.

You’re Always 16 Hours Ahead

Summary: Killian Jones never expected to hit it big, but the opportunity of a lifetime pulls him away from home and the woman he pines for. Can a friendship that just might be more survive a concert world tour?

(With wide eyes and faith

That life could never pull us apart if we were ok

But distance kills the best of intentions…)

(~2.6K. Rated T for language. Also on AO3)

~~~~~

A/N: I’m so excited to share my contribution to the @csconcertseries! This is an idea I’ve had for a long time, and I’m excited to finally bring it to life. This is inspired by “Jet Lag” by Frank Turner, and also includes references to “Polaroid Picture,” “Get Better,” and “Plain Sailing Weather.” I’ve definitely been blasting his stuff all month long and dragging other people with me (looking at you, @thejollyroger-writer). Super thanks, as always, to @snidgetsafan for her beta talents. 

Without further ado: Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

POP PRINCESS ANNOUNCES WORLD TOUR

Great news, Fairy Fans: Wildly popular pop music star Tink is planning a world tour. The international exhibition will be undertaken to promote her latest album, “Neverland No More”. Tink will be joined on her tour by recent up-and-comer Killian Jones, who will serve as her opening act. Jones has captured the world’s ear with his recent hit single, “Green Eyes,” which continues to climb the pop charts. A full schedule of planned concerts can be found at…

  September 17th

Dear Emma,

I know it’s only been a few days, but I already miss you and Henry. Los Angeles is loud, and congested, and so much unlike Storybrooke that it scares me a little. But when that happens, I try to remember our bench on the docks, and it helps ground me. I’ve got a picture of us out there taped to the inside of my guitar case, just as a reminder that even if everything changes, I’ve always got something to come home to.

You didn’t think I was kidding when I said I’d write, did you? Mark my words, I intend to write you from every stop. To hell with blocking or setup or rehearsals or whatever, I’ll be sitting on an amp backstage writing you.

You must tell me everything, Swan - don’t you dare get skimpy with the details in your next email! I know it’s been less than a week, but I’m sure there’s something from the gossip mill. Has Liam secured a new Friday act yet? I’m sure he won’t find anyone nearly as talented (or handsome!) as yours truly, but I can’t imagine he and Robin are leaving that slot open in my honor. Tell me, how much do you think he’ll groan if I send back a signed world tour poster?

I’ve got to go - something about the lights. Such is the life of a rock star, isn’t it?

Your own personal celebrity (and best friend),

-Killian

September 19th

Liam - 

Brother, you’ve got to stop calling every few hours. I know you’re bored and your life is empty without me, but this is getting ridiculous. Half the road crew thinks you’re my father. Do you intend to run up your phone bill when the tour crosses the ocean? I love you, but please don’t go broke on my behalf. Now is the time to wean yourself off me.

All teasing aside, I do appreciate the calls, not to mention everything else. If you hadn’t insisted on making those demo tapes and forcing me to Boston and any venue or bar that would take me, I wouldn’t be here today. 

You’d have been so proud to see me - I must have been sweating gallons, but I got up on stage in front of that massive crowd and I did it, sang my pieces. The noise of all those people practically shakes your bones, Liam - and that wasn’t even half the noise that Tink elicited! I don’t know how she does it. I suppose I’ll find out, though, won’t I? After all, this is my big break, as long as I don’t screw it up too badly. 

I’m sure I’ll talk to you later - in the meantime, say hello to the lads for me.

-Killian.

P.S. Keep an eye on Emma and Henry for me, would you? I know you’ve already promised, but I worry. I owe you one, brother.

  October 2nd

Emma - 

Hello from Seattle! It is just as rainy as promised, and I’ve lost count of the coffee shops. Part of that might be the Starbucks, though. I swear, they’re like a plague, popping up all over the place. 

The tour is still going well. I might even get used to this tour bus life! I miss you all, of course - my love especially to Henry - but it’s exhilarating, getting up on stage every night in front of so many people. The crowds are huge, Swan, larger than I ever could have imagined. I know they’re mostly here for Tink, but there’s always applause and a handful of people singing along to my songs, and it’s the best kind of adrenaline. Leaves me with an itch in my fingers and a new song stuck in my head. I’ll work it out later. 

I’m so happy to hear that Henry is doing so well in kindergarten; he’s always been a little social butterfly. I’ll bet that he makes tons of friends; I’m glad he loves it so far. I’ll call soon, I promise. 

Yours, 

-Killian

  October 20th

Swan - 

Happy Birthday, darling! Technically, I’m mailing this a few days early, but I hope it’ll reach you just in time. I’m sorry to be missing the festivities this year - just know that I’ll be thinking of you all day, wishing I was there to celebrate with you. Keep an eye out for a package or two - and before you even try to protest that I don’t need to, they’re just little things, love. Stuff that made me think of you. Tokens of my affection, if you will. It’s your birthday, anyways - live a little! Let us spoil you for once.

Texas is… less than impressive. Large? Yes, in a way that feels almost performative. It’s missing some kind of charm, at least to me. Then again, I’ve never been much for cowboy hats; maybe that’s the real problem, here. Regardless, I’d gladly take the northeast fall colors any day. 

Make a good wish, alright? I hope the year to come is as wonderful as you are.

Yours,

-Killian

  November 26th

Dear Henry - 

Happy Thanksgiving! Did you have a good holiday? Did Granny make enough macaroni and cheese for you to eat your fill? I know that’s your favorite.

Thank you for watching the parade! I was really excited to be in it too. Sadly, the powers that be wouldn’t let me take home the Snoopy balloon for you, but I did manage to get a couple of handfuls of confetti for you. It should be inside this envelope. You would have loved it, Henry - the confetti was flying everywhere and I saw so many really cool floats up close and personal. We’ll maybe have to go together in a couple of years, aye? We’ll ask your mum.

Draw lots and lots of turkeys for me, little mate - I know you’re really good at that. And give your mum and Liam a great big hug for me!

Love,

-Killian

  CELEBRITY FILE EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH EVERYONE’S NEW FAVORITE HEARTTHROB - KILLIAN JONES

… In researching this piece, I heard over and over about how personal Jones’ lyrics were, how well they captured every feeling and variation of being in love. Every fan out there seems to feel like his words are written just for them, like a window into their soul. So when I finally met with the man himself, I couldn’t help but ask: Was there anyone who inspired such lyrical devotion? Some woman - or man! - in his own life who inspired such moving words?

“You know, the thing I’ve always liked in listening to music on my own is being able to recognize a little bit of myself in someone else’s words,” Jones told me in response to the question. “It always made me feel a little less alone - a little more connected to other people, I guess, to hear that they experienced or saw things the same way I do. It’s very rewarding to hear that people feel the same way about my music. I’m of the opinion that music should be a universal experience, and when I write, I write words that I hope other people can see a bit of themselves in.”

Something about that blush and the nervous scratch behind his ear that fans know so well tells me he’s holding out on us…

  December 11th

Dearest Swan - 

The holidays have crept right up on us, haven’t they? Do us both the favor of imagining me singing that sickly-sweet “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” nonsense, because it’s true. December 20th. Mark your calendar, and don’t blame me if I fall asleep on the car ride home from the airport. It’s all this travel, you see - takes it right out of you. You can’t blame a man for that, love.

(Also, please ignore that I’ll be flying in from Chicago. I still plan to claim jet lag. That one hour difference, love, it’s a real killer.)

Is there anything in particular that Henry especially wants this year? I’ve done my best to pick up things for you and Liam and everyone else, but I know the lad’s tastes change practically hour to hour, and he’s probably got a whole list stashed somewhere. I want to get him something he’ll really like instead of just wandering through the toy store in a panic, if at all possible.

Counting the hours until I see you again,

-Killian

  January 8th

Emma - 

I don’t even know where to start. How can I properly apologize for what happened at New Year’s? I struggle, because I can’t truthfully say that I regret it. I don’t think I’ve made it a secret all these years that I’m helplessly enthralled by you and everything you are. There are words - big words, three words - that rattle around in my heart every day, but I know you’re not willing to hear them yet. I’ll be here, love, whenever you’re ready.

I know you’re scared, Emma, but I’m begging you - just talk to me. We can forget all about this, if that’s what you want, but you’ve got to talk to me. Every day I don’t hear from you is just a little bit harder. I’ll follow your lead, whatever you say.

You’ll always be my best friend, Swan - no matter what else happens.

-Killian

  January 20th

I kissed her, Liam.

I’m sorry; that’s not much of a way to start a letter is it? How are you? Everything going well? 

But I’m sorry, I’ve got to talk about this and get it off my chest. Because I kissed her, Liam. Emma. I kissed Emma. And then it kind of… all went to shit. I guess that’s just like me, isn’t it? Give me one fine day of plain sailing weather, and I can turn it to stormy seas.

And I know where she’s coming from, really - I know better than almost anyone about how she’s been left behind too many times. As much as it hurts to have this sudden radio silence, I know she’s just trying to protect herself. But I love her, Liam. I’ve loved her forever. This isn’t just “distance makes the heart grow fonder,” or something stupid like that. I should have acted a long time ago. I should have done a thousand different things, but here we are.

If you have any ideas of how to fix this, please, let me know. I hope you’re having a happier new year than I so far.

-Killian

  February 2nd

Dear Emma - 

I can’t tell you how good it was to hear from you the other day. You may think that there’s nothing interesting about all the goings-on in the bar, but that particular kind of nothing is soothing. It’s like a little piece of home in every email. Besides, I know that the bar is never quite as boring as we always joked. And I’d welcome any word from you anyways, after how much I’ve missed you.

We’re in Paris right now. It’s gorgeous, truly - I’ll have to bring you and the lad back sometime. I know you’d call me a nerd, but I’ve been hitting museums - the Louvre, the Musee d’Orsay, the Rodin museum, etc. I made sure to do the Eiffel Tower too, just for you, even though the crowds were utterly terrible. Stuffed my face with pastries too, all on your behalf.

(Okay, you caught me, Swan - the pastries are for me too. The croissants, Swan! The bread! I surely won’t fit in my trousers if we’re here any longer, but I can’t regret it. I swear, I’d ship some back to you if I thought they’d survive the trip.)

We’ll have to schedule time for a call home soon - I find myself so often longing for your voice. I love your emails, but there’s something to a phone call that can’t be replaced. 

Yours,

-Killian

  March 11th

Dear Henry - 

Thank you for sending me that drawing! I love it. It’s taped to the inside of my guitar case now, where I can look at it every day. I especially like the yellow you used for your mum’s hair. You’ll have to thank her for scanning that for us on my behalf. That’s good form, you know.

I’m in Amsterdam right now. Your mum or Liam can show you where that is on a map; it’s in Western Europe. I went someplace I think you’d love today; it’s called Madurodam. It’s this entire miniature city, with little airplanes and zoo animals and everything. I had a lot of fun exploring it, and I think you would too.

A graduation, you say? From kindergarten? I wouldn’t miss it for the world, lad. I’ll be home, no matter what.

I miss you, Henry, and your mother too. It always brightens my day to see an email from you.

Sealed with a great big hug,

-Killian

  April 21st

Emma - 

London is rainy and cold. I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything different, but here I am, surprised all the same. It’s hard to convince myself to go do any of the tourist-y things when the weather is like this, so I’m stuck inside, writing to you. Not that that’s ever a hardship...

You’d hardly recognize me with this get-up I’ve found myself in for the show tonight - the heavy eyeliner especially. Gone are the days of some beat-up tee - though I think you might like the vest. Getting dressed feels like slipping into some other persona. I worry a lot of the time about whether I’ve changed beyond recognition, or if I’m still the same person you know. That’s the man I want to be, you know - someone you can be proud of, but somehow still that same poor bastard in the bar, just trying to write words that mean something. I hope I am. But you know how it goes - distance kills the best of intentions. 

I miss you terribly, Swan, and Henry too. Hell, even Liam. These letters are all that ground me some days, I fear. On the loneliest nights, I reread your emails and imagine you’re talking to me instead. It’s always just a too-brief daydream, unfortunately.

I’ve grown rather maudlin, haven’t I? That won’t do at all. I blame it on the rain. Here’s a happier note for us both: I’ll be home late next month. Perhaps I’ll have to make one of those paper chains Henry’s so fond of; if I do, I’ll include a picture with my next letter. 

Counting the days. Until then - 

Love, Killian

  May 17th

My Swan - 

By the time you get this, I’ll be home with you and the lad again, and hopefully have already told you in person everything I want to say now:

I love you, Emma. Every word of every song is for you. I’ve loved you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, and no time or distance or groupie is ever going to change that. I’m yours, love, body and soul. And I have faith that life can never tear us apart as long as that’s true.

I’m coming home, love. And my home is you.

Yours (in every sense),

-Killian

  BREAKING NEWS: KILLIAN JONES’ SECRET LOVER?

Bad news for all the fangirls and Killy-Tink shippers out there: Bad boy popstar Killian Jones appears to be off the market. The singer, 27, was spotted locking lips with an unidentified blonde at the Storybrooke Memorial Gardens, just outside of Boston, where Jones calls home. Sources have long speculated that Jones has a secret girlfriend back home, and this just might be confirmation. Check back as this story continues to develop. StarWatchOnline remains YOUR #1 celebrity news site… 

~~~~~

Tagging: @snowbellewells, @profdanglaisstuff, @kmomof4, @winterbaby89, @teamhook, @ohmightydevviepuu, @optomisticgirl, @spartanguard, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @scientificapricot, @searchingwardrobes

The Adventures of a King and his Queen

Part Three

Summary: Ghosts of the past visit. Will Roman become a monster?

Warning: lots of angst and pain.

Silently, the four of you went back to nightclub.

“Take me to the back door.”

Once there, you and Doll-Face got Roman upstairs up to the penthouse. You walked him to the closet, “Fuck,” Roman barked, shaking his head, “At least they didn’t take my right arm.” His blue eyes were frozen chips. You and Doll-Face had managed to cover the bandages and dress him in a fresh suit and glove. After some struggle, you slipped the glove onto his only remaining hand, he grabbed yours.

“Y/N, this is gonna be a long fucking road ahead of us. He swallowed.

“I know, but I will be right here.” You were combing his hair so it looked good around the mask. “I will always be here.” You gave him a soft smile.

Wincing, he held up his hand gesturing his new face. “I am sorry I’m no longer the man who wooed you, who you fell in love with. Now, I truly look like the monster I really am. It can be seen by everyone.”

His words made your heart hurt, acting on impulse, and grabbed gently both sides of his face and kissed the now black cool lips. “You are still the man I love.”

You felt, as those lips kissed you back, he exhaled raggedly. “Y/N who the fuck did I pay off in heaven to get you.”

“No one. You were just who you are and I still love you. We will always love you.” Meeting his eyes, you smiled and brought his one day to your growing tummy.

“Damn, Y/N you might. But it will scare the baby. Their daddy is a monster.”

You shook your head. “No, they will love you like I do.”

“If you say so.” He remarked bitterly.

You adjusted the sling, so it looked liked his arm that was now gone forever was simply broken.

It would be awhile before a prosthetic would be made. Till then no one would know that they stole one of his limbs. Taking a comb, a final time you made his hair hang just right over the features of his new face.

He looked in the mirror. “Alright, let’s get down there and show them they messed with the wrong fucking man.”

*****

It was a usual Friday night at the Black Mask. Before you had headed down, you changed into something more appropriate. A sweet little dress with just the right heels. You watched as he managed to get to the center stage with flare. Singer giving him space. That was the Roman, you loved.

“Moving forward, I will take either a seltzer with lime or a ginger ale with some cherries.” You told to the bartender when he came over. He looked confused.

“It’s better for my health.” You were still in that early stage of the pregnancy. You were in no mood to tell anyone, just yet.

He nodded and smiled. “But still a martini for boss?”

You smiled and nodded. “You better believe it.”

You really wished for a real drink but you would have be strong. You were glad the bartender didn’t ask anything further about your drink. You didn’t feel like sharing the news at the moment, especially after what happened a few mere hours ago. As you took your drinks, you made your way over to the stage.

*****

Roman, made a slicing motion under his throat. The room instantly silenced.

“How is everyone doing?”

People held up glasses, their hands and cheers rang and bounced off the walls.

“That’s how we do it here at the Black Mask!” He paused and smiled. As you he looked down at you, he smiled. He took his drink from your hand and held it up. “Drinks on the house!” He downed the drink, then put the glass down on the piano. As drew close to him, he pulled you close. As you kissed him on the cheek, more cheers and woops filled the club.

“Roman....Roman...” a small group in the crowd chanted..and it grew..and grew.

“It’s working.” He whispered to you, he made a gesture after enjoying the chanting. “Alright, you’re in luck, shots on the house too!” He announced.

Together, you went and sat at table that the two of you sat at when he wanted to look out and watch things.

*****

A week later, you went downstairs and found Doll-Face. You found her wrapped up in the shawl. Your heart broke.

“Doll-Face?”

She looked up at you and rubbed her eyes.

“I buried him.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have helped.”

“I’m sorry.” She sighed. “But you’re pregnant I didn’t want to strain you.”

“Alright. But I’d like to visit. Perhaps the next time?”

She nodded. “I think he’d like that.” She paused. “I am going to get that bitch.” Her eyes turned to stone and she stood up.

“Please do.” You paused. “Doll-Face, please don’t leave.” You pressed your lips together. “I know there are memories here but I feel safe with you near.”

“I won’t be going anywhere for awhile.”

“Good. Thank you.”

****

You tried to work on new projects but it got increasingly more and more hard. It was because the baby was growing but it was because you occupied with finding away to help Roman. You were determined to find away to get that mask off his face. Seeing how angry he was made you said. You knew he had always been a bit and also liked a bit of a surprise when he carried things out but now the mask stole that from him.

You loved him no matter what. He was your man, he would be the father of the baby you were carrying. It killed you that he only would get really close to you in dark of the night. You could feel that he had grown ashamed of himself in the mask. Nothing you said seemed to make him feel better.

****

2 months later

You were in the nursery, the walls were finally painted. With the use of his good arm and the prosthetic Roman helped you bring a rocking chair. It slipped from his good hand.

“Fuck!” He barked. He reached down, grabbed it and lifted it again. “Let’s get it that in there.”

He couldn’t get a good grasp on it.

“I wish I could fucking do something right.” Once, it was in there he sat down in the rocking chair. He covered his face with his hand. “Oh, Y/N I am sorry.” Tears, fell from his blue eyes. Roman, never was one for crying. He had not cry over the death Victor, but now he did.

You went and knelt beside him. “Roman, it’s ok.” You’re still negotiating with your new limb. “And look you already have stopped using the cane!” You happily pointed out.

“Our baby will be fucking terrified of me.” He spat out. Anger and bitterness brimmed in his voice.

“No, it won’t.” You stood up and took his hand. “Feel that?” You took his hand. “It’s kicking. They can’t wait to meet their daddy.”

Roman’s voice lightened. “They’re strong.”

“Well it’s our baby.”

****

That had been the only time you had seen Roman cry. You wished desperately you could find a way to desperately get the mask off his face. To change what happened. You continued to search high and low there had to be some way.

Doll-Face and Roman, along with Tattoo were acquiring more territory. The newspapers spoke of blood on the streets. Frankly, you did not care.

After, what happened you wanted blood as well. They killed Victor, a man who had been violent but there were plenty of others out there who where much worse. What they took from your Roman that night filled you with rage.

Getting ready for the baby consumed your hours during the day but at night you looked for a way to restore Roman to his former glory.

In the violence, that increased you began to see less and less of him. He had more to handle, to take care of. You had tried to, touch him...to kiss him but he had begun shrugged off all advances. He’d disappear into his office or stay in his corner of the club for all hours of the night.

******

As the months on went on the frequency of Roman waking up screaming beside you became common place. Because of that, it broke your heart when sometimes, he’d retire to his office and sleep on his sofa.

Waking with a start, one particular morning, the sky was still a cold bluish purple. His screams had made you heart race faster. You saw as his shadow looked over at you, breathing heavily. The shadow resembled his old self. You yearned for those days.

“Y/N, are you there?” He rasped.

“Yes, are you ok?” You whispered to the shadow.

“Yeah. “ He mumbled.

You felt as he shifted on the bed. Your eyes finally adjusting in the darkness, you saw that he turned his back to you and was silent once again.

You reached for him but you pulled back your hand. You couldn’t handle it if he were only to shrug it off again.

When you awoke up later that morning, he wasn’t there. Sighing, you got up and went about your business. Taking your vitamins for the baby. You went and looked out the window.

Ghosts of the past, swirled around you.

Moulin Rouge was playing on the tv, Doll-Face and you were drinking absinthe when Roman and Victor finally finished their games of pool. The girl talk and the gushing over the male had come to in end. Though when, Come What May was sung or Roxanne played you two sang at the top of your lungs despite the looks the boys had on their faces. Their lips curling, wondering what made the two of you enjoy such a silly movie.

There had been another night where the girl talk went on with no interruptions. You both shared stories where Roman and Victor would surely blush or perhaps not but it had been fun to be able talk to another girl who understood your love for Roman.

There were was some of those crazy afternoons, where you all had lounged...yelled...laughed and conspired while playing an array of board games. Popcorn had been munched on. Hot chocolate sipped despite the chocolate mustaches it would cause.

There was the day of Thanksgiving! All four of you cooked and baked. Happiness and laughter had filled the otherwise empty club.

You remembered Roman, making hot chocolate and popcorn just for you to enjoy watching the Thanksgiving day parade with him.

There was also that night Roman, helped you the night you almost died. The chloroform a bunch of thugs used on you. That was the night Doll-Face and Victor carried out revenge in your name. Your friendship with them sealed. You had always known Roman carried...loved you but he had always been spare in his use of words. That night he spoke and showed you.

******

Holding onto the memories in your heart, you straightened your shoulders, you were going to go and see him. Enough was enough. Going, to his office you heard him, you knocked and went in.

“What the fuck, Y/N? Did I tell you that you could come in?” His voice was ice. It felt like a slap in the face.

You walked right back out. You went to your studio.

That’s when you finally let yourself cry. Till that moment, you had not. Maybe he had been right. Maybe the mask really was turning him into the monster the press said he was.

*****

A hand came to rest on your shoulder. Your heart shook. You remembered feeling his hands on your shoulders before he left that night. The pain of the memory was unbearable. Those bitches had destroyed your life.

“Y/N.” His voice was a whisper.

You didn’t nor could you answer right away.

His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Look, now, I’m just the monster that was hiding behind that handsome face.”

Your heart broke at his words. You turned to face him, “You can’t let them win.”

You stood up, “Roman, I love you. Our baby loves you.”

He looked away. When he looked at you, his eyes were far away. “You love the man who could have had anyone. Now people shrink away and whisper.”

“I don’t. I’ve have wanted to kiss you...to be in your arms for so long that I hurt because I barely remember those times.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Damn you.” You wrapped your arms around him and sighed when you felt his arm.

“I’m barely floating.”

“Hold onto me and we can do this together.”

He kissed you then. His lips may have become that black metal but his tongue was soft and warm. Easily, you melted as your tongues finally met once again in what had felt like a lifetime.

*****

Sometime, later that afternoon a message was sent to you. Your heart lifted. Perhaps, now you could finally bring some peace to Roman and yourself.

******

You peered into Roman’s office, him, Doll-Face and Tattoo were plotting something yet again. They hung over a huge map. You wrapped your scarf around your head and headed to the elevator. It came soon, it wasn’t long before you hailed a cab and headed to Chinatown.

*****

Taking a breath, you entered the restaurant. You were there for your baby and Roman. You could do this you, you thought to yourself.

Six men drew their guns on you, you gasped and brought your hands to your stomach. But then you swallowed, you were not some cowering girl. Reaching up you took off your sunglass, you tossed them on table beside you and then the scarf you were wearing.

“I am Mrs. Y/N Sionis. I am the one hoping to have a talk with Ras Al Guhl.”

“We will have to search you.”

“Certainly.” You put your purse down and held up your hands. “Please be careful. I am almost due.”

The one closest to you out his gun down and preceded to pat you down. “Oh! You really are pregnant.” He paused and grimaced at you. “I am terribly sorry. He apologized.

“It’s alright its part of the reason I am here.”

“She’s clean.” He looked at you. “You can sit here.”

“Thank you.”

A guy came in where a fancy robe and smiled broadly. “Why hello Mrs. Sionis! Welcome, let us talk come and sit down.”

You stood and rose an eyebrow. “You are not him.” You just knew in your gut that it wasn’t him. Being around Roman, you just knew this guy didn’t feel right.

“Yes. I am. How dare you challenge me.”

“I don’t mean to offend you, but you are not the man.” You paused, your hand balled into a fist. Your anger was growing. “Now please listen. In these last few months, I’ve tried to find something to bring my Roman back to his former self.” You took a breath to continue. “I am not doing it because I miss his handsome face.” You looked around the room.” I am doing it for my, for our child. Our child, should have a complete father. One that can hug him with both arms, or be around him and not be scared of what has become of his face.”

A man appeared behind the other. The man in the fancy robe, moved aside. “Mrs. Sionis, you must be aware of what kind of man you are pleading a case for.”

“Look, I know Roman had a violent past. And a violent future. But I and our baby didn’t deserve this.”

You took another breath. Rubbing your stomach as you felt a kick. “There is some good in him. I’ve seen it.” You looked at the man, came out from behind the man in the fancy robes, you looked him in the eye. “Also from what I know, the connections, the territories he has are intact, despite it all. That should show how strong he could be as an ally.”

The man pulled on his rather fancy, goatee. “Mrs. Sionis, you make several valid points. I will extend an olive branch, if he accepts then I will allow him access to one of my springs and if things continue to go well, perhaps since you have honor I will allow to bath in it as well, after the baby.”

“Thank you, thank you.” You said, your heart racing. “How can I tell you he accepts?” He slid a card on the table over to you.

You took it, and smiled.

“Go now, he has one week. If he doesn’t accept, I only offer once. He says no then that’s it. No second chances...no negotiations”

“I understand. Thank you.”

You headed back to the club...to Roman.

You were over the moon elated as you made your way back. You could only hope that Roman will accept and life would begin to look much brighter.

@darling-i-read-it @spn-obession @vintagemichelle91 @xxxeatyourh3artoutxxx @ewanfuckingmcgregor @zodiyack @angel98624 @starwarsprequelfangirl @nebulastarr @emyliabernstein @thepeachreads @itsknife2meetu @whyisgmora @theblackmaskclub @omghappilyuniquebouquetlove @nomnomnomnamja @poe-kadot26 @top-rumbelle-fan @primadonna-girl23 @hazel-nuss @vcat55 @feelthemadnessinside @rosionis @queenofgotham800 @brookisbi @peachthatdrinkslemonade @johallzy @foreverhockeytrash @frostypenguinoz @scarlett-black1 @smoltiddygf @starwarsslytherin @shantellorraine

Fight or Flight

February 20th “Imagine the punch-bag is Sam’s face and hit harder, Fee.” “Harry, I’m tired. How about-” “If you even suggest a nap, I’ll have to kill you.” “Naps and cuddles.”

“Tempting, but I’m trying to be a decent teacher here. I imagine in the history of teaching, not once has it been well received when a tutor had a nap and cuddled with a student.” “Must you always be so sensible?” “Must you always suggest naps?” “Yes.” I loved our one on one sessions, but sometimes I really wished he would take my nap suggestions seriously. He worked me to the bone, and as brilliant and beneficial as that was, sometimes a nap felt essential. I hugged the bag for support, sticking my bottom lip out, sulking. Grinning, he leaned inwards, kissed me briefly, then distanced again. “C’mon.” He encouraged. “You’ve got this, boss.” “That doesn’t boost me, it just turns me on.” “Boss?” “Mm.” “But you are the boss.” He smirked. “The girls will be here any minute. Don’t fucking tempt me, Styles.” “A few more hits, and I’ll reward you.” His suggestive tone was enough all by itself to make me stand back in the correct position to hit the bag successfully, spying the way he was biting his lip from the corner of my eye, watching me finally do as I’d been told just because I knew I had something to gain from it. I did as much as I could, which felt like a good few minutes worth when it really must have been seconds before giving up entirely, turning to face him and letting my neck loosen, falling back so I was facing the ceiling. “Please tell me that’s enough.” I groaned. His grin was unspeakably wide as he closed the gap between us, immediately grabbing the back of my neck to prop my head up and push his lips to mine, tongue entering my mouth even though he was still grinning madly. He backed me across the room until my back hit the wall, the kiss deepening as he pushed his body against mine. “Harry-” “It’s locked.” He read my mind, gasping against my lips as he buried his hand into the front on my leggings, sliding the tips of his fingers over my clit before one finger pushed into me, tongue stroking mine. I cursed against his lips, my posture slackening, glad that his body was pushed so ferociously against mine, otherwise I may have ended up on the floor. He made me weak with atrocious ease. We had been experiencing that sort of bliss for over a month. We had been serious and we had been growing and learning and acting like a real couple since the middle of January, and the more I thought about it and saw how well we were doing, the more acknowledging our romance around of friends was starting to appeal to me. All I knew for sure was that they loved me and they loved Harry, so why wouldn’t they love the two of us being together? I had savoured the secrecy and how that had allowed us the time to mess up and fall out and make sense of the sublime bond we so clearly shared, but I had been feeling so beautifully settled with him that I was slowly starting to lean towards the idea of everyone knowing. I was holding myself back for his sake. I didn’t want to mention it to him too soon because I knew full well that he wouldn’t be ready for that. Harry moved slowly in all he did, and I had to accept that pace, accept how unfamiliar all of this was to him and the fact that he could still scare off if I didn’t let him do this how he needed to. I knew he would think that no one knowing what was happening between us was a large contribution to how well things were going, and I didn’t doubt that either, but I was really starting to believe that things could be even better. When I thought about the people closest to me knowing, I felt giddy rather than grim like I had only weeks earlier pondering the same thing, and it seemed like a good sign to me. The truth was, I was utterly besotted with him and wanted people to know that. I raised my leg to allow him more space to play with me, Harry instinctively hooking his arm behind my knee to help me keep my limb afloat, thumb pushing up against my clit. He hadn’t stopped kissing me, even when my lips were relatively unresponsive, too full of pleasure to comply with his eager mouth. I had known it wouldn’t be long until there was a knock on the door, but it still happened far too soon. “Fuck sake.” I groaned through a bitter breath. “I mean… I knew it was gunna happen, and I’m still fuming.” “Are you close?” “Um… Not close enough. They’ll knock again any sec-” And they did, Chloe beginning to shout absolute nonsense as she waited for Harry to open the door to let the two of them in. They’d gotten much rowdier since they’d learnt Harry gave me those private lessons, and they’d always turn up just a little bit early and act like fools, as expected. Harry removed his hand from the area I really wished it could stay, tilting his head to the right before leaning in and planting a small kiss against my protruded lips, looking soft and sweet as he did. “Stay at mine? After the pub?” He asked quietly. “At this stage, do you even need to ask?” “Aren’t you bored of me?” “I’m starting to think that’s impossible.” I cooed. “YOO-HOO, HARRY, OPEN THE DOOR!” We heard Chloe from outside. “ALFIE, TELL HIM TO LET US IN!” “Do as you’re told, Harry.” I sniggered. “Yes, boss. But do me a favour and look a bit more innocent, okay? Having you backed up against a wall with the hem of your pants down might raise a few eyebrows.” I was grinning away to myself as I pulled my pants up properly, walking towards the bag at the back of the room as Harry went towards the door, Libby and Chloe practically falling into the room in seemingly high spirits. “Why does it always take you ten years to open the door?” Chloe asked him. “That’s a bit hyperbolic.” Harry snickered. The two of them got to chatting as Libby came over to me, taking me in for a big hug, which was rather unlike her. “What’s this? Affection? Who drugged you?” I giggled, hugging her back. “God, can’t I hug my best mate? Can’t I be in a cuddly mood?” I squeezed her tight, swaying from side to side for a while, my smile almost painfully wide. She wasn’t usually the affectionate type anyway, and since the whole Louis thing she’d been even colder than usual, not in a rude or unlikeable way, but she hadn’t quite been herself. I felt as though she’d built a bit of a wall to protect herself, like acting unfeeling would convince me, Louis and herself that she was unfazed by the way he hadn’t wanted their friendship to shift into something more. I was glad to see her softening again, if not softening excessively given it was her.

“Oh no, Harry, I can’t, no!” “It’ll be fine!” He chuckled, arms wrapped around my waist from behind, head hanging over my shoulder. “Can’t I do it over your head?” “Nah, that’s breaking the rules. You have to hold it over your own head.” We were in the kitchen baking together, music playing in the background, and Harry had challenged me to try and make meringues for the first time. According to him, the only way I could tell if I’d mixed it properly was to hang the bowl upside down over my head, and if it didn’t all collapse into my hair, apparently that meant it was ready. To say I was a little sceptical was an understatement. I didn’t trust him at all. “Honestly, if you’re winding me up and this goes all over my head, you can consider us done.” “That would be nothing to do with me. That will only happen if you haven’t mixed it sufficiently. You’ll only have yourself to blame.” “I’m just not sure this is a real thing. I think you’re doing this on purpose so I make a fool out of myself.” “I’m offended that you don’t trust me, Fee-Fee.” He kissed my neck. “Have some faith. Do it.” “Put your head right next to mine.” I commanded. “I’ll do it over both our heads.” “Fine.” He lifted, moving his arms from around my waist so they were wrapped loosely around my neck instead, laying them against my chest. “Go on then. Get it done.” I lifted the bowl off the counter with deliberate sluggishness, taking a deep breath in and squealing before my arms flew into the air, dangling the bowl upside down over our heads with my eyes screwed shut, expecting the worst. When I felt nothing, I dared open one eye, and then as soon as I truly felt safe I looked up, saw the motionless white goo hovering over my head. I turned around to face him when he distanced, taking a step back from me and holding his arms out in a way that screamed how disappointed he was in me when he’d clearly been telling the truth. I still had the bowl over my head. “Sorry for not trusting you.” I cringed, giggling. “Well… it might not have been your worst instinct…” With too much speed for me to even fathom, he reached his hand out and slapped it firmly on the bottom of the bowl, pushing down with just the right amount of force to make sure it whacked right over my damn head without hurting me, thudding into place. The room went dark and I stood there in a state of shock, hearing him cackling away to himself and feeling the mix practically melting into my hair. For some time, I was too dumbfounded to do anything other than listen to him laugh at me, but eventually I lifted the bowl back up off my head, seeing how he’d had to balance himself against the counter thanks to his laughter, shooting him the dirtiest look I could muster, meringue dripping through my messy mane. The bastard started laughing even more. I scooped some of the blend into my hand, Harry catching onto my plans a little too late, backing away from me. “No!” He cried through his sniggering. “Not the curls, anything but the curls!” “You’re a little shit, Harry Styles!” I pelted a good chunk that hit him right in the face, laughing as it burst across his features. He rushed back to me, trying to steal the bowl from my hand, the two of us squabbling for the next few minutes, meringue going everywhere; in his hair, all over our faces, all over the floor, on his walls, playful but competitive, laughing and growling as we fought. He grabbed at my face to pull my lips to his, which I saw as the perfect opportunity to slap some more mixture against his cheek, chuckling mischievously before he went straight back in for the kill, pulling at my waist and thrusting his lips together with mine, slipping slightly before he backed me up against the counter, utterly unable to keep his hands off me. I ran my fingers through his hair as we exchanged a breathless embrace, ruining his curls all over again, but at that point we were beyond the point of caring. The quarrel was over and the lust was back, this indisputable desire to devour one another, where everything other than us was blank, bleak, boring, yet our bodies were bursting with colours, so bright and vivid they were blinding. He took my weight and hoisted me up onto the counter, my hands reaching for his belt and snapping it loose with ease, without ever looking down or breaking our kiss. He grunted, reaching to my hips in the hope of pulling my knickers off but ripping them, too fierce, too fervent. “Fuck, sorry.” He gasped. “You owe me.” “I’d be honoured to take you lingerie shopping.” He smirked. “Might as well rip them completely off then.” The sound of the material tearing in his hand made me quake, soon taking the tattered lace and throwing it to the side of them room, yanking his jeans down forcefully, his underwear dragged alongside them. I hitched towards the edge of the counter, perfectly placed for the moment Harry thrust into me, our foreheads bashing together as soon as we connected. “Fuck.” He ground. “Fuck, you’re amazing.” I slung my arms over his shoulders, nibbling at my bottom lip as my body tingled, both in a response to how he felt and the words he’d said. There was this certain twinge and husk in his voice that verified his honesty, like the words had just poured from his lips with little control. I was absolutely loving being so passionate and yet so silly with someone. What was happening between us had breathed this new life into me, made me see relationships and companionship so differently to how I had before. I knew it was early and that it was bound to be exciting at that stage, but there was this feeling in my gut that told me what we had was distinct, unique, something that had the potential to alter the two of us in ways we couldn’t possibly anticipate. There was something special there and it was piercingly palpable. He propped himself up on his tiptoes so that he was perfectly level with my pelvis, shooting his hips forward and pressing his tongue against my bottom lip before it sunk into my mouth, his desperate hands clawing at what little clothing I had on. I placed my hand against his cheek, expecting to feel his soft skin beneath my touch but instead finding more meringue, my laughter bubbling between our lips as he pulled me even closer, his grin growing. My stomach felt like it was on fire, both joy and pleasure scorching a trail through my body, blistering fragments of bliss all through my insides. It was strange to feel so intimidated by something that was happening inside my own body, but it was overwhelming to be experiencing something that felt so prodigious, so out of my control even though it was happening within me. He was grunting with every move he made, trembling, and I hoped he felt as floored by it all as I did. I hoped his body had that same welcomed yet unnerving warmth that mine did. He was so full of passion, apparent in his roaming hands, his commanding kiss, his perfect thrusts. I ran my hands downwards, veering over his neck and then stroking over his tense arms, amazed by their width, how robust they felt. Next, my hands were on his hips, thumbs pressing momentarily against his hip-bone before I moved behind him, my nails clawing lightly at his behind, feeling the power of his thrusts beneath my steady touch. I let his skin go loose, leaning back on the counter and throwing my head back, my arms propping me up as Harry kissed down my neck and my chest, soon taking my nipple into his mouth, my entire body reacting by raising to his touch, speckles growing over my skin because of him, for him. “Harry, that feels so good.” I was short of breath, flagging. I widened my arms to try and find a position more comfortable, but my palm came into contact with a splatter of food created during our earlier fight, and I lost my balance completely. The top of my body totally collapsed, my head twatting against the wall behind me with an almighty thud, immediately bursting out in a fit of laughter despite the pain. “What the fuck, are you okay?” Harry yelped, dragging me upwards. I couldn’t stop laughing as he pulled me close, reaching his hand up to search through my hair and feel over the area I’d hit. When I managed to unscrew my eyes and I saw his face, still covered in mixture, and my laughter increased, Harry’s smile growing but his head shaking. “Does it hurt?” He asked. “Oh my god.” I cackled. “Fee, does it hurt?” “Yeah, it kills but-” “Oi, Fee-Fee, just… let me feel for a bump. Stop giggling!” He tried. “You could be concussed or-” “It’s not that bad.” “Well I’d rather check. Stay still for a sec.” I bit my lip to contain my giggles, resting my forehead against his. He found the right spot, only pressing tenderly against the area but it stung, my left eye scrunching shut. I found it so adorable how seriously he was taking all of it. “Does that hurt?” He asked quietly. “Mm.” “Shit. There’s a bit of a bump there. You wanna stop?” I shook my head, but he didn’t seem fully convinced. He reached his hand up to my face, brushing his thumb beneath my eyes, checking over my face in silence for a few moments. “I promise I’m fine.” I told him, my laughter dying out. “Sure?” “Yeah. Promise you don’t need to look after me.” “I kinda like looking after you.” He shrugged. “Even though… m’not sure you need it.” “The bump on my head begs to differ.” He sniggered, removing his fingers from the swelling and organising some of my hair for me, then wiping away some of the dessert mix that was still on my face. I returned the favour, his eyes creasing as I did, cheeks chubby and crow’s-feet large. We spent a short while in silence, the tips of my hair being twirled by Harry’s fingers, his eyes fixed on my face. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as attracted to you as I am right now.” He told me quietly. Bashful, I dropped my head, attempting to ignore his coquettish smirk, but it was impossible. I couldn’t even shrug it off, tell him he was being silly, because I knew he wasn’t just saying it for the sake of saying it, to make me go all giddy and coy. He’d simply looked at me, felt it, and said it. No pretences, no showboating, just honesty. Being with him was a thing of beauty.

February 21st I loved how bright Harry’s room was in the morning. It seemed no matter the weather, the sun would burst through the dusty glass, scour through the green leaves that sat soaking up the rays, and wake the two of us with serenity and ease. But as I opened my eyes to another day, I noticed that Harry was already awake, sat at the end of his bed, head in his hand, his back taut, and phone pressed against his ear. “I don’t wanna sell it.” I heard him grumble, quiet for a few seconds as whoever was on the other end of the call replied. “I know that, but I don’t… I don’t know.” I extended my leg, gently kicking his back to make him aware that I was awake and his conversation was no longer a private one. He turned around to gage me, producing a smile for me even though it was a noticeably weak one, reaching down by his side to lay his hand on my ankle, greeting me physically and calmly as he turned his face back to the windows. But he didn’t move. I’d really thought he’d take the conversation elsewhere, but he remained where he was, rubbing his thumb over my skin in a soothing manner, listening carefully to the caller. “Where?” He mumbled, then seemed frustrated by the reply he received. “For fuck sake. When?” I sat myself up, hitching towards the end of the bed so I was close to him, reaching to pinch at the bottom of his neck, kneed over the area in the hope of relaxing his rigid frame. I didn’t have a clue who he might be talking to, or what they were saying that was leaving him so morose.  He seemed miserable, frustrated, exasperated, tired. He reacted to my touch, if only slightly, freeing a moderate sigh and lifting his head. “Fine… Yeah, I’ll be there. I’ll get the soonest flight I can.” My stomach dropped at his words. “But it’s just a discussion. M’still not sure.” I wondered if it was something to do with his mother, if he was still in touch with someone who was looking for where she lived, how to get in touch with her, but I couldn’t make much sense of what he was saying. He hung up rapidly, dropping his phone down to the floor without a care. I hated seeing him so blue. “Is everything okay?” I asked gingerly, moving to sit right at his side. “Everything’s fine.” His words and his smile were unpersuasive, turning to me and laying his hand on my bare thigh. “You sure?” He nodded, shifting closer and then leaning in to kiss me tenderly, his mouth slow and subtle. It was only a brief embrace before he’d pulled away, kissing the tip of my nose for a moment, so solemn that I could barely stand looking at his face. “I have to go away for a while.” “How long?” “Just a few days or… weeks, m’not sure.” He was disappearing again. I felt like I was going to cry, even though that seemed completely ridiculous. I had this bad feeling about it, like maybe he wouldn’t come back for some reason, I wasn’t sure why. But at least this time I’d had some warning. The last two times he’d left, I hadn’t known about it until I’d seen the sign on the door leading into his gym. At least this time he was actually telling me; that felt like progress. I looked down, forcing myself not to cry because he hadn’t really given me a reason to. I guess I was paranoid, more than anything. I was worried something bad would happen, that he was thinking of moving somewhere else again. “Okay.” I accepted sombrely. “Sorry.” “You just seem so sad, I don’t like it.” “I’m sad because I don’t wanna go.” “Then don’t.” He lowered his head to reach my mouth and kissed me again, pecking over my motionless lips, and I knew he was trying to comfort me, but it was difficult to feel reassured after witnessing him during that call. “I have to, Fee-Fee.” He whispered. “I’ve got… some things I need to sort.” I could tell by how vague he was being that he didn’t want to discuss whatever it was, so I simply nodded, not questioning it because I wasn’t even sure I wanted to hear his answer. “You promise you’ll come back?” I fretted. “Of course I’ll come back.” “I worry, because-” “You don’t need to worry, I promise. I wouldn’t just leave you like that, Alfie. I’ll come back as soon as I can.” He sounded so assertive, so sure of what he was saying that it became truly difficult to continue doubting him. He put his hands on my waist, taking my weight and shifting my body so that I was straddling him, hiding his face against my neck and kissing caringly, his tongue snaking over my skin as I frailly gripped onto tufts of his hair. I guess another reason I didn’t want him to leave was because I knew how much I’d miss him. He had become such a constant in my life, someone who I spent the majority of my time with, and I didn’t like the thought of my days without him. I could no longer imagine an evening where I wasn’t nuzzled into his side or experiencing his adoring words. It could have been two days or two weeks, but I knew I’d miss him terribly. Harry brought his lips to mine, doing everything he could to instil some confidence into me. “Please don’t worry. All I want is to be here with you. Don’t think about anything else.” He gasped. “It’s just me and you.” “Just me and you.” I said back to him. I hoped that whenever he came back from where he was going, he’d feel comfortable talking to me, telling me where he’d been and why he’d been there, but I could never be too sure with him. I was getting closer and closer with him, day by day and week by week, but there was this part of me that worried I’d always feel like he was keeping something from me, that there would always be secrets and I’d always be speculating about something. Our kiss soothed far too quickly, and I could see he was trying to perk up, likely for my benefit. “M’gunna go for a shower, then check for flights. Don’t leave yet, okay?” “Okay.” After one final kiss, I got off him so that he could get to his feet, watching him sulk out of his bedroom before I sat back down, trying my very best not to overthink everything and jump to conclusions about a scenario I didn’t have any idea about. It wasn’t worth overthinking something so equivocal, and I knew that, but I also knew I wouldn’t find it as easy as simply telling myself not to worry or hearing him say I didn’t need to worry. Harry was a complex character, and the way he handled his emotions and his life seemed just as intricate from what I knew of him. On some occasions his actions and choices had been much more harmful than good, and once again he wasn’t allowing me in to help him, to support him. Maybe he didn’t need my help, but how anxious the call seemed to have made him lead me to believe he could’ve benefitted from a little succour. Once more, I was scrambling in the search for answers to unknown questions, puzzling over another mystery surrounding a boy I knew so much and yet so little about, a boy I was falling for. I just really didn’t want him to leave.

Ainsley is in a forest. The trees are walking. Great, gnarled legs break through the surface of the earth and branches wind together to create mighty arms. Knots and whorls in the bark spiral and flow until they form the shape of old, wizened eyes with a strange sense of ancient power about them. Ainsley feels a growing sense of dread as he sees that the trees are dividing into two sides, evidently preparing for conflict, as they have done so many times in his dreams before. On Ainsley’s left, a bent maple, with bright orange leaves adorning its strong brow, and to his right a slender birch with smooth, snowy bark. The animosity between the two is clear and, as the tension builds, Ainsley feels as conflicted as ever. He does not know which tree to align with. Neither makes any sudden move of aggression, but they seem to lean in closer, a red anger hovering over the entire forest. Ainsley hears a twig snap beneath his foot, and the trees suddenly turn towards him. Backing away, Ainsley tries to protest, but the advance of the forest is unrelenting. Reaching out with tendrils of rough bark, they converge on Ainsley.

*     *     *

Ainsley wakes up and, for a moment, fears that his dreams have become a reality. Dirty roots are clutching at his forehead. He opens his eyes to see nothing but chinks of light through soil and rotting wood. He feels nearly suffocated by the forest.

Then Ainsley remembers the events of the past day and relaxes. At least, as much as someone who has run away from their only known shelter can relax. The group---Cydwag, Anwen, Heulwen, Ffrewgí, and himself---had managed to escape their captors, with Ainsley and Heulwen combining their creature-gifts to divert the pursuing Gwaedwn off their trail. They had hidden in a hollow beneath a partially-uprooted tree in the forest until deep night, and then proceeded to scramble even deeper into the forest until Ainsley felt like his legs might fall off. Eventually, they had found another small hideaway, where they all fell silent, if not asleep---if Ainsley’s night was anything like the others’, they had slept restlessly if they slept at all. In the morning, after the children have spilled from their grotto, Anwen’s voice breaks through the patchy darkness:

“I think we should try to find the others, before we get too far away from the village.”

Ainsley waits for someone else to respond. He does not have to wait long. Cydwag speaks up quizzically, “Others?”

“Murchadh and Ashrille and Wyddryr. They were missing, remember?”

Cydwag clearly does not share Anwen’s concern. Her bright red hair illuminated by a shaft of light, Cydwag begins to argue with Anwen about the group’s next move.

Ainsley ignores them and slips into the trees beyond their little clearing. Ffrewgí passes him, returning, and as he joins the others the planning begins in earnest. Ainsley sits down next to a tree a little ways from the others. Far enough out that he does not have to be involved in the argument, but close enough to hear their planning.

After debating for a while, Cydwag begrudgingly agrees to assist in their search for Ashrille, Murchadh, and Wyddryr. Despite his resolution to hear the plan, Ainsley finds himself ignorant of its specifics. Running through his mind are images of the forest fire, and of Skepna laughing in it. But the group has determined upon a course of action regardless of his oblivion, and he resolves to accompany them. He has hardly interacted with the three missing children, but his desire for companionship is too strong to form an opinion against the group’s intention to find them. For the moment, Ainsley is content to simply be with his companions.

He follows the group as they make their way west, which takes them all day, though the time passes numbly for Ainsley. When they stop, he takes his knife and disappears into the forest, where he fashions a few game traps and lucks out stumbling across a fat pheasant, which fails to fly faster than his thrown blade. When he returns and the bird is cooked over a low, smokeless fire, Ainsley remains to himself. He notices that Heulwen, as well, is outside the dynamic center of the group, though he can tell she and Anwen share a bond.

Back when he had first become a Gwaedwn, Ainsley would have been demoralized by this, but he is much more relaxed now. He is starting to see his purpose---or, at least, has a growing sense of it. He feels fulfilled by being the group’s hunter, and almost feels pride when he walks the border of their camp that night, obscuring it with brush both real and gift-created.

He has not forgotten Skepna’s words, though. Even if his old master is gone for good, his words still haunt Ainsley in still, quiet moments.

*     *     *

Early in the morning, Cydwag and Ffrewgí disappear, enacting what Ainsley assumes is the first stage of the plan, and Heulwen, Anwen, and himself are left at what has become their base camp. Heulwen, who had been on last watch, falls asleep next to Anwen and Ainsley begins to carve, and although he still is not an expert by any means, the figure he carves is slowly becoming discernible as a warrior of sorts.

Anwen interrupts Ainsley’s train of thought. “Are you okay with what we’re doing?” Her voice has an undertone of urgency about it, almost as if she is desperate to break the silence, and her voice trembles slightly in the crisp morning air.

Ainsley pauses, thinking over his answer to this very open question. He answers  honestly, “I’m not really sure. Half the time, I’m not even sure what I’m doing.” He chuckles inwardly. He has been so in and out of things recently, and it humours him to think that others might still value his opinion. Thinking it over more, he is shocked to realize how indifferent he is becoming.

Anwen continues---not so much talking to Ainsley directly anymore, but wondering aloud, “I was so sure this was the right thing to do, but … what if something happens? What if Ffrewgí and Cydwag don’t come back? What if we get captured again? It would be my fault.” Her voice becomes increasingly strained, and Ainsley feels sorry for her. She has taken on an incredible burden to lead their little party, and he can see that the stress is getting to her.

“Cydwag and Ffrewgí, they know what they’re doing,” Ainsley says in response, hoping to bolster Anwen’s confidence.

Anwen then says something that surprises Ainsley, “I’m sorry we didn’t try to find out what you wanted—when we were deciding what to do. That wasn’t right.”

Ainsley takes a moment to mull over Anwen’s implications. At least someone has the decency to apologize. Taken aback by his own thought, he realizes he has been holding back some bitterness towards the others, jealous of their assumed roles in the group. Then he slows down, and is touched by Anwen’s apology. “It’s alright. I’m just glad to be with you all.”

“I’m glad you’re here, too.”

Ainsley does not know how to respond. “Thank you,” he mutters. He hopes that marks the end of the conversation---but at the same time, he appreciates Anwen’s friendship.

She soon speaks up again. “Do you know what you want to do, when all this is over?”

Ainsley looks up from his carving, but does not yet return Anwen’s gaze. He mulls this question over in his mind, and is disappointed to realize his answer is more or less the same as all his others. “I … haven’t really thought about it.” Ainsley wonders what Anwen is leading up to.

“You’re always welcome to come to my village,” Anwen says suddenly, “if you want.”

Ainsley mind reels. The question is a punch to the gut. Where does he want to go? Would there be a future for him? Right now, it feels as if the entire world is constrained to the small area of forest explored by the Gwaedwn. He has barely thought of his old village in the time following his capture. It is not as though he has many fond memories of the place. Sadly, he realizes that he once again has no idea of how to respond. “Oh,” he begins. “I guess I could. I’ll---uh---think about it.” Skepna would have called me a useless lump for that, he thinks.

“I guess it could be a while yet, depending on what Cydwag and Ffrewgí find …” Anwen trails off, worry etched across her face once again.

“They’ll be fine,” Ainsley murmurs. A sense of guilt suddenly descends over him.  He has barely given any thought to the predicament of Ffrewgí and Cydwag. What a horrible friend I am, he thinks. If they even call me a friend.

“Thanks,” Anwen says, and this seems to bring their conversation to a close at last.

Ainsley is conflicted, feeling both encouraged and guilty, validated and belittled. He struggles with his feelings as he retreats into himself and his carving.

Some time later, Cydwag and Ffrewgí return, accompanied---much to Anwen’s relief---by Ashrille, Wyddryr, and Murchadh. Ainsley looks up from his carving, but is unsure if he should say or do anything.

“Tell your tale,” begins Cydwag, sitting down, and Murchadh obliges.

Still wrestling with himself, Ainsley does not give his full attention to Murchadh as he begins, but he captures the general gist of the boy’s story. Wyddryr’s father is apparently deathly ill, so Murchadh and the other two had set out on a hunt to kill the creature and acquire its healing blood. They were unsuccessful. Murchadh adds that Wyddryr was a spy for the Gwaedwn---this confuses Ainsley, as Wyddryr was treated the same as anyone else, and what could he have reported to the Gwaedwn, anyway? That the captives were unhappy?

“They are already planning another set of recruitment raids,” says Murchadh. Ainsley spares a look up from his carving: Murchadh’s statement has struck a chord in the group. He looks around and sees the shocked looks of his companions. He shares their shock.

Ffrewgí breaks the silence asking for more details, and Ainsley fades out of the conversation once again as Murchadh describes his experience on the hunt.

Then Ffrewgí is demonstrating his creature-gift, healing a wound on Murchadh’s chin. Then Ashrille and Wyddryr arrive in the circle, though Ainsley had not noticed them leave.

“Your chin is looking … remarkably healed,” observes Ashrille.

Ffrewgí explains that he had healed Murchadh with a gift from the creature. Before Ainsley knows it, he is displaying his gift to the group as well. He sets down his carving before summoning an earth-brown snake, which twirls around his legs before fading into the ground beneath him.

Heulwen and Anwen demonstrate their gifts after him, but Ainsley notices that Wyddryr is fixated on Ffrewgí. After Anwen’s wind fades away, he asks Ffrewgí directly to heal his father.

Ainsley mentally retreats again as that prompts a debate. It has become too much for him, the others’ constant debating and planning. Eventually Ffrewgí does agree to help Wyddryr, and the conversation turns to how to do it. Ainsley builds his resolution and forces himself to contribute---these are his friends.

The plan is to sneak Ffrewgí and Wyddryr into the village, burning a building to pull attention away from where they will enter. Ainsley volunteers to disguise the two as Gwaedwn hunters.

That evening, he conjures the disguises before they leave. Ffrewgí, Anwen (who is starting the fire), and Wyddryr leave to the north. Ainsley follows the others to the south, where Ffrewgí and Anwen are to rejoin them after their tasks.

Ainsley cannot help feel like a coward, waiting uselessly while Anwen and the other two enact their dangerous roles. That Ashrille, Heulwen, and Murchadh are waiting with him does not affect how he feels. All he did was provide disguises, and Ainsley is not even sure they will last as long as they are needed. Does he need to consciously maintain a grasp on his illusions, or do they disappear if he thinks of something else? He has a sick feeling in his stomach as he wonders, with an ever growing horror, if he has let the group down. The simplest task, and Ainsley manages to screw it up. It would be just my luck, he thinks bitterly.

Ainsley looks down at the figure he has been carving for what seems like days without stop. He has barely paid attention to his own work, going about it with the numbness that has pervaded his every action recently. The basic person-figure he has carved is about two hand’s-breadths in height. The wood is pale, and the only unique mark is a knot on the right side of the uncarved face. As Ainsley continues to gaze at it, the carving gains more and more specific features. Intricately carved fingers sprout from the ends of the arms, which in turn bend and flex as if testing their own limits. Shocked, Ainsley drops the figure. It lands with a knee bent, sending a shockwave rippling through the ground. It stands up straight, one arm reaching behind its back. Horrified, Ainsley sees it pull out from behind its back the bronze talisman he had found during his first hunt. Ainsley touches the scar just above his left eye and gasps audibly. He is suddenly alone. The carved figure raises the weapon and points it towards its own head, the tip of the blade just touching the knot over its eye. Ainsley touches the cord around his neck, and he feels nothing there.

The stick figure raises the blade, preparing to strike.

Sample RP for the World Wrestling Alliance

San Francisco, CA December 9, 2009 8:34 a.m. PDT

“Once there was a way to get back homeward… Once there was a way to get back home… Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry… And I will sing a lullaby…”

Listening to the remastered Abbey Road album by The Beatles on his iPod as he jogs down a sidewalk in the middle of San Francisco, California, John Grant—who, in the ring, called himself “The Lion”, as in a hungry young lion eager to prove his supremacy to the pack—lightly sings the words along with Paul McCartney about midway through the fifteen-minute-long medley that ends the last album The Beatles ever put together.  John unfortunately inherited his mother’s sense of pitch, and so he’s slightly off-key, but he’s focused enough on his jogging that he doesn’t notice.  Besides, in this part of town (and in this kind of cold) there aren’t really a lot of people out to care.

Wearing a light, black jacket with the letters “DV” in flaming blue letters on the back of it, along with black jogging pants, mittens, and Converse running shoes, John is protected, somewhat, from the near-40-degree weather.  He could see his breath in front of him, but it didn’t bother him—he’s learned that battling the elements, whether they were the sub-zero temperatures of his father’s native Juneau, Alaska, or the ninety- and hundred-degree days of the California summers—is the best way to truly tell how someone will hold up against real physical pressure.

Not to mention that singing while jogging was a good way to practice breath control.

In this instance, John wasn’t just jogging for his health; he was jogging to the Inferno Wrestling Academy, the place where his uncle had spent six months from April to October torturing him and fifteen other kids in an effort to churn out the wrestling superstars of tomorrow.  At least, it had started out as fifteen other kids.  John remembered speaking with one of the Academy’s most notable graduates, Antonio Mason, who had gone on to a quite successful career in Japan and Mexico, and having Tony tell him that the Academy was one of the hardest physical regimens he’d ever been through.  Antonio had been a three-time All-State linebacker in high school, so John had known what he’d been getting into when he applied…

…or, at least, he thought he had.

Any illusion that the five-time World Champion was going to take it easy on John just because he was his son was shattered in the first five minutes the younger Grant had spent on the mat.  Steve had forgotten more wrestling moves than most people will ever know, and damn if he hadn’t applied more than a handful of them on John.

As usual, the Academy had a high washout rate for 2009:  Steve Grant demanded nothing but excellence and the deepest commitment from his students, and many people weren’t prepared for that.  But in the end, three students prevailed and graduated from the Academy:  Barry Andrews, a guy who’d started out hating John’s guts (and nicknamed him “Spoon Boy” after the silver spoon John allegedly was born with in his mouth) but had ultimately come to respect him; Violet Waters, the first female graduate in the Academy’s four-year history; and John.

It’s Violet who greets John by raising up on her toes and shyly kissing his lips when she sees him just outside the Academy’s door.  True to her name, Violet was wearing purple; purple, yellow and white were all she seemed to wear, in fact, from the Lakers warm-up jacket to her purple sweatpants and white tennis shoes (with purple highlights).  The 5’7”, bespectacled, cream-colored African-American looks much more like a chemistry major at the University of San Francisco than a future professional wrestler.  But she was, in fact, both.  The shy kiss she greeted John with was an acknowledgement that they were still in the early stages of a romantic relationship.  They’d actually met at the university, ironically; John had just finished some homework at the library and was killing time with a Sudoku puzzle book when Violet saw him and commented that she loved Sudoku.  Their friendship had started quite easily after that.

Though she’d been friends with John for a month or two before they separately came to the Inferno Wrestling Academy, Violet had been stunned to learn that John was the son of “Blue Inferno” Steve Grant, whom Violet had grown up watching and admiring.  John, in turn, had been amazed that the admittedly-nerdy Violet had any interest whatsover in professional wrestling.

Going through the fire together tends to leave the survivors much closer, and that was certainly true with John and Violet, who’d started dating two weeks before graduating the Academy.  They’d agreed to let things progress at their own pace, and thus they were still a little shy, a little tentative around each other.  Violet had had no serious boyfriends in high school; just a couple of disastrous first dates, but she liked John and wanted to make sure this relationship went right.

“You’re up early this morning,” John comments as he gave his girlfriend a light hug, and upon breaking the hug he slips a hand into his jacket to turn off his iPod and then removes the earphones.

“Yeah well, Harry told me you’d be showing up to view your first promo video in its completed form.”  For her part, Violet had already completed a promo video and sent it to ten wrestling federations across the country, but had yet to hear back from any of them.  If she was disheartened by it, she’d never shown it around John; besides, the chemistry degree she was working towards would ensure her a job in any number of fields when all was said and done.  At the moment she was holding down employment with a start-up paint company.

“If nothing else, that 25-minute classic I had with Antonio on Halloween night should be more than enough to impress the scouts,” John says, feeling a burst of confidence as he remembered the night that he and Antonio Mason had put on a masterpiece of high-flying, brawling and technical wrestling at Shane’s Pub in Alameda.  The shows that his father put on weren’t designed to replicate the big-time feel of the major pro wrestling federations of yore, but more the cult feel of the old ECW and small-time bingo-hall operations.  But he stressed more than anything the ability to wrestle and the ability to entertain; he would have nothing to do with “garbage wrestling”.

“Hell, the highlights alone would convince me,” Violet says with a smile.  “The Flying Space Tiger Drop that missed and wiped out the referee and the guy at the concession stand… the reversal of the Death Valley Driver that ended in a Tiger Suplex… and you got so much elevation on the Superfly Splash at the end I thought you’d never come down.”

John kisses Violet again, and says, “I’m glad to see my girlfriend, anyway, isn’t lacking in confidence.  What about the actual interview?  What’d you think of that?”

Violet, perhaps sensing that John wanted an honest critique of his interviewing skills, takes a moment or two to think before replying.  “It reminded me a lot of your father in the latter days of his career,” she decides.  “If you had butterflies up there, it certainly didn’t show.  You displayed a level of confidence in your abilities that’s remarkable for someone who’s only had a handful of actual professional matches.”  Violet takes a slight stutter-breath here, and John already knows her well enough to know that the constructive criticism was about to come.

“You may have shown a little bit too much bravado, in fact,” she adds.  “You put a lot of pressure on yourself to succeed in the business—and, really, in everything you do.  Almost like you’re afraid that if you don’t work hard every moment of every day, someone’s going to come and snatch everything away from you.”

John purses his lips, nodding slowly.  Violet’s honesty was one of the things he’d come to admire about her, and that honesty was always couched in tact.  “You might be right about that:  I do put a lot of pressure on myself.  I do want, very much, to succeed in the wrestling business.”

“Because of your father?” Violet asks, her tone making it pretty obvious that she already knows the answer.

Again, John nods.  “And Uncle Brian.  And even Uncle Adam.  The three of them combined won just about every championship in every division—heavyweight, light-heavyweight, tag-team—that they set their minds to getting.”  Indeed, it was the style of John’s uncle, “The Tiger” Brian Grant—far moreso than his father’s—that John had emulated in developing his own wrestling abilities.  A lot of that had to do with the phyiscal differences between Steve and John:  John was 6’3”, 227 pounds—tall by normal standards but about average among his wrestling peers.  Steve, on the other hand, was 6’9”, 295 pounds in his wrestling days (though he was about 305 pounds in retirement).  Steve Grant had been able to do insanely high-flying moves that were nearly unprecedented for a man of his size, and it was because of his martial-arts training and tremendous flexibility and conditioning.

John had no martial-arts training to speak of, and he also lacked Steve’s sheer power and size.  Therefore, he had to rely on his technical mastery, speed, and high-flying ability.

“My father and Uncle Adam were so driven and determined to reach the absolute heights of the business,” John continues.  “Even though they were best friends most of their careers, and later family, it didn’t matter to them if they were fighting alongside one another or against each other.”

“‘In this business, you can make friends or you can make money,’” Violet quotes, repeating the words that Chief Jay Strongbow once said to Scott Hall and Kevin Nash.

“Right,” John says, nodding in agreement.  He’d always wondered, though, whether Uncle Brian agreed with that philosophy.  Based on his more modest list of career accomplishments compared to Steve, he doubted it was so.

“Well, let’s get in there,” Violet says, “and see the video that Harry and the gang have put together for you.”

Smiling, John takes Violet’s hand and walks into the Inferno Wrestling Academy with her, his calm demeanor belying the anxiety he felt at this moment.  This video could either kick-start a career for him, or, in twenty years’ time, lie covered with dust at the bottom of a moving box somewhere.

~*~*~

A few minutes later…

Having removed his jacket to reveal a Sgt. Pepper album cover T-shirt underneath it, John sits with Violet in the darkened film room of the Academy, watching the video that he’d put together.  Highlights of his match with Antonio Mason at Shane’s Pub start the video off, showing, of course, the offensive and defensive moves that were in John’s favor.  In real life, the match had been far more back-and-forth than one might assume by watching the highlight video.  But highlight videos weren’t meant to emulate real life; they were meant to spotlight one individual in particular.

John knows that the complete video of the match will also be sent to the wrestling promotions that he’s applying for, and so he doesn’t feel bad that the highlight video shows Tony (whom he had tremendous respect for) getting his ass kicked.  And anyone who really knew wrestling would know that Tony’s ability to take those bumps was just as impressive as John’s ability to perform the moves in the first place.

So John watched, seeing these highlights for the first time.  He’d consulted Harry Jaffee, the video editor—as well as Steve and Brian Grant—as to what moves he would like to have spotlighted, but he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to see himself wrestle on video.  They’d certainly spared no expense, either:  The video was a dual-layer DVD/Blu-Ray combo, presented in 1080p, and displayed on a large flat-screen television.  The film footage had been shot in anamorphic widescreen format.  “Blue Inferno” Steve Grant was a multi-millionaire several times over, and he wasn’t afraid to use that money to provide the best for his students.

John watched as he springboard-vaulted off the top rope, and was caught by Antonio.  Tony had prepared to hit a fallaway slam, but John had grabbed the back of his knee and pulled him down to his back.  There was another highlight of the Death Valley Driver reversal into a Running Tiger Bomb; the Flying Space Tiger Drop that took out the referee and the concession stand guy, sending popcorn and soda flying everywhere (but missing Antonio completely); the STF, figure-four leglock and Sharpshooter he’d applied at various points during the match; and, finally, a high-elevating Superfly Splash that ended John’s first professional match with a win.  John lets out a whistle as he realizes for the first time how close he’d coming to slamming his head against the ceiling.

Then came the promo part of the video, during which announcer Alex Yost interviewed John following his match, while “Hells Bells” by AC/DC played lightly in the background to compliment it.  John knew that this last bit showed some technical mastery from Harry and the gang:  When the interview had been taking place, “Hells Bells” was blaring from the sound system.  John had had to strain to be able to hear Alex’s questions over the din.

Alex Yost was dressed nattily in a brown sports coat, blue-and-silver tie and pants, and was about fifty years old.  His neat appearance contrasted considerably with John, who looked like he’d just come through hell—but at least he’d come out triumphant.

“Thanks Quinn, and I’m standing here now with the winner of tonight’s epic main event, ‘The Lion’ John Grant.”  Turning to angle towards John now, Alex continues to speak.  “John, you were born and raised in this business.  You’re the son of the great, former world heavyweight champion ‘Blue Inferno’ Steve Grant, and a graduate of the Inferno Wrestling Academy in San Francisco.  What does it feel like to win your first professional match?”

When John spoke, his breath was still quite elevated from the hard work he’d put in, but he wasn’t out of breath.  “Well, Quinn, it’s the culmination of months of hard work training to become one of the bright young stars of the business.  The Inferno Wrestling Academy churns out only the most capable, most determined individuals, with the strongest, most disciplined minds.  As you can probably tell by the way Tony and I brought down the house tonight, I didn’t breeze through the Academy just because my father was teaching me.”

“And I know you’re not satisfied with simply one great match,” Alex replied, stating the obvious.  But then, it was supposed to be a leading question.

“Absolutely not; the Grant family of wrestlers has always been a family that strives to be the unqualified best at what we do.”  John spoke with a steady intensity, and while he’d organized his thoughts in advance of the interview, he was, generally speaking, improvising what he was saying.  “At the peak of his career, there was no wrestler, in any federation, whom my father couldn’t beat.  I know I’ve only had one match, but I’m hungry for more.  I want to prove myself against the greatest competition in the world, and establish my name as a champion just like my father, my uncle, and my uncle-in-law.  Hell—I want to one day surpass all of them.  

“So to every professional wrestling promoter in the world—if you’re looking for someone who will push himself every day to put on the highest-caliber, most entertaining matches, someone who’ll come in early and stay late, and do whatever it takes to make himself—and the company—successful, you’re looking at him.  And for every one of the guys in the back, you’d better start worrying about protecting your spots, because this hungry young Lion is coming, and he’s not playing with kid gloves.”

Both Johns—the one on-screen talking to Alex, and the one in real-life sitting next to Violet—chuckle softly at his use of a mixed metaphor there.

With that, the screen fades to black, and “Hells Bells” by AC/DC continues to play, a little louder than before, before it, too, fades.  Then the lights come up in the film room.

“Looks good, Harry,” John says to the very talented, albeit a little skittish, technical manager before the latter could utter a word.

“I agree,” Violet opines, giving John’s hand a light squeeze.  “I know you’re gonna be sending it to, like, fifteen different places, but where do you hope to end up?”

“Well, the World Wrestling Alliance is gonna be starting up again in mid-January,” John tells her.  “They’re gonna start off slowly, kind of having more of an independent feel to it, so it’ll be ripe for opportunities for a young wrestler to prove himself and move up the ranks.”

“Looks like you’ve already got this all mapped out,” Violet tells him, and a sheepish grin and shrug from John confirms that without words.  “Well, wherever you end up, I know you’ll put on a show, and make your family—and me—proud.”

John blushes lightly, and gives Violet a soft kiss on the lips.

More than you know (Vatya) - Polly

Authors note: I don’t even know how or why this thing here came about. Honestly. I was meant to write the next chapter for ‚My loneliness is killing you‘ but somehow the fan fiction gods lead me here. When I started typing I literally had zero idea where I was going with it so this ended up being somehow kept down love, some flashbacks, a lot of anger, a lot of fluff, jealous Violet, confused Katya, angry sex, light blood play and bad communication… not in that order. (Yes, I got all that into 2,4k) I hope you enjoy? xx

PS: Look who got herself a side blog. (Feel free to send Vatya requests if you have some specifically for me) And now have fun, I hope reading this isn’t as confusing as writing it felt. xx

Violet/Katya; she/her; kinda out of Drag

TW: blood 

More than you know

“You know, for just having said that you’re dating and that it’s starting to get serious you were very easy to convince to come with me,“ Violet laughs while closing Katya’s hotel room door behind herself.

Katya rolls her eyes. “Shut the fuck up, Violet.” Her voice sounds annoyed and Violet isn’t sure but she thinks that’s there’s also a hint of uncertainty to it. Then Violet walks to where Katya stands and Katya grabs her roughly and throws her onto the bed. Violet loves it when she is a bit rough with her. Right now however, she seems downright angry; if she is angry at herself or at Violet or maybe both, Violet doesn’t know. 

She can’t blame her though, she is kind of angry too. Technically she doesn’t have the right to be angry but that doesn’t stop her. She saw Katya today for the first time in months and Violet had been excited but then Katya just had to ruin it again. They had just somehow recovered from Violet’s irrational behavior last year. 

-

Well, it was only irrational to Katya really, it had made perfect sense to Violet to simply never reply or even talk to Katya for a few months. At least not until she had gotten over her crush or whatever it was on Katya that surely was only born out of the fact that they had been hooking up so regularly and that Katya was also her friend and that Violet also already had had a crush on her while they were on Drag Race. It wasn’t even a real crush she had kept on telling herself, it couldn’t be. This was her friend Katya, just her friend. 

So Violet didn’t want to make things more complicated than they had to be which was why she ultimately had decided to ignore Katya for a short while until her feelings for her had vanished.

The plan had sounded pretty easy in Violet’s head. It’s not like her and Katya were working with each other after BOTS anyway. What she hadn’t calculated into her plan though was the fact that Katya was relentlessly sending her texts with incorrect quotes (“Feeling like pussy, feeling like cunt“- Hillary Clinton; “This is my hair, I don’t wear wigs“- Donald Trump; “That’s a rash, not a herpes sore“ - Wladimir Wladimirowitsch Putin).

Violet never replied but always read them with a dumb, fond smile on her face. Violet had expected Katya to stop sending them after Violet’s third non reply but instead she just started sending them more frequently. It was easy to ignore them, Violet wouldn’t even have known what to reply with even if she wasn’t ignoring Katya.

But then one day in the early morning hours a heartbreaking ‘Have I done something wrong? You never reply anymore‘ came in and two minutes later ’I miss you‘ and Violet had almost started crying in the club.

Instead she had gone outside and had called Katya and made up some lame excuse about being busy that neither of them believed. Violet had always been a horrible liar. Katya had let it go anyway and they had gone back to a somewhat friendship. But Violet could tell that she had hurt Katya and the guilt was killing her. When they had seen each other again it had been awkward but they somehow slowly but surely had gotten back to normal.

They never once talked about Violet’s strange behavior or all the hook ups or the few nights that were spend in each others arms or all the secrets they had shared in the dusky hours before night turns into day. All her favorite conversations were always made in those early morning hours, especially if they were with Katya lying in bed next to her smiling; smiling at her with a smile Violet had never seen before or after those short hours.

Being around Katya again without hooking up had been harder than Violet had expected. So she had called Katya almost daily in the hopes of being able to out-friendship the sexual tension between them. Maybe if they would be really emotionally close they wouldn’t be attracted to each other anymore, all the mystery would be gone. That plan had worked out way better in Violets head. In reality it had brought them here: both angry and about to have sex. 

The reason for Violet’s anger is approximately 300 miles away and is named Craig. Katya had told her that she had started dating while fiddling with her hands, not looking Violet into the eyes. Which was fine, just fine. But then Katya had told her that she had been going out with the guy for six weeks now, a fact she hadn’t mentioned when they had been talking on the phone last week, or the week before that, or the week before that one. The point was, there had been plenty of chances for Katya to mention him to Violet, but she didn’t. She couldn’t have forgotten by accident as it was the first thing she said to Violet after they had greeted each other today. Violet had been thankful for the fact that she was in drag, her facial expressions where easier to hide with heavy make up on.

And even though she smiled at Katya and told her that she was happy for her, she had still gone on stage angry and had dragged Katya around a corner after the show to push her against a wall and shoved her tongue down her throat. The fact that Katya had kissed her back had been both surprising and exciting.

-

And the fact that Violet is still here now, in Katya’s hotel room, without wig and with both her and Katya’s lipsticks smeared around her face is simply mind boggling. 

Katya is crawling onto the bed leaning into Violet.

“I’m going to fuck you like a giraffe you fucking bitch,“ she growls.

“My body is ready,“ Violet smirks.

Katya is on top of her now and kisses her roughly while pushing her hips into Violet’s. And even through the material of her jeans Violet can tell that she’s hard. Even though she is glad that Katya is here and that she should just let it go, she can’t get the guy Katya is dating out of her head. She flips them over and starts pressing her ass against Katya’s crotch.

“What’s so great about this guy anyway?“ Violet says and Katya’s hands leave Violet’s hips and she looks at her with an unreadable expression. Violet doesn’t care, she won’t be stopping unless Katya pushes her off of her or asks her to leave and right now she isn’t doing either. So she just starts moving her hips and feels Katya’s erection pressing against her ass.

“Can he make you feel like this? Does he want you like I do?“ she says while Katya closes her eyes and leans her head back. Her hands are still on the bed instead of on Violet but she is moaning now and that’s enough for Violet to keep going.

She leans down so that her mouth is on Katya’s ear. “Tonight I’m only thinking about you. Tonight I only want you.” She softly licks over Katya’s neck before biting into the skin there. She hears Katya hiss and feels her hands on her hips again a second later. Katya flips them over, and roughly removes Violet’s clothes.

“Get that smug grin off of your face,“ she demands while removing her own clothes. Violet smirks, pulls her back in and kisses her.

Violet doesn’t mean for it to happen but somehow the kiss is soft and before she knows they’ve been kissing a moment too long. Katya’s hand strokes through Violets hair and the kiss is sweet and gentle and it’s confusing so Violet flips them over again. She can’t have those feelings coming back, she can’t make this more complicated than it has to be again. This is just sex. With Katya. Katya whom she may or may not still has lingering feelings for.

She starts pressing her body against Katya’s again, feeling both their hard dicks between them. Katya let’s Violet move against her for a few moments, groaning, head leaned back, eyes closed, before flipping them over again. It’s half a wrestling match, half sex at this point.

She reaches to her bag next to the bed and pulls out lube and condoms. She lubes up one finger and pushes it inside Violet and Violet feels her toes curling. Katya isn’t exactly gentle with Violet and before she knows it there are three fingers inside her, moving for a moment before scissoring her for a little while. Violet can’t keep her moans down and this is going to be over too soon if Katya keeps going. 

Violet looks at Katya through hooded eyes. “That’s enough now,“ she brings out between moans. Katya pulls her fingers out and strokes both her hands over Violets sides once.

 "You’re so beautiful,“ she whispers with a smile and Violet pulls her in even though she knows she shouldn’t, shouldn’t let feelings cloud her judgement. But Katya smiled at her. She smiled at her with that smile Violet hasn’t seen since some early morning somewhere in Europe. 

Maybe she had lied to herself and never actually gotten over her crush on Katya. She pulls her closer to herself and Katya’s head is on Violet’s shoulder, her lips are on her neck and Violet can feel her hot breath on her skin and closes her eyes for a moment. She can feel Katya’s heart beating on her own chest. She moves her hand through Katya’s short hair a few times and presses her face into Katya’s neck and inhales her scent. They’re naked and their erections are trapped between their bodies and they’re kind of hugging and Violet thinks how strange this it but she cant bring herself to let go of Katya yet. 

When she finally does, Katya kisses her again for a moment and then pulls away and they look at each other unsure and Violet can see Katya swallow hard. 

“Ready?” Katyas voice is barely over a whisper and she looks at Violet with a smile. That smile again and Violet feels warm at the sight of it.

“Yes,” Violet whispers back and let’s her thumb stroke over Katya’s bottom lip briefly.

Katya pushes into Violet and they both groan. When she starts moving, Katya is looking at her so softly that Violets heart starts beating faster. 

But Katya has a boyfriend or whatever he is and Violet feels her anger coming to the surface again. She flips them over so that’s she’s on top and leans down to bite into Katya’s shoulder hard. Katya hisses in pain and looks at Violet, confused by her sudden change of mood. Violet moves back and starts bouncing on Katyas dick with force. Her movements are harsh and aggressive and she knows she’s going to be sore in the morning. But Katya is groaning and her dick is big and hard inside Violet and it’s hitting all the right spots. 

And she’s angry, so angry with Katya and with herself and she doesn’t even know exactly why but she has to let it out. She puts her hands on Katya’s chest and digs her fingers into it forcefully. Katya is going to have bruises and scratch marks there but Violet doesn’t care. She wants to punish her and isn’t even sure what for.

Suddenly Katya’s hands are on Violet’s hips and she digs into them to flip them over so she is on top again. Katya’s hands stay firmly on Violets hips and push them into the mattress, disallowing Violet to move. And then she starts thrusting again. 

Now, Katya has never been soft or gentle while fucking Violet but this is downright aggressive and for a split second Violet isn’t sure if it’s more pain than pleasure but then Katya adjusts her position and Violet moans at the sensation.

 Katya leans down to Violet and Violet thinks how strange kissing her would feel right now while they are basically hate fucking but then Katya bites into her lip with so much force that Violet can taste blood. Katya leans back slightly and looks at Violet with dark eyes while Violet can feel the blood on her chin. Katya leans down again and her tongue licks the blood off of Violets face. It feels dirty and forbidden and Violet isn’t sure if she ever has been this turned on. 

She pulls Katya’s lips onto hers and kisses her roughly while digging her fingers into her ass. She can taste and feel the blood in both of their mouths and it’s weirdly arousing.

Katya breaks the kiss leans back and plunges in and out of Violet hard again and again and they’re both moaning and groaning. It feels good, so good that Violets mind feels foggy and she’s so close she might faint if she won’t get off soon. She doesn’t know how Katya is holding out this long but Violet notices that her thrusts are slightly less hard than moments before. Katya moves one of her hands and starts pumping Violet’s cock and Violet has been close that even this small touches send her over the edge and she unloads between both of them. Katya keeps pounding into Violet but her thrusts get less intense each time and only a short moment passes and Violet feels Katya come inside her. 

She pulls out and rolls off of her. Both of them lie next to each other, panting for a moment before Katya grabs the corner of the blanket and wipes Violet’s cum off of her chest. Then she leans over Violet and moves the blanket over her too. Violet watches Katya carefully, trying to read her expression but she can’t. Katya just stares at Violets chest while cleaning it. Once she’s done she throws the condom away and sits down on the bed again. 

Violet turns to lie on her stomach and looks at her. Katya’s back is against the headboard and she has her eyes closed. After a moment she moves again, now lying down, her head on the pillow and rubs her hands over her still closed eyes.

Violet crawls towards her and Katya must’ve heard the rustling of sheets because she opens her arms and Violet drops into them. She let’s her head rest on Katya’s shoulder. 

Katya is lightly stroking over Violet’s hair when she mutters a soft „Fuck…“.

Violet can hear the smile in her voice and lets out a light laugh with Katya joining in a moment later. When their laughing dies down, Katya looks at her with that smile and leans down to softly kiss Violet for a moment and Violet feels herself smiling into the kiss. She moves her hand to Katya’s stomach once they break the kiss and draws lazy circles there. 

“Yeah…. Fuck,“ she says softly.

Liverpool Indie duo Hers are killed as their tour van crashes in US

Tragic Liverpool indie band Her’s posted a poignant final message saying it was ‘almost time for home, the tour has gone swimmingly’ just hours before they were killed in a crash alongside their manager.

Musicians Stephen Fitzpatrick and Audun Laading were among four people killed when the band’s 15-seat Ford tour van collided with a Nissan pick-up truck being driven the wrong way down a US motorway, it is believed.

The band had played a gig in Phoenix, Arizona, on Tuesday evening and were heading 350 miles west to perform in Santa Ana, south of Los Angeles, California, when the crash happened in the early hours of Wednesday.

The two members of Her’s, Stephen Fitzpatrick, left, and Audun Laading, right, were killed in a motorway crash on Wednesday

Police said they were responding to reports of a pick-up being driven the wrong way down Interstate-10, but the head-on smash happened before they could reach the scene on what was described as a ‘remote stretch of highway’ around 80 miles from Phoenix, near the settlement of Centennial in La Paz County.

The duo were both on a tour of the US and had been due to return home soon. In their penultimate post on Monday, they said: ‘It’s almost home time for the lads, US tour has gone swimmingly so far. Got a hot sunset date with the Grand Canyon tonight’

All three people in the tour van – Stephen, Auden and their American tour manager Trevor Engelbrektson, were killed along with the lone driver of the pick-up.

Both vehicles burned after the crash and police said yesterday they were having trouble identifying the victims.

‘This is something the troopers investigating will never forget,’ police spokesman Kameron Lee said.

Police couldn’t officially confirm theI-10 crash was the one that killed the band, whose deaths were announced by their ‘heartbroken’ record label, but officers told MailOnline no other multiple-fatality crashes happened in that region on Wednesday morning.

Officers said they found evidence of alcoholic drinks in the wreckage of the vehicles, but stressed it was too early to say if drinking had played a part in the tragedy. 

Police investigating the crash said the scene had shocked them, with police spokesman Lee saying there was no evidence either vehicle had braked before the impact, which happened on a stretch of road with two lanes going in each direction separated by a central reservation.

‘We don’t know the exact speeds, but two heavy vehicles coming into contact at full speed, the impact is huge and devastating,’ he said. ‘Both vehicles caught fire due to this impact and now four people are gone.’

The duo, comprised of Stephen Fitzpatrick (left) and Audun Laading (right), were travelling to a gig in Santa Ana, California on Wednesday – having just played a gig in Phoenix, Arizona – when they were involved in a road accident. They performed with a photo of actor Piers Brosnan on stage, joking he was the third member of the band

Both Stephen Fitzpatrick (right) and Audun Laading (left) died in the crash alongside their tour manager, Trevor Engelbrektson. They are pictured together in their last Instagram photo posted on Monday

The duo were on their second tour of North America playing 19 dates of shows. Their label said last night: ‘The pair were one of the UK’s most loved up and coming bands’

The duo’s vehicle is thought to have been involved in a wrong-way collision along Interstate 10 in western Arizona early on Wednesday morning, bursting into flames upon impact

The crash is believed to have taken place at around 1am on Wednesday morning, with local police telling MailOnline it was the only incident in the area at the time. A pickup is reported to have collided head-on with a van killing the pickup’s driver and all three people in the van

Stephen, 24, originally from Barrow, Cumbria, and Auden, 25, from Kristiansand, Norway, formed Her’s after meeting at university in Liverpool.

The band had been tipped for greatness, with experienced manager Trevor taking to Facebook to describe them as ‘the sweetest’ musicians he had ever worked with just days before he died alongside them.

Their deaths came as the group was beginning to see its popularity grow, featuring on BBC Introducing in March and being touted as ‘one to watch’ by The Guardian several months earlier.

The pair were on their second tour of the US, taking in 19 sold-out dates to promote their debut album ‘Invitation to Her’s’ – posting in a heartbreaking penultimate Instagram post on Monday that they were ‘almost home’ and sharing a selection of photographs from the trip.

Tributes have been pouring in for the group, with the band’s label Heist Or Hit saying it was ‘heartbroken’ as it revealed the news late on Thursday evening. 

In a statement posted on Facebook, it said: ‘Their energy, vibrancy and talent came to define our label. As humans, they were warm, gentle and hilarious. Each time they stopped by the office made for an uplifting experience. 

‘To say they were close would be an underestimation of a friendship that was genuinely beautiful to witness; they loved one another like brothers. 

‘Musically, Her’s were astonishing. An aptitude for melody, fun, and entertainment combined with a complexity that was as sophisticated as it was stylish.’

The duo met while at the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts, releasing their a nine-track compilation in 2017 entitled Songs of Her’s. 

In 2018 they released their debut full album, Invitation To Her’s, which includes eleven separate tracks. It received positive reviews, with the title track even featuring on BBC Introducing earlier this year. 

Their music has been described as ‘above and beyond the current British indie vocabulary’ by their label – with the band also included in the Guardian’s ‘ones to watch’ as their debut album was released in 2018.

Fitzpatrick, on lead vocals and guitar, and Laading, on bass and backing vocals were often seen performing alongside a cardboard cutout of Pierce Brosnan  – and a drum machine which provided the beat for their music.

The pair had been on tour in the US when the tragic crash took place, with the band’s label confirming the news yesterday evening 

Both Stephen Fitzpatrick and Audun Laading (pictured left and right together) met while at the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts, releasing their first album in 2017 entitled Songs of Her’s

The band performed in Seattle last week (pictured), and said in a Facebook post: ‘Special thanks to everybody whose come out so far, you’ve all moved into a special little house in our heart’

Both band members died alongside their tour manager, Trevor Engelbrektson (pictured left and right) – who tragically said just days before the incident that he’s ‘never been more proud’ of the group

Their label’s statement continued: ‘They were in America playing to thousands of adoring fans. Fans they made a point of meeting and spending time with, such was their passion and humbleness. 

‘The world was at their feet. Everyone here at the label is overwhelmed and distraught. We have lost our friends and the world has been denied their talent.’   

The statement, signed by Mick Scholefield, Martin Colclough and Patrick Fogarty, said everyone at the label is ‘overwhelmed and distraught’.

It added: ‘Our thoughts and prayers are with the families of Stephen, Audun and Trevor, please respect their privacy at this extremely difficult time.’ 

Dozens have paid tribute to the group on Facebook, with many noting how kind and generous the pair were and how they had taken time out to speak to fans. 

Kate Wheeler said: ‘So so sad. They just oozed fun and joy, and were so lovely when we asked for a photo after a gig. Love to all who knew them and thanks for making me grin lads.’

While Tim Mobbs said: ‘So very sorry to hear this – they were absolute sweethearts. Was so glad to see them doing so well when they come through on the UK tour. Absolutely awful.’ 

And Freya said: ‘Such awful awful news. Always put on a great show and could tell how much they loved this music and each other. All the love to you all.’

In 2018 the band (pictured on their recent US tour) released their debut album, Invitation To Her’s, which includes eleven separate tracks 

The band have uploaded a number of pictures from their US tour to Instagram, thanking fans for coming out to listen to them 

Lucy Tibbs, who has photographed the band, said: ‘Completely and utterly shocked. Her’s were one of my favourite bands and photographing them was an absolute pleasure.’  

And Lewis said: ‘I feel genuinely sick about the loss of Her’s. Two of the most unique, talented, humble & influential people gone far too soon. They had such a career ahead of them. 

‘I’ve been a fan since day one and to see their journey pan out and tell them what they mean to me was a privilege.’

With another fan, named Pearl on Twitter, saying: ‘You guys made the crowd laugh and gave me an experience I’ll ‘never forget. May your souls rest.’

In the days leading up to the crash, Mr Engelbrektson, the band’s tour manager – who also died in the crash – had been posting on Facebook about how much he had enjoyed touring with the pair. 

The duo (pictured) were on their second tour of the US, taking in 19 dates, to promote their debut album ‘Invitation to Her’s’ – posting in a heartbreaking penultimate Instagram post on Monday that they were ‘almost home’ and sharing a selection of photographs from the trip

Dozens of tributes have been left for the band online, with one fan, Lewis, saying: ‘I feel genuinely sick about the loss of Her’s. Two of the most unique, talented, humble & influential people gone far too soon. They had such a career ahead of them.’

He wrote early last week: ‘Dudes. We just got settled into the hotel in Seattle. This begins the west coast leg of Her’s US tour. 

‘I’m pretty much hooked on these tunes. This one is absolutely killing me right now. It’s sooooo good. These guys are the sweetest band I’ve ever worked with. Get into it, folks.’

Before later saying in his final post before the crash: ‘I’ve never been more proud of a van pack as I was last night with Her’s leaving Lost Lake Lounge in Denver. #littleachievements.’ 

Mr Engelbrektson, who was married with children, had been travelling with the band as they made their way around the US on a 19-day tour. 

The last venue the group performed in, The Rebel Lounge in Arizona, also paid tribute to the band and their tour manger last night, saying: ‘We were honored to be able to host them on their US tour. 

‘We never thought it would be their last show, they deserved so many more. Our deepest condolences go out to all their families and friends and everyone else who believed in them.’

Both Stephen Fitzpatrick and Audun Laading (pictured) posted outside an American diner while on their second US tour

The group had posted on Instagram just days before the crash to say they were ‘almost home’, thanking fans that had come out to see them

While another fan, Camden Furse, who saw the group on their US tour, said: ‘I can’t believe I just saw them perform 6 days ago in Salt Lake. Absolutely devastating. My heart goes out to their friends and families. 

‘They had some of the most charming stage personas I’ve ever seen and seemed to have so much fun performing.’ 

The news comes three years after all four members of British band Viola Beach and their manager died when their car crashed into a raised section of a bridge and plummeted into a canal in Sweden.

The Warrington band, Tomas Lowe, 27, Kris Leonard, River Reeves and Jack Dakin, all 20, and their manager Craig Tarry, 33, were on tour in February 2016 when the tragic incident took place.  

The post Liverpool Indie duo Hers are killed as their tour van crashes in US appeared first on Gyrlversion.

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