#but what if instead of that she was in shredded muddy clothes leg and arm bandaged still | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writingsbychlo · 3 years

Text

smoke and fire (07b)

word count; 7053

summary; as the tragedy of the chemical fire begins to wind down, the aftermath leaves the entire team in shock, and in need of a little comfort.

notes; this is the second half of part-7, I just know you guys are going to love it by the end.

warnings; minor character deaths, reference to panic attacks, vomiting, chemical fires.

Finally, the dam broke, and you tried to hold in the tears that wanted to release, the boy on the sheet twitching aggressively in his unconscious state as his body struggled to keep functioning. Your hands felt heavy as you pressed your hand over the neat stack of cards, dragging your hand over the pile and spreading it out to display all of the colours, before your fingers were brushing over what you were certain was the first of this colour card to be issued yet today.

A black card, feeling ominous in your hand, the weight of the card feeling more like bricks as you lifted it up, and you allowed yourself to shed the first tear. You didn’t want to tell Thomas, to let him know the real extensions of what you were seeing, but there was nothing for this boy that you could do. He wouldn't make it to a hospital or into surgery, his injuries were far too extensive, and so you let your legs stretch out from in front of you, the black card looped around his neck as you tried your best to make him comfortable.

The wipes you used were soothing instead of antibacterial, cooling skin that had been destroyed by flames, red and bleeding as you tried to soothe him, wiping away the traces of his injuries to try and clean him up.

There was a hope, that family was coming for him, that you were cleaning him up for a reason, helping him to look more presentable as you wiped traces of black ash and dust from his skin, all mattered in brown-red stains and sweat, tears under his eyes, and you removed it all.

It was moments like this that you had to remind yourself why you did this job at all, working along him carefully all the way to his fingertips as you wiped him down, adjusting the torn shreds of his clothes around him to hide the extent of his injuries as best as you could once you’d padded the deep slashes across his torso, bandages already beginning to seep through with red, but you adjusted his shirt down to over them. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it was radically better than it had been.

Tanned flesh was beginning to lose colour and his body motions were beginning to grow fatigued, and once you had adjusted him as best as you could, you were simply left to wait, sitting by the young boy’s side, and whispered reassurances into his ear with every twitch he made, sometimes resurfacing long enough to feel his pain, back arching and screams of pain leaving his lips, and you bit back tears, before letting them flow freely once again when his pain carried him back a state of illusion.

You loved this job, because in 99 out of 100 cases, it worked out. You helped pregnant women escape elevator shafts and father’s life long enough to see their baby born too, and you helped kids escape a life they didn't want to be in, and have the courage to create a new path. You helped nurses of amnesia patients escape burning rooms when they’d given up all hope, and you saved the elderly from suffocation on the gas leaks within their own homes.

You were damn good at your job, but sometimes, there were moments like this one that made it all that much harder.

Making a mental note of where you lay within the chaos, you hauled yourself up onto your feet, families weaving around as they all made to seek out their family members, and you were glad to notice that less and less people were being removed from the building. As you weaved through the channels made in the grass, the green stands worn away under multiple foot and wheel prints into muddy dirty tracks that would take weeks to fix, you made your way towards the ambulance you’d arrived in.

The weight of your body was heavy, every footfall feeling like it weighed you down more and more, your arms hanging by your sides, and you knew that tomorrow you would be riddled with pain and aching muscles, the over-exertions, everything from fixing up simple wounds, to hauling around men who were 200lb of pure muscle to help move them into recovery positions or lift them onto stretchers when they were too weak or injured to do it themselves, workmen who were twice your size, and the strain was making itself known.

You were numb, for now, and it was a sweet and blissful relief to know that the racing of your heart was creating enough adrenaline to dull every pain you had. Well, except for the headache that had been throbbing behind your eyes for hours now and making you feel a little nausea, but you could handle that, as long as you were able to finish this day without anything else. You must’ve dealt with over a hundred people at least, possibly more, the workload doubled with Newt too, and you were ready to crash into your bed, dreading the hours of shift you still had remaining.

The flames were beginning to be tamed, the blue tint to the smoke was fading as the chemicals were burned away, thick clouds of black smoke as the orange glow died down, beginning to be extinguished. There wasn’t much equipment that you had needed before, and yet now, you were grabbing ahold of a heart rate monitor and an oxygen tank, the mask to match it, and one of the stretcher pillows that had been discarded to the front of the ambo’ to make more room on the trolleys.

Hooking the monitor under your arm, you moved it to sit comfortably balanced on your hip, before you were letting out a sigh, your fingers hovering over the drawer of medicines and needles that you hated going into. Newt had stuck a small skull and crossbones sticker over it, one that had an eyepatch and a pirates hat on it, a joke between the two of you after you’d gone through the drive-thru at McDonalds on the way back from a call only a few weeks ago, getting a collection of pirate stickers in a happy meal box.

That drawer was only ever dug into if all options were out, if you were simply trying to relieve some of the pain that a patient was in, because they were in agony, and wouldn't make it to the hospital. Enough to bring down someone's pain levels, to let their heart relax, because once their brain stopped fighting to keep them alive and hiding the pain, they often didn’t drive too long after that.

Swallowing thickly, the jars within rattled a little as they clinked against one another. Shifting through and turning them in your hands, you found the container labelled with the medicine you were searching for, a fresh needle in a plastic packet, and you held both of them in your other hand, adjusting the equipment in your arms as you hopped down from the vehicle once again.

Slamming the doors back shut and waiting to hear them lock behind you, your eyes flickered over the scene. There were still a lot of police officers; operating crowd control, handing out water bottles and guiding members of the family through the crowd. You would give it time, not injecting the poor boy with the medicine until it all became too much for him, giving him the best chance for his family to get here before he passed, but you couldn't wait long.

Your feet dragged a little as you walked, toes scuffing against the muddy grass, and you were beginning to lose all strength, forcing yourself to go on, muscles clenching to keep them tight before you dropped everything you were holding entirely. Arriving back at the scene, the boy was panting rapidly and lightly, eyes moving beneath closed lids and jaw clenched so tight you worried he would crack his teeth, fists clenched by his side as his body remained rigid.

Placing down the kit gently, you let out a little sigh, his eyes cracking open to turn to look at you as he heard the sound.

“I-It hurts!”

You swallowed, knowing there wasn’t much more you could do as his voice cracked. He was covered with burns, and there were clear signs of internal bleeding as the organs beneath charred skin went solid, there was bruising along his body in many places from the broken bones under his skin, and with the wheezing he let out, never quite able to catch his breath, you were certain that the cracked ribs had punctured one of his lungs. “I know, kiddo, I know.”

He cried out again, a wet sound as he coughed, his entire body jerking at the sensation, and you cupped a hand behind his head, fingers finding the sticky wetness of warm blood at the base of his neck as you tried to rock him forwards, letting him cough until splatters of blood were hitting his lap and the plastic, splattering a little across you as he wretched, his entire body trembling.

When he finally managed to stop the movements, he was even more out of breath than he had been, and you lay him back down, using a glove-covered thumb to wipe at the corners of his mouth and clear away the blood and spit mix that had accumulated there. He had wretched, several times, though no bile had risen, his body reacting in every way it could now as organs began to fail and shut down one by one, and you hated that there was nothing anyone could do but sit here on watch.

Minute felt like an eternity as you hooked up the heart monitor, turning the volume down to soft beeping, as not to disturb anyone else, an uneven and erratic rate with a blood pressure concerningly low, and you were glad that the average eye couldn't read these figures, because it read like a horror story in a medical professionals eyes.

Just as you finished hooking the boy up to the machine, an oxygen mask sitting over his face, fogging up lightly inside as he took gasping breaths of the raw source, you felt a shadow fall over you, covering your eyes from the light before you were looking up.

The mother, you could tell immediately, from the sullen look in her eyes, and she didn’t look at you, her gaze sweeping over the boy who lay beside where you knelt, before she was turning, a quick call to her husband, and just like that, you were crowded by family. There were three younger siblings, and he seemed to be the eldest of them all, a pre-teen with tears already in her eyes as she looked at her brother, a child who couldn't be older than eight staring in confusion as they tried to grasp what happened, and a toddler, a fist knotted in their father’s jumper and balanced on his hip.

Sinking to her knees beside her son, she didn’t sob or scream, she simply let out a shaky breath, lifting her hand to brush dark curls out of his face, looking down at her eldest child as he began to slip away again. Setting the youngest down, the toddler wobbled on unstable legs to their mother, sitting down in the grass beside them and reaching a hand out with useless babble to place a chubby hand onto the boy’s arm, squeezing a little and cheering as they lived within a bubble of innocence, unaware of what was happening.

“Can you tell me what’s happening?”

A deeper voice, the father, and you turned, nodding your head to him and shifting yourself to pick up the needle, tearing off the plastic top and producing the needle from inside. “I’m just going to give him a shot of morphine, and then we’ll talk.”

He only nodded, watching as you lifted the container, pushing the tip of the needle through the rubbery covering and drawing back on the syringe carefully to fill the needle with the approximate amount, tapping the tip and checking it over once it had the right dosage within it. Finding a spot on his arm where there was still enough intact flesh to find a vein, you pressed your finger down over the pale skin, the blue vein underneath disappearing for a second, refilling weakly but marking its place, and you lined the needle up.

An uncomfortable pang shot through you as you injected the needle into his arm, pushing the pad of your finger down against the handle of the needle until all of the medicine had been unloaded into his veins. It took a few seconds to travel, and you watched him, studying his reaction to be sure, before all at once his muscles loosened and he sagged with relief into the plastic tarp as the pain finally faded away, fingers flexing around his mother’s as he squeezed with what little strength he had left.

Standing up and wobbling a little, the father followed you a few steps away from the group, and he glanced back over his shoulder to his family, hands sticking into his pockets, before he was letting out a heavy sigh. “My boy, he’s not going to make it, is he?”

“No, he’s not.” You whispered, and the man only nodded, a slow exhale from him as he processed that news, before tears were building in his eyes, and he began to crumble a little. “I gave him a shot of morphine, it’s slowed down all of his functions now, and taken away his pain. He can’t feel it now. I wish there’s more I could have done, I’m sorry.”

“My wife saw the news, saw the explosion. She was so worried, straight away.” A twist of guilt moved through you, making you sniff a little as your own lower lips wobbled, and you tried to choke down tears. “I told her she’d be okay, and that he was just an intern. There was no way he was close enough to the real stuff to be badly injured.”

“My friend found him, carried him out about fifteen minutes ago. Gave me enough time to let you get here to say your goodbyes.”

“You tell your friend ‘thank you’ for me, and for my family.” You nodded, knowing how much it would mean, and he finally let his tears slip free, making it harder for you to contain your own emotions. “He’s the oldest of all four, I don’t do much for a job. I’m just a mechanic, and his mother works at a supermarket, but he was going to college. He studied biomedical science, he was going somewhere.”

You grimaced, an unstable breath sucked into your lungs, before you were blinking quickly and looking away. There was bile rising in your throat, your hand gripping at your stomach to try and contain it. “I’m going to go now, and let you say your goodbyes. I’ll return soon, okay?”

You both knew what ‘soon’ meant, and he nodded, stepping away to talk to his wife, and a look seemed to be all that was needed to communicate between them, before the first of a loud cry was leaving her lips, and that was your breaking point. You shouldered through the people, mumbled apologised on your lips, you did feel bad for pushing through them all, but you could barely choke down the vomit rising within your guts before you were stepping out of sight, hunched over at the waist as you let it go, hand reaching out for supper as you found the tree.

Nails scraped against the bark, the pads of your fingers stinging at the rough pressure, and you shuddered as you heaved, throat stinging and eyes watering as you struggled to even breathe. It felt unending, time warping around you as you realised it had only been a half-hour since the boy had been delivered to you, and that he wouldn't make it to the hour marker.

A hand came down to rub at your back, and you gasped for breath, wiping the back of your hand, covered by your sleeve across your mouth and taking a moment to yourself. When you were finally able to stand back up, stomach feeling a little more stable as you tried not to think about the dying boy lest your nausea return, you twisted to find the person who had come to comfort you.

"Officer Paris." Your words couldn't get any higher than a whisper, and even that cracked, and his hand fell back down to his side as you wrapped your arms around yourself in comfort.

“Saw you take a sudden dash, got a little worried.”

You nibbled on your lower lip, a foul taste lingering in your mouth, and he offered up a water bottle for you, a weak laugh on your lips as you accepted it with a whispered ‘thank you’. As you took deep swigs, forcing yourself not to gulp as you slowed your racing heart, you watched as the fire teams began to load the equipment back into their trucks slowly, all the work they could do having been completed by now, and you knew that there was still a lot of work left for you to do before you’d get to follow after them.

“Everything okay?”

“Not really.” You whispered, screwing the lid of the water back on and holding it to your chest, using the cool liquid within to try and focus your senses. “We’re going to need a coroner down here. I know there’s some up in the building, but we have a kid, he’s not going to make it.”

“I’ll find one for you, okay?”

You appreciated the gentle tone of his voice, lowering your head to rub gently at your temples with one hand. “I should get back, we need to start getting people out of here.”

You could hardly focus as you walked back to your stations, everything seeming to slip from focus into some kind of daze as you tried to focus on what you were doing. You retrieved your bag, scooping it up from the floor and swinging it over your shoulder. There were coloured cards waiting to be collected, torn plastic bases and litters of water bottles in the mud, as well as lost personal belongings that had been forgotten in the rush.

Many people were still crowded around, waiting to be excused and waiting to get rides in an ambulance, the reds fading away into a majority of only green and yellow cards waiting, and you praised your lucky stars that you had only needed to give out one single black card today, because you weren’t sure that you’d even still be standing if there had been any more.

Flexing the fingers of your hand slowly, you focused on the sensation, head rolling from side to side, before your shoulders followed, and you loosened every single muscle you had for a tranquil moment, before setting to work. The sun was already beginning to fade on the day now, moving towards the horizon as the lighting dulled, hours having passed between caring for patients, and your first call was to begin getting people signed off.

Leaving your bag in the flooring of your seat in the ambulance, you collected a stack of forms and papers, as well as pens, taking them with you as you began to make your rounds of anyone who was left. As long as they were sentient enough to fill out discharge forms after you ran a final assessment, you could let them leave on their own as long as they had somebody with them, family or a friend, even just a neighbour or coworker, but it helped to clear out the crowds.

Newt joined you after an hour or so, having done his last assessment with the final patient, all the fire trucks being long since left, leaving police cars and vans scattered around, ambulances coming and going, and you had to ensure not to focus on the black vans with wide embossed lettering that brought a more sombre mood. Newt seemed to sense your pain, because he disappeared for a small while, returning not long after, and as you packed away equipment, the family you’d helped were now gone, the equipment you’d left with them was loaded back into the ambulance, and where words failed you, the look your friend gave you said it all.

He knew how much you’d suffered, he knew it would only cause more pain to go over and gather the equipment once the boy’s body had been cleared, and so he took care of it for you. A crew of policemen were on clean-up, as well as that of volunteers, only the shining lights of headlights and camera crew leftover as the light began to fade into darkness, and the scene was somewhat clean.

Lost belongings were piled into large plastic boxes with the police, and you filled out what felt like a bibles-worth of paperwork with the coroners, signing your name so many time your signature now just looked like a scribble rather than your name, before you were finally collapsing down into the somewhat uncomfortable cushioning of the ambulance’s passenger seat.

Silence took over your both, and as the truck started up, you left your head sway back into the headrest, eyes slipping shut as the rumble of the vehicle lulled you into as much relaxation as you could get.

As the adrenaline began to die down, you were able to feel the ache in your body, the pain that was seeping into every fibre of your body, every nerve and cell, exhaustion taking over. Raising a hand up to cover your mouth as you yawned, Newt chuckled softly, leaning over and patting your knee, before he was changing gears, and twisting on the radio to fill the cabin with the sounds of the classical music radio.

The trucks were parked away neatly within the garage bay when you arrived, the main doors up to anticipate your arrival, but the space was unusually empty, though it was understandable. After cells, members of the team could often be found milling around, sitting at the squad table and chatting, or working over the truck to check and clean equipment, filling the silence with laughter and jokes as they got along, but as you hopped out of the vehicle the second it was put into park, you were met with silence.

The echo of your door slamming shut reverberated around the empty foyer, Newt’s soon following, before he was rounding to your side, a sad look in eyes that normally sparkled brightly, and he let out a sigh. “I’m sorry about the kid. I really thought we were going to make it through the day without a black card today.”

“Did the coroner’s say anything about inside?”

“I didn’t even want to ask. We did everything we could, everybody did.” You swallowed thickly, nodding your head, and letting Newt loop an arm over your shoulders to pull you into his side, your head falling to his shoulder, and dragging your aching feet underneath you as you followed after him towards the locker room. You were stained with dirt, blood and grime, and you hoped the water was hot enough to soothe you and wash away your worries, already thinking about the muscle-relief body wash that you had hidden on the second shelf in your locker. “We could get in touch with the hospital, and see if everybody is okay?”

“You could call that hot doctor.” Newt squeezed you a little, a humourless laugh leaving you as you caught sight of his smirk, little energy to reciprocate the joke, but appreciating the way he lifted the mood nonetheless. “What was his name, again? David, Denny?”

“It’s Derek, and you know that.”

“Derek, that’s right.” He sighed, dreamily as he pushed open the door to the locker room, and the smell of multiple body-washes as well as the lingering heat from steam, signalling that the rest of your team had already been through the room and cleaned themselves up. Grabbing the towel and the bag of toiletries from your locker, you kicked off your boots, flexing your toes as your feet were liberated, and letting your socks follow. You were too lazy to even scoop your clothes up from the floor, stripping down to your underwear before wandering away to the shower, and closing the curtain.

Removing your final garments, you reached a hand back out of the closed stall, dropping them to the floor beside where your towel was hanging up, and twisting on the shower. Across the room, in the men’s showers, you heard Newt let out a loud and dramatic groan, a giggle on your lips as he did.

“I have never appreciated hot water more.”

“Speak your truth, Newt.” You teased, hearing his laugh as you stepped under the stream of water yourself, face tilted up into the spray and eyes closing, letting yourself be ridden of the day’s stresses. You didn’t want to look down, and see the colour that the water would run, you didn’t want to see any of it, the blood or the mud, you just wanted to let it all disappear, without having to acknowledge any of it again. Keeping your eyes closed, you reached for the wash-proof bag, unzipping it and feeling inside, fingers dancing over the bottles within to tell their shape.

Shampoo first, scrubbing through the tresses of your hair to remove the built-up grime, feeling the ponytail you’d put it in all slip away, the dull pain on your scalp soothing as your fingers massaged gently through your hair, pressing into the sore flesh, and you finally let a satisfied noise of your own bubble up. The squeaking of the doors on the other side of the room signified that Newt was finished long before you were, padding of wet feet, and as you moved onto the conditioner, you could faintly hear the slamming of his locker through the water as you washed the strands.

You didn’t hear when he actually left, the thundering of the water as it ran over your heart, the pounding of your own heartbeat inside of your head, but you sensed when he had left, the room feeling a little colder when you were alone. If a few stray tears escaped you to be washed away by the water when you scrubbed down your body and let the herbal soak absorb into your muscles, then nobody had to know, letting them be shed in honour of the boy who’d lost his life while trying to improve it.

You worked slowly and silently, wrapping the towel around yourself, and finding it a little easier to breathe as you wiped a space free in the steamed up mirror with your hand to be able to see. It was like a weight had been lifted from your chest, leaving you able to take your breaths more smoothly, less ragged and strained, and your headache was beginning to fade. You felt better for being clean, your entire body aching but a little more relieved and nowhere near as tense, and you sighed, hands gripping the edge of the sink.

It was hard to forgive yourself sometimes when you lost a patient, it was never easy to watch someone die, but you’d done everything you possibly could to make it easier, and thanks to your team, he’d seen his family before he passed, and that was a blessing that made everything feel easier to bear.

Taking care of your skin and running a comb through the towel-dried strands of your hair, you were almost falling asleep as you dried it. The repetitive humming of the hairdryer was enough to make your eyes close and mind stop spinning, coming to a halt as everything began to slip from consciousness, your muscles feeling heavy for an entirely new reason, and you jerked yourself back away several times.

Following it all, you grimaced at the taste in your mouth, the bitter aftertastes of your physical reaction to the day still lingering, and so you were generous with the dollop of toothpaste you served yourself as you scrubbed lazily at your teeth and rinsed out your mouth. Scooping up your clothes and pulling on your spare set, you shoved everything grubby and used into your bag to take home, swapped with your fresh clothes, but you didn’t get dressed entirely.

Deep down, you knew that Vince wouldn’t mind if you slacked on your uniform just this once, and so for comfort, instead of pulling on another smart button-up uniform shirt, you went for your hoodie instead, the worn logo of your college in the top corner as it faded, a hole in one sleeve that your thumb would fit through, your hair pulled from underneath the collar to sit limply around your shoulders.

You didn’t care for boots, either, two pairs of socks to keep your feet warm, before you were pulling the sleeves down over your hands, and wandering away to the main room, to try and find your team, and seek reassurance and company within their presence. It was unsettling quiet in there too, only the sounds of Newt’s pen tapping on the table as he worked silently on the puzzles in the newspaper, and the sounds of the almost muted television that Thomas was staring at, one of the older ‘Star Wars’ movies playing on the screen, but from the way he was staring at it, you knew his mind was miles away.

There were only seven in the room, including yourself. Gally and Chuck were playing chess at the kitchen counter, Newt doing the puzzles and Thomas watching television, and Brenda was sitting at the other end of the table with Minho, the two of them each with their headphones in and listening to music, but sitting close enough to one another to seek comfort, and your lips flicked up a little, happy for them, taking it at their own pace. You weren’t sure where everyone else was, but logically, you would assume that they would be sleeping the day away.

Moving across the room, you reached immediately for the kettle, ruffling Chuck’s curls as you passed by, and he huffed under his breath, but a smile was on his flushed cheeks as you glanced back at him, a friendly wink for his complaints, before you were filling the tank up under the tap. Once it was clicked on and beginning to boil, you began to search through the cupboards for what you wanted, smiling as the ingredients came together.

Placing a pan on the stove, you flicked the flame onto the lowest setting you could get, and adding milk to the pan to begin to warm through, without boiling over. Opening up a bag of marshmallows, you popped on into your mouth, chewing at the squishy treat happily, and opening up the cupboard filled with assorted mugs, finding your favourite.

As you found the one you searched for, you placed it down on the counter, before another was following, and another, until there were seven mugs lined up in front of you, all mismatching in size and colour, some with pictures, patterns or writing. A generous spoonful of chocolate powder into the bottom of each one, your personal collection of hot chocolate ingredients, but you were willing to share just this once.

With a splash of boiling water, just enough to dissolve the powder, you topped each one up with the milk as soon as it began to froth around the edges, heated all the way through, and leaving a gap at the top. A sprinkle of marshmallows on the surface of the steaming beverage, and a spray of whipped cream into a pretty swirl, you decorated the top of each one with a few more marshmallows and a dash of chocolate dusting.

They weren’t perfect, there were drips of chocolate and cream along the edges, and they certainly weren’t anything you would serve at a restaurant, but as you placed one down in front of both Gally and Chuck, the looks on their faces were more than enough to confirm that they didn’t care about the appearance.

There was surprise on their features, brows raising as they looked between you and the hot beverages, whispered ‘thank yous’ as their fingers wrapped around it, pulling the mugs towards themselves and staring down at them, small smiles taking over. Minho had the same reaction, and Brenda stopped her music long enough to wrap you into a tight hug as you offered one to her, before Newt was sighing out happily, his head rolling back to look up at you when you'd placed a mug down in front of him. He’d given you a cheesy grin, and told you just how much he loved you, before taking a large gulp, and cursing a little as it burned his tongue, but not letting it deter him from repeating the action, and getting a print of whipped cream along his upper lip to be licked away.

Taking the last of the drinks to be given away, you made your way over to the couch. Thomas had seemingly had the same idea as you, a jumper on and the hood pulled up over his head to hide his face, and he jumped as you placed a hand onto his shoulder. You squeezed in apology as he turned to look at you, the sombre look on his face lightening a little bit as he tried to offer you a smile, twisting to face you a fraction more.

Rounding the edge of the couch to hand him the drink, surprise flickered over his features, before he was taking it into two trembling hands, and bringing it up to his nose to sniff lightly. He poked his tongue out, fishing a marshmallow and a scoop of whipped cream from the top, and he hummed contentedly at the flavour.

“Thank you.”

His voice cracked as he spoke, and you hoped the smile on your face didn’t look too pitying, only able to nod your head as he stared up at you, blowing on the steamy liquid as the cream melted, and your fingers rubbed gently at his shoulder where you still held on, before your hand was sliding away, stepping back a little, and his eyes snapped up from the drink to you, brows furrowing, before he was reaching a hand out, wrapping around the wrist that had been closest to him, and bringing you to a halt.

“Will you sit with me? Please?”

“Of course, I will. Let me just go and get my drink, okay?” He paused in releasing your wrist, fingers unwrapping slowly, and he took a sip of his hot chocolate as he settled back into the cushions. Grabbing at your drink, Newt watched as you went, his brows raising as you caught his eye, and you shrugged, the porcelain hot in your hand as you held onto it, almost enough to burn, and you switched to gripping the handle, swirling it a little to mix the melted cream into your drink.

Sinking down into the couch beside him, he shuffled a little closer, your legs folding under you until his thigh was pressing to your knee as you faced him, mug placed down on the table, and he leaned forwards, matching the positions, before he was running a hand over his face, and letting his gaze find your own.

“Are you okay, Thomas?”

“Not really.” He mumbled, looking completely and utterly exhausted, and you felt sorry for him, true empathy surging through you, and propped your head up on your hand, elbow on the back of the couch, as you looked at him. “You know, I think you lied to me. I think you told me what I needed to hear in the moment, but I don’t think it was the truth.”

You sighed, a short exhale as you tried to find words, and his lips flicked up at the sides, head dipping for s second, before he was looking up shaking his head slightly.

“I’m not mad. You knew what was best for me. I needed you, and you didn’t fail me. Thank you.” He whispered, the words just for you, and your lips pursed, feeling a little flustered at the way he stared at you; earnestly, eyes searching your own. “Will you tell me what happened, though?”

“You don’t want that, Thomas.”

“I do. Please, just tell me about the kid.” His request was desperate, and there was a silver lining to the incredibly dark cloud, thunder and lightning swirling within, and he choked down the lump in his throat as your shoulders sagged.

“He went comfortably. He didn’t feel a thing. I promise.” His eyes closed, a shaky breath let out, and his face screwed up a little as he tried to hold in his tears. He sniffled, before letting out a weak sigh, knowing that he was failing, and as he blinked, his lashes came back wet, a large tear falling along pale cheeks, before another was following. “His parents, they saw it on the news. They came right down, and his mother held his hand as he passed. He got to see his siblings, and his mom and dad. He didn’t die alone.”

He let out a weak cry, and you heard the shuffling at the table, the rustling of the papers as Newt moved, but his chair didn’t scrape across the floor yet, clearly waiting to judge whether or not his best friend needed him or not first.

“His dad was so proud of him, Thomas. He was the oldest of four, he was making all of them so proud, and thanks to you, he passed on peacefully.” Honey eyes that were encased with red opened up to meet your gaze, lower lip wobbling a little as he released it from where it was held between his teeth, and in this moment, he was weak. He wasn’t the lieutenant of the team, he wasn’t a leader or a fighter, he was just a man who’d experienced a tragedy. “You saved him, Thomas. You made his last moments something peaceful and meaningful.” You paused, waiting a second longer, letting him calm himself. “He told me to thank you, on behalf of his family.”

“He did?” You nodded, and his lips flicked up at the sides, a hint of a smile. Lifting a hand, you wiped away his tears, brushing your fingers over wet skin, before you were cupping one of his cheeks in your palm, and his eyes fluttered shut, leaning into your touch as he let out a shaky breath. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

He smiled, softly, twisting his head to press more into your touch, and you swept your thumb over his face, tracing soft and damp skin, the pad brushing lightly over the upturned tip of his nose, and his face scrunched up a little at the ticklish feeling. “How do you always know just what to say to make me feel better?”

“I don’t know, it just comes to me, I guess. What you need to hear, it’s always just the truth.”

“Thank you.” He mumbled, lashes fluttering as his eyes remained closed, relaxing into your touch, and the cushions on the other side of you dipped. Glancing over your shoulder, you chuckled a little as Brenda sat down, leaning over to wrap an arm over your waist, her head coming down to rest on your shoulder, and she turned the volume on the movie up, cuddling into you a little as she sought out comfort too, a chuckle on your lips as she did.

You shuffled, sitting to face her a little more, and Thomas moved with you, keeping his face tucked into your hand, before Newt was following. On the other side of the couch, Newt slumped down, patting Thomas on the back lightly, before kicking his feet up on the coffee table, and reaching across to take Thomas’ hot chocolate, the brunette completely unaware of the theft that had taken place. Gally sat in the armchair, and Minho sat on the edge of the couch, arm stretched out along the back of the couch behind Brenda’s head, and Chuck sat on the floor.

Nobody said anything, nobody needed to, as you all simply watched the movie that had been chosen, letting the day be washed away as you served out the rest of your shift, ready to go home, and let a bad day be washed away by many more good days to come. Pulling your hand back for just as second, Thomas let out a noise of discontentment, his eyes cracking open to peer at you, a frown forming on his lips.

Lifting up a little higher, you pushed his hood down, adjusting it around his shoulders carefully, and you could feel his gaze lingering on you as everyone else watched the movie, leaning in just an inch, nothing noticeable, but enough to keep the bubble between you both, and your fingers laced into his hair.

A rumbling of bliss left him as your nails scraped lightly at his scalp, playing lightly with his hair to soothe him, the strands still very faintly damp from his shower, and he simply stared at you, head tipping into your hand as his body began to loosen of tension.

“I got you, Thomas, don’t worry.”

He didn’t respond, the first genuine smile you’d seen since the beginning of the shift being offered to you, his eyes closing, and he lifted a hand to wrap around your wrist delicately, fingers smoothing up along the back of your palm, resting over your hand and holding it lightly as you played with his hair. Turning your head to the movie, your attention was split, between what was happening on screen, and more overwhelmingly, with the intense feeling of belonging that was flooding you, never having felt more welcome than you did right now.

#thomas #firefighter!tommy #thomas x reader #thomas/reader #smoke and fire #SAF #thomas the maze runner #dylan o'brien #dylan obrien #dylan obrien x reader #dylan obrien/reader #dylan obrien thomas #dylan obrien the maze runner #dylan obrien x reader smut #dylan obrien/reader smut #thomas x reader smut #thomas/reader smut

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potatowitch · 3 years

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in which hawke finds a cat: chapter 1 (read on ao3 here)

On a walk through Lowtown one freezing Kirkwall winter, Hawke, Merrill and Isabela find a grumpy stray cat in need of healing and a warm place to stay. (warnings for mildly graphic descriptions of pet injury - it gets healed though)

“Look, Isabela, all I’m saying is that us poor Fereldens -”

“Not so ‘poor’ anymore, sweet thing.”

Hawke snorts and rolls her eyes, huddling closer to Merrill and Isabela to share warmth as they trudge through an endless ocean of sleet.

Winter in Kirkwall is a miserable, wet affair. The freezing winds coming in from the Waking Sea have a way of getting through armor and clothes and reaching right down to your bones, and the torrential rains turn anything below Hightown into a muddy, flooded mess. Lowtown is almost deserted as a result, occupied only by a few exhausted, shivering merchants manning their shabby stalls and the odd beggar sleeping fitfully on a street corner. Hawke wonders how they don’t freeze where they lay - the stone ground is so cold that even Merrill and Fenris both conceded to wearing boots today. She shakes the thought from her head as she walks.

“-right, well, us Fereldens tend to think that salt is too spicy, so you can understand why Anders looks at your stews like they’re about to attack him. He did choke on a whole chilli pepper last Wednesday.”

“Okay, but that was pretty funny, though. The shade of red he went was absolutely adorable.”

“Are you kidding?” Hawke says with a wide grin. Her face underneath her dark fringe has gone pink with the cold, and the skin of her lips has started to crack. “It was hilarious, but we’ve got to feed the man somehow. He already doesn’t eat anywhere near -”

“Vhenan, wait,” Merrill interrupts.

The three of them come to an abrupt halt outside of a gloomy alleyway. The wind is less harsh where they stand in the shadow of the tall, worn buildings, though it still manages to carry Lowtown’s signature scent of blood, sweat and shit right into Hawke’s nostrils.

“What is it, kitten?” Isabela whispers.

“Can you hear that?”

Hawke holds her breath and listens intently to the scraping of weathered wood, the howl of the wind, and … a low, coarse “mow” coming from the alleyway.

Hawke and Merrill turn to each other, faces split into wide grins, before taking off down the alleyway and dragging Isabela behind them by the wrists.

The sound seems to be coming from behind a heap of rotting crates and moth-eaten sacks. Hawke heaves them aside, revealing a large grey tabby with a snaggletooth, a long scar over her pink nose and notches taken out of both ears. She’s curled up by the wall and shivering, and she hisses and puffs up as they approach, but doesn’t run away. As Hawke crouches in front of her, she can see why - the cat has her tail stuck under a pile of heavy terracotta bricks.

“Oh, sweetheart,” coos Hawke, completely ignoring the swipe the cat aims at her when she reaches out. “Can you two see if you can move these bricks? I’ll hang on to her so she doesn’t get away.”

By the time they’re done shifting the bricks, Hawke’s face and hands are covered in deep scratches, and both Merrill and Isabela have fallen victim to a few flailing swipes from the distressed cat, who growls furiously as she’s swaddled in Merrill’s scarf and held tight against Hawke’s chest. Half the bones in her tail seem to be crushed - it’s crusted with old blood and hangs limply out of the scarf. One of her paws has also succumbed to frostbite, the fur matted with ice and the pads blue-black where they should be pink.

“Poor baby,” Merrill sighs, reaching over to wrap the scarf tighter around the cat. “I wonder if she’s got a home and a family somewhere. They must be missing her.”

“She looks pretty feral,” Hawke says. She tries giving the cat a scratch on top of her head, and is promptly bitten and hissed at. “Come on. We should bring her to Anders. He can at least deal with the frostbite and properly amputate the tail.”

Merrill and Isabela nod their assent, and Hawke leads the way through the sleety, stinking streets towards the elevators leading to Darktown.

The elevator creaks and whines as they board it. The chains and gears are covered in a layer of ice, and it takes Merrill melting it with a small handheld flame for the controls to finally release and begin their descent into the undercity. Stepping off at the bottom, they’re assaulted with the sounds of metal hitting metal, wailing children and arguing refugees along with the foul stench of waste, decay and desperation. Unlike Lowtown, Darktown is still full to the brim with people huddled around sputtering fires, hunched over as they soothe their starving babies or upend the contents of their stomach into a corner. Hawke, Merrill and Isabela are watched suspiciously the entire time they walk through the twisting alleys, but they’re visibly well-armed enough that no cutthroats or gang members seem in the mood to risk a confrontation.

The outside of Anders’ clinic is surprisingly free of people. Most winters, Hawke has to push past a swarm of refugees needing food for their children or healing from a mine accident, a spare blanket and somewhere to shelter from the cold. Stepping inside, she sighs with relief as she’s hit with the warmth from the heating rune Anders has scratched on the ground underneath his desk. The clinic unfortunately doesn’t smell much better than the rest of Darktown, but the sharp tang of elfroot and lyrium cuts through the stench enough that it’s a little easier to breathe inside than out.

Every cot in the clinic is occupied, and Anders himself kneels in front of a cot on the back wall, hunched over an elven child’s wounded leg. The child’s mother looks on, shifting anxiously from one foot to another as shredded flesh knits back together under Anders’ hands. When he’s done, Anders murmurs something to the child that makes her smile, and he hands her mother the threadbare blanket from the cot.

As he rises and turns, Hawke can see how purple and hollow his undereyes are from where her, Isabela and Merrill stand in the clinic’s doorway. His hand shakes as he pushes it through his scraggly hair, leather tie long since lost in the chaos of his work. When his eyes finally fall on the three women hovering awkwardly by the door, he frowns and lets out a heavy sigh.

“Hawke, unless you’re actively dying, I really don’t have time for - what’s that?”

Anders steps forward and peers curiously at the bundle in Hawke’s arms. As Hawke tilts the cat forward a little to show Anders, she puts her ears back and growls at him.

“Oh, hello gorgeous,” Anders croons. The frown immediately lifts from his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he beams down at the cat. She hisses in response.

“Where did you find this sweetheart?”

“In an alleyway in Lowtown,” Hawke says. “Had her tail crushed under a pile of bricks. Her back paw has frostbite, too.”

“Poor thing. Bring her to the back room and I’ll have a look at her.”

The back room is separated from the main clinic by a cracked, rickety door. Inside is dark and cramped, the only furniture a rickety table and chair, a cracked washbasin, a dresser with a wonky door and a bed far too small for Anders’ lanky frame. The bedclothes have been stripped, likely given to a refugee, and the wardrobe door hangs open to reveal the inside is empty save a few spare bandages and potions. Anders must have moved all his clothes to his room in Hawke’s estate.

Anders deadbolts the door and closes the wardrobe. “Put her on the table.”

The cat, to her credit, doesn’t immediately try to run when Hawke lays her on the table and pulls away Merrill’s scarf. She instead backs up to the far edge of the table and raises her hackles, spitting and swiping at Anders’ hand as he reaches for her.

“Hey, sweetheart, you’re okay,” Anders murmurs to her, braving another attack on his hand to investigate her injured tail. His hand glows a muted blue as he hovers it over the worst of the damage, and his brows draw together in a frown. He does the same to her frostbitten foot, and lets out a heavy sigh.

“The good news is I’ll only have to take off half the tail,” he says. “The bad news is that the foot will have to go too, and she’s seriously dehydrated and malnourished. She can’t go straight back out onto the streets once I’ve healed her.”

Hawke considers this for a moment and shrugs. “That’s fine. She can stay with us.”

Anders’ eyes light up and he stares openly at Hawke. He barely seems to notice when the cat nips at his hand. “Really?”

“Really. Weren’t we talking about getting a cat, anyway?”

“We were,” Anders says. “But I thought you’d prefer one less …”

“Hideous?” says Isabela.

“Grumpy?” says Merrill.

Anders scowls.

“Hey! She’s adorable, and she’s only lashing out because she’s scared and in pain! You would be too! She just needs some love and care and I’m sure she’ll be an absolute softie in no time.” Anders tries to scratch under the cat’s ear, and is rewarded with another bite. His hands are already littered with tiny wounds that he’ll have to clean later to avoid infection.

“Well then,” Hawke chuckles. “Once her foot and tail are dealt with, you can bring her back home. Don’t get too excited, you’re the one who has to give her a bath.”

Anders beams, the corners of his eyes crinkling again. He looks happier than Hawke has seen him since … well, ever, really.

“That’s not a problem, Hawke.”

#fic #my writing #origin of turnip!!#ask me about my cat OC lmao

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promiscuous-jalapeno · 4 years

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Ledge

{Dimitri x F!Byleth}

Genre: N//SFW / Angst / Comfort Word Count: 1,984 Summary: Dimitri’s jealousy and tense grapple with his feelings towards Byleth come to a head. This is feral ass Dimitri post-timeskip being jealous and confused and possessive of Byleth. A/N: Happy Happy Happiest Birthday’s to @flatsuke ! I tried to get this done by yesterday but I failed im sry!! Thank you for being such an amazing friend to me, thank you for all of the laughs and late-night talks and headcanon sessions. Thank you for always being so kind and giving to everyone you meet. I really hope you like this and I hope this next year brings you so much joy ILY happy birthday <3 ! Additional Content Warnings: Blood mention, Fingering, First Time

He cared not that it was raining. The pungent smell of soil had somehow taken on an acridity to him now; only serving to remind him of the years he wandered alone, early morning sun beating down where he lay on the warm earth, the whispers from his mind begging it to reclaim him and complete the damned circle.

Another sleepless night, but at least the cloak of darkness offered him some form of respite from the waking nightmare. Her. Everywhere he went, she was. The ghost of her smile from all those years ago haunted him to this day, even when he close his eyes.

Part of him hated her. No—no, he could never hate her. Not truly. Jealous. He was jealous of her. How she seemed unfazed by the last few years. Preserved and untouched by the brutal, gripping hands of time. Still delicate and brilliant and mysterious; intricate as stained glass.

Whereas he...

Dimitri’s hands wrung themselves. Time had captured him in its unforgiving jowls. Left him bitter. Gnarled and ugly. Slicing him with its jagged teeth before it spat him out like the poisonous thing he is. His soul was not one for consumption.

Had he known what was to become of him, he might have asked her to dance all those years ago. Unburdened by the fear of appearing with all the grace of a newborn colt, the swinish steps or the sweat brought to his palms by the reality of their distance—or lack there of. And how the way she smelled would surely linger even in his dreams for weeks to come. He would have asked her to dance...

His way had been the cowards' way, back then. But, he supposed, perhaps that much hadn’t changed. If he could muster a laugh, it would be self-deprecating. Even now he felt unworthy of her touch, more so than ever before. He had no right to ask anything of her. He could barely stand the sight of his own soiled hands.

And yet, the sickening weight in his stomach and the tenseness in his jaw when he saw her whispering with a smirking Sylvain…or the way he clenched fists until his knuckles turned white when he spied her going over maps a little too closely with anyone else, suggested that as much as he like to deny it, he wanted her for himself. Even if just to bring him a remnant glimmer of the man he used to be.

Perhaps that’s what fueled his angry display earlier that afternoon, when he caught her sparring with Felix in the training grounds.

Felix behind her, hands on her hips to square her stance. His face close to hers, lips that could just as easily kiss her speaking instructions. The way his touch lingered on her sculpted arms as they swung her sword and cut the air thick with tension.

Both of them sweating, parrying each other much to Felix’s clear delight. How he could stand there drowning in his own torment whilst the two of them were seemingly lost in their own private world…as if they had not known hardship and loss…his blood was boiling by the time they even noticed he was there.

Felix jut his chin in Dimitri’s direction, scoffing between labored pants and haughtily swiping his gloved fingers through his damp hair. “Gotten yourself another craving for blood, have you, boar?” Felix spat, condescending.

Dimitri didn’t reply to the clear challenge, only gripped the training sword so tightly he was sure it might snap under the pressure. He didn’t wait for Felix to ready himself, either. His sword swung down so fiercely it whistled in the air, vibrating his bones the minute Felix countered.

“You—“ Felix grit. He had no time to question between the onslaught of blows from Dimitri.

Crack—crack, Crack. Felix met him at every turn, albeit with only fractions of a second saving his skin. Unable to rebuttal the full power, all he could do was displace the momentum of the swings, his feet digging into the loose soil at every step to keep himself from staggering.

Dimitri could see it so clearly now. How he had changed. Felix was an excellent swordsman, but his technique was a little too perfect. Too technical. Too tight. Time had made Dimitri an opportunist, even if the trade-off meant he was less than noble in order to best. He found an opening, the wooden hilt like a hammer driving into Felix’s ribs, whilst Dimitri’s elbow made contact with his jaw, sending Felix flying back and into the dirt.

“Dimitri...”

Byleth’s voice calling his name finally came into his consciousness. The sound reeked of disappointment. Had she been speaking the entire time? He had almost forgotten where he was. The training sword fell from his hand with a plunk and it’s echo seemed the loudest sound he’d ever heard.

Felix spat blood, wiping his weeping lip with his sleeved arm, piercing eyes seemingly looking straight through Dimitri. “So...he shows his true self once more. Welcome back, vile beast. Glad to see your fighting style is brutish as ever.”

Dimitri’s heart raced, hands shaking at his sides. But what scared him was the fact that they shook not out of fear or repentance for what he’d just done, but out of anger, and the withheld desire to go further still. He watched Byleth extend her hand to Felix before he ran from the place without a word.

He walked until it began to rain. He walked until it became dark, and then he walked some more. He wasn’t sure where he had been, but somehow his feet brought him back to the cathedral.

His muddy steps reverberated in the empty space until he reached the heart of the room where he stood and closed his eyes, palms open and unable to discern between drops of rain falling from his mangled hair and the tears he’s sure were there.

In between the stifling silence and the cascading drips of water on marble came that voice again. His name. “Dimitri.” Quietly spoken behind him. How had he not heard her approach?

“...Dimitri,” she said again.

“Leave me,” he warned.

No. He didn’t want to see her face. Her eyes and words dripping with understanding, or worse—pity. The very sight of her served as a reminder for how much he had changed. How lost he had become, perhaps never to be found. And worst of all, he was afraid of what he would do to her if he faced her.

“I’m not leaving you.” She repeated like a prayer, each time softer than the last, desperate to drill the message into his heart like a wedge into a block of ice.

Slowly, she coaxed him toward her, and much to his relief he saw not pity nor understanding in her eyes. Nothing, save for a blank expression, waiting—reading him. She was soaking wet, too. Had she been out looking for him all this time?

Their breathing synced in the silence. Her cold wet fingers reached for the clasp at his chest, unlatching buckles that sent his heavy, rain-sodden cloak to the marble floor. The sudden weight off of his shoulders cathartic. Then she reached to his face. Dimitri felt the pleasant sharpness of her nails against his forehead as she swept his dripping bangs to the side tenderly. Cold like ice.

He gripped her wrist in his large hand right as she pulled away from his face. She must have known what he was feeling. Must have seen the heat in his stare, or sensed the danger palpable in the air between them. He gave her a moment to run from him, then. Please, please run, he begged with every shred of restraint he had left. But she sucked in a sharp breath, took a step closer instead, and Dimitri pulled her into him by the wrist and kissed her deeply.

He had never kissed anyone before. He wasn’t even sure he had been doing it properly until she moaned against his lips, and he felt her melt a bit in his arms. That sound...and the feeling of her relaxing into him, had his sanity and self-control blurring a blinding white.

He moved with purpose unknown to himself. He was removed, entirely, from his desires. Hands he surely knew as his own were tearing and yanking at clothing before he had a chance to think his actions through. And she was pawing at him, in return.

He had touched all the places he had only dreamed of, before. Her soft breasts and pert nipples he invited into his mouth. Her thighs; the thighs of a mercenary, thick and strong and lovely. And between them, a heavenly warmth he knew he may be undeserving of, what with his thick, calloused fingers that had been tainted by the blood of those he’d slaughtered, but he plunged inside of anyway.

She let out an adorable, sexy sigh. Pleading for him to continue. “Ahh, yes...”

Clinging to his broad shoulders she let him work her until her legs began to give. And when he withdrew his hand and placed the fingers in his mouth. He had never cursed himself so vehemently for his inability to taste.

Lifting her until she straddled his hips, he lowered her onto his cock with little regard for anything but the determination to feel himself inside of her. The moment he was fully sheathed, a boyish whimper rippled from his throat, followed by a desperate growl.

With feverish rapidity he bounced her up and down on his cock, guiding her hips and elating in the way he forced a moan from her lungs with every rough slam. Their skin, still slick from rain and now slicker still with sweat, sticking together in all the places they melded.

This was better than he had ever fantasized, even all those years ago as he tossed in his dorm, dancing between the state of sleep and wakefulness, visualizing her glowing celestial in the doorway or in his bed, slender fingers slipping into bedclothes. She was real. Here—now. Accepting him inside of her despite everything he was. Clinging to him and meeting the thrusts just as urgently as he.

He slammed her back against a wall of rubble, using that leverage to fuck her as hard as he could, as deeply as he could go. Pushing everything he was and felt, every emotion and sorrow, inside of her. Tiny pebbles tumbling down among tufts of dust but neither caring. She didn’t wince or flinch, not for a moment. Of course, she didn’t...she was the strongest person he’d ever known. How had he not seen it before? She could take anything he had to give, perhaps she was the only one.

He kissed her again as his hips quickened pace, driving them both to The Divine. Each heated dive inside of her echoed an Amen in the catacombs of his mind. He had never felt a oneness akin to this. Not even shedding blood with a comrade on the battlefield. He wanted to own her, to keep her this close for all time he had left. But he knew that wasn’t possible, so instead, he settled for spilling himself inside of her.

Dimitri felt sharp teeth close around his bottom lip as he twirled his cock to feel her every inch, but he didn’t care if she made him bleed. He was committing her to memory. He had left her with His Warmth. A fraction of the warmth she had so kindly bestowed upon him in the time they’ve known each other. But a warmth, nonetheless. And though he knew he had done nothing to deserve it, perhaps by some grace of the Goddess he’d be given time enough to continue his repayment.

#fire emblem three houses #fe3h #fe3h fic #fe3h dimitri #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #dimitri x byleth #dimileth #my writing #n//sfw

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chattingwiththelightkeeper · 4 years

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The Princess And Peasant, A Kinky Fairy Tale

The beautiful daughter of a wealthy nobleman, Tatia was making her way to the village to shop for her family’s daily needs. As she passed through the protective walls that kept the village safe from attack, she caught the eye of the handsome peasant Ignat that she longed to be with. Ignat and his family are known for raising the best horses in the kingdom however, he is not of high enough station for the well-bred Tatia. Many nights as she lay awake in her family’s castle dreaming of being with him but the gossip around the castle has labeled him and his family as low life deviants.

Many of her father’s advisors and their gossiping wives have long told stories about his family’s ways. It was rumored that Ignat’s father often treated his wife as though she was a slave. Rumors of beatings and floggings were regular sources of gossip and speculation. Tatia couldn’t believe her ears since whenever she saw Ignat’s father and mother out in public they appeared to be the most loving couple and even as they are older in years, their passion and love for each other could be seen even by a blind man.

Tatia had allowed her fantasies to go to very dark places that both excited her in ways she could never imagine, as well as scaring her. Through many dark nights in her room in the castle, she allowed her mind to have impure thoughts. Not only did she touch herself with the desire to feel Ignat please her as a husband would their wife, but her mind also longed for the passion and love she saw with his parents. Her fantasies quickly were filled with Ignat’s hand spanking her like a child and his horsewhip placing blow upon blow on her pale skin. She came to realize that pain was something she craved not as a punishment but somehow her mind taught her that the pain would free her mind from the daily worries that could consume and overwhelm her.

As Tatia was frozen with fear as Ignat appeared to be walking towards her, she was suddenly jolted back to reality as an icy hand cruelly gripped her arm. Without needing to turn, she already knew the hand belonged to his father’s third bride. Her father’s current wife, Lara, just one year older than her, had long treated Tatia as a threat to her father’s affection. Lara’s grip on Tatia’s arm forced her to wheel and face Lara’s cold stare. Lara told Tatia, “I know you love that nasty, worthless peasant boy. If you soil yourself with him, I will have you cursed so no man worthy of your station will have his wife.”

Following that, Lara gave Tatia a shove that sent her reeling to the ground and landing her in the muddy, dung filled gutter. As Tatia slowly began to pick herself up from the gutter and watched Lara walk away with her brash walk, Ignat appeared and offered his hand to help her up. Tatia refused his hand as she did not wish to soil him with the filth of the gutter than had contaminated her from head to toe.

Ignat was not deterred by her refusal and reached down with his right arm, grabbed her flowing red hair in his hand, and pulled up until it brought her to her feet. As she attempted to keep her legs under herself the pain of being dragged to her feet by her hair had left her weak with desire.

Once standing, Ignat did not release her hair from his hand and he began to pull her forward by it. Tatia wanted to scream for help, ask him where she was being taken but her voice was gone. She would command her body to speak but all that would happen is her mouth would open but no sound could be willed or coaxed out.

Ignat led the filth covered Tatia off the main street and into a dark, damp alley that was not covered in cobblestones but was slick with soft, muddy soil. A few paces down the alley, Ignat forcefully tossed Tatia into a stable that is known for its grooming of noblemen’s horses. As Tatia was crudely tossed into the stable area and with her legs already wobbling from lust, she fell into a stall landing softly in the hay.

Before Tatia could begin to stand, she could feel Ignat’s hands once again pulling her to her feet by her hair, but instead of pulling her up this time, his hands guided her to a kneeling position in front of him. Ignat now spoke to her, “Tatia, I love you but you know your father will never allow us to together. So now that I have my chance, I am going to take you and show you how it would feel to be loved by this humble peasant.”

Ignat reached into his pocket and removed his silver-handled dagger and began moving towards her with it. Tatia recoiled with fear and as she attempted to get to her feet to escape, he effortlessly pushed her upon her back down and she found herself lying in the hay looking up at his handsome face.

His face was flush with desire and her fears were replaced by the thoughts that she finally had what she had so longed for. Her mind told her that he was right. Her father would never allow them to be together and she decided at that moment to show him that she indeed could that woman that she knew filled his fantasies.

Ignat’s dagger started tearing at the bottom of her skirt and its sharpness shredded the fine silken fabric of her clothes with ease. As the layers of her noble clothing were peeled away, she could feel the sharpened metal of the blade gently pushing against her skin as he cut away the last of her undergarments. Without waiting for him to ask, she stood before him and removed the last of her sliced garments.

Although taught to behave like a lady, she was filled with desire standing before him naked. She watched him look at her and her body trembled in anticipation of his touch. As she watched, he began to disrobe, and as he stepped out of his worn, faded pants she found herself staring at his manhood.

He smiled slyly as he followed her gaze to his throbbing and enlarging penis. He stepped forward and took her in a powerful embrace. As they embraced, he once again knotted her hair in his hand and guided her lips to his. The passionate kisses only fueled his manhood’s desire and she could feel it grow and harden against her warm skin. Tatia not only could feel his desires pressing against her but also she could feel her arousal beginning to leak out and moisten her thighs.

Tatia was lost in his lustful kisses but Ignat’s grip on her hair was pushing her down upon her knees. As soon as she was kneeling in the hay, he spoke to her with a command that intoxicated her. “Sin will set you free,” he said. She knew what he wanted as the church bishop had warned against the sin of taking a man inside of one’s mouth.

Feeling as though she had been set free, and being able to love the man she wanted but would never be allowed, she opened her mouth and began sliding his erect cock in and out of her mouth. With every trip up and down his shaft, she could feel his body tremble and his breath quicken. His hands were gently caressing her head and hair as she adjusted her rhythm to match his quickening thrusts into her lips. Her joy and the pleasure she was taking from carnal desires she was fulfilling for him made her feel the happiest she could remember.

Suddenly she felt his hands both grabbing and pulling her hair. Ignat held her hair in such a way that her head felt it was locked in the stocks in the village square. He was thrusting himself deeper, harder into her mouth than she had allowed him before. Soon she could feel herself being unable to control her throat and she could hear as well as feel the gagging noises his cock was causing. He would thrust himself into her throat and he would hold that position for what seemed like an eternity and all the while her body tried to recoil from him. Her breath was hard to catch as she gagged and just when she thought she could not take it a second more he would pull back and out of her mouth. She was horrified but mesmerized to see the long strands of saliva from her mouth to the tip of his cock when he would pull it out of her throat.

Just as she was finding she was enjoying the pleasures of his manhood tickling her throat, he stepped back from her and guided her to her feet. He pulled some rope from the side of the stall and bound her hands tightly, almost too tight with it. Ignat then took the rope and looped it over one of the rough sawn beams overhead pulling the rope so that she was forced to stand high on her toes with her back facing him.

Not sure what he was doing, her mind was racing and trying in vain to justify the sins she had chosen to commit. Just when she was about to ask him to release her, she felt the intense pain of riding crop impact her bottom and he had not started with a soft blow. The pain sizzled and she was shocked to have her body screaming for more. Quickly, blow after blow impacted upon the back of her legs and ass. As the pain raced through her body, her mind turned blank. The only thoughts she could muster were the intense longing for more pain and a desire to do whatever pleased him.

As suddenly as the impacts began they ended and with a loud hiss, she heard as well as felt the rope loosen. Tatia fell forward as the rope was released from its mooring and caught herself bend in half against the back of the stall with the tension of the rope gone. Before she could stand up she felt his strong hands on her hips and holding her bent over. His manhood was pressing against the lips of her pussy and her body naturally shifted to allow him to enter her.

Rather than roughly force his way inside her, Tatia admired the way Ignat gently slipped himself in. He slowly moved in and out of her pussy and soon she was rewarded with being able to feel his pelvic bone push up against her cheeks telling her he was thrusting as deeply as he could. Ignat’s greedy yet rhythmic thrusts had Tatia’s insides tumbling and feeling like they were part of the mistrals that entertained at court. Her body began to shake uncontrollably and just as she was orgasming, she felt Ignat push as deeply as he could and hold himself there so she could cum on his cock.

As Tatia’s orgasm was leaving her body, Ignat again spoke “I want to make you mine in sin and I have not finished sinning with you” and with that, she felt his hands push her ass cheeks apart and she trembled when she felt his warm cock pressing against her asshole. It was so well covered in her juices it was easy for him to slip the head inside of her. The tearing and searing pain that his intrusion was causing just increased her desire to please him. He slowly and carefully worked himself in a little deeper with every soft yet demanding thrust. Tatia worried she would not be able to engulf him the way she had with her pussy but the pain mixed with pleasure relaxed her and she found that his thrusts had quickened and deepened. Suddenly, she was rewarded when a loud moan escaped his lips, his body quaked, and she felt him filling her with all of his seed.

Ignat’s orgasm was so powerful that he nearly fell as he trembled and shook with his release. As he withdrew from his love, he told Tatia “The world may not let us be together but through sin, we can share everything.” Tatia replied, “It can’t be a sin if it feels so right”. They both fell in each other’s arms and into the hay where they drifted off to a pleasant state of bliss.

Suddenly, the sound of horseshoes clomping upon the ground roused them from their blissful embrace. Ignat quickly tossed Tatia some old and worn clothes and suggested she hurry to the seamstress as it was much later in the afternoon now. He assured her that Lara would not take note of the new clothes as she had pushed her into the gutter earlier.

Ignat then took a moment to tell her that he had family who lived in the next kingdom to the north as woodsmen and there they could be together. He would pack food for them, have a horse for both, and would Tatia meet him outside the castle at midnight? She agreed to meet him at midnight and escape together so they could be together as she hurriedly dressed in peasant garb and raced out of the stable to the dressmaker’s shoppe.

Tatia hurried up the cobblestone street and was surprised to feel so full of joy. She had not the slightest regrets after giving into the peasant’s sinfulness. As she walked with a brisk pace she could feel Ignat’s seed dripping out but found it strangely arousing and she craved more of it.

She reached the shoppe and quickly tried one last time to make herself look presentable and she entered the cool, dark building. Tatia swung the heavy wooden door shut behind her and began to walk forward to see old Mrs. Yaga. No sooner than she was about to say hello, the old woman turned, looked at her, and said “Lara, indeed she has disgraced your family.” Tatia turned and found Lara moving to block the only exit with the old lady standing before her holding a cup of steaming liquid.

“Tatia, you have humiliated your father today, but I want to protect you and your father’s good name. I have asked Mrs. Yaga for help and she has agreed to help us. She has prepared a spell that will cause you to forget everything you did today. That way your father can find you a suitable match and you can enter into it with all the innocence that is expected of a lady. You have but ten seconds to decide to leave and I will tell your father of your sins today or you can drink and save your father from heartbreak. Your time starts now.” Lara explained coldly. Torn between the love of her father and the love of a man society will never allow her to be with, Tatia picked up the cup and drank the warm potion.

Tatia had no other way to explain it other than as soon as the potion entered her body than to say she felt old. Lara and Mrs. Yaga shared a hearty laugh and both pointed at Tatia as their laughter filled the air. Tatia glanced at the mirror and saw only a grizzled old woman in it. She tentatively touched her body and realized she was indeed the old woman. She fled from the shoppe as fast as she could and running for the castle. Running for home!

Even though she still felt like a young woman her legs worked at the speed of an old lady. Lara’s carriage sped by and was quickly out of sight. When Tatia reached the gates of the castle, the guards all known to her from childhood refused her entry. She pleaded with the guards, trying to explain who she was but the memories of who she was faded as she tried to explain. Suddenly, she was no more than distant memory even to herself.

Not knowing where to go, or how to get there, she wandered away from the kingdom. She was drawn to the north but she had no idea why. As she wandered from the kingdom, she found herself taking odd jobs and doing chores just to eat. She found few men interested in her in this rough country and these men simply used and discarded her.

Tatia finally found employment working as a teamster for a small logging camp. The men didn’t want her doing a man’s job but they had been shorthanded for so long they agreed to take her on but for half wages since she was a woman. Soon summer had faded to winter and the work continued despite the cold and snow.

One day a new man arrived in camp. Tatia didn’t recognize him and he seemed disgusted to find a woman doing a man’s job. The head of the logging crew informed Tatia that a family member had arrived from the kingdom to the south and she would be replaced in the morning. The family member was taking her job. That evening she was too upset to join the rest of the loggers for dinner and she retired to her small shack to pack her meager belongings.

Tatia was woken from her slumber by the sound of the winter’s wind blowing through her tiny wooden abode. The wind chilled her to the bone as she noticed the flimsy door open and she assumed the howling wind simply blew it open. As she turned to return to bed after closing the door, a lantern was slowly turned up. The brightening light revealed the figure of a man sitting in the lone chair in the one-room shack.

The man in the chair was the new man in the camp. The one taking away her job at the one place that had shown any kindness to her. She wanted to yell at him in rage but only fear kept her from yelling. She feared he had come to use her before being discarded. Why not she figured, all the other men along the way had used and thrown her away. At least here she knew he wouldn’t fake feelings and strangely she could handle that.

The man just looked at her and stared. He didn’t speak but he just kept staring. Finally Tatia had enough and stripped off her clothes and said “There, is this better to look at?” Come have your way with me and let’s get this over with”. The man just smiled and Tatia felt something turn warm inside of her. A feeling she had not felt before or had she? Something seemed safe and almost familiar about this man but she could not remember him. He also was far too young and young men were never kind to an old lady such as herself.

The man approached her holding a small length of rope and since she had resigned herself to the fate of being used once again, she held out her hands for him to bind. Once her hands were bond, he used her shirt sleeves as a crude blindfold and fastened it over her eyes. Tatia now feared for her safety, but she knew if the strange man was family her screams would be of no help.

Tatia was pushed face down over the end of the bed and as she had feared she soon felt the warmth and hardness of a man trying to push himself inside of her. This man was different, she noticed. He hadn’t just jammed it in her dry pussy. He was taking his time and massaging her clit with his hardness and as much as she tried to fight it she could feel herself growing moist.

Just as she felt he would push inside her, she felt him step back, and then there was silence in the room. The silence was broken by the crack of a horsewhip. Tatia felt the pain of the impact but also heard a sound that didn’t fit. When the whip lashed out against her skin, she swore in not only could she feel the pain but she could also hear what sounded like the cracking of a thousand eggs.

The flogging seemed to go on for a very long time but when it stopped she felt a hand exploring her pussy. The pain had made her moist even though she couldn’t explain it. He now knew she was ready and she felt him begin to press himself inside her. He was gentle but demanding in his entrance. The deeper he moved inside of her, the more alive Tatia felt and soon she could feel he was thrusting as deep as he could, and as he thrusts picked up speed, she could still hear what sounded like the cracking eggs. As every thrust slammed deep inside her, all she could hear was the crackling noise. Suddenly, she began to feel warm and the sheets balled in her hands felt softer and not as coarse.

Suddenly, her mind was awash in memories! It was like she had woken from a coma. Her mind swirled with thoughts of Ignat, her father, Lara, her castle, and the old witch. All the while, she could feel this man pumping her, harder, deeper and so forcefully. As much as she wanted him to stop, to be left alone to think, he was not going to stop. Her pleas were not able to escape her lips. All she could do was moan and then out of nowhere her body began to tremble and she felt it approaching like a huge wave creeping up on an unsuspecting swimmer at the beach. The orgasm shook her and she tried in vain to push him out of her. He too was nearing his release and he fought to stay buried in her. As soon as they both had released their orgasms, she felt him help her to her feet, unbind her hands, and then unfasten her crude blindfold.

Standing before her was Ignat and she remembered him. Remembered everything! The emotions were too much and she found herself falling in his arms. Ignat caught her fall and guided her into bed and then explained what had happened.

At midnight, he had been waiting for her outside the castle but rather than Tatia it was Lara who appeared at midnight. Lara explained that Tatia had been disposed of thanks to a witch's spell. He knew of just one witch in the kingdom and so he confronted Mrs. Yaga and threatened her with his dagger. She confessed the spell and told Ignat that the only way to break it was for the same lover and ‘impurity’ to find her again. But he would never find her as she no longer knew herself. Ignat then went wandering the kingdom searching for Tatia but could never find her, so in vain he left to join his family and work in the woods. When he arrived, learned that a wandering woman named Tatia worked at the camp and one glance at her eyes told him it was indeed the Tatia of his dreams. So he arranged to repeat the original sin as best he could and hope for the best. Tatia also learned her father arranged to knight anyone who found his missing daughter and thus it would allow her and Ignat to live happily ever after.

As with all of my writings, please see this disclaimer.

©TLK2020

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

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memorable moments from the production of The Crucible I went to see today

So this production did a completely unique spin on The Crucible. Instead of being in the 17th-century, they’re in this ratty, ghetto, post-apocalyptic version of Salem. You know- barbed wire fences in the background, rusty metal set pieces, trash everywhere. And most of the actors are dressed in dirty clothes smeared with grime and oil and other messy substances.

I said most because some people had clean costumes. Like Parris and his girls, the Putnams, the judges, and the Proctors. However, background characters and the afflicted girls are dressed in rags.

Also the entire time period switch is more of an allegory of sorts. Instead of it being Puritans being afraid of the devil, the witch hunt is a metaphor for a society trying to weed out imperfect, flawed humans, which would be the apparent witches. It’s a really neat twist that I enjoyed a lot!

Right off the bat, I need to say I fucking LOVED the Mercy!! The actress also played Mercutio a few years ago and was gay as hell. That being said, her Mercy was gay and chaotic as fuck.

I honestly thought I was watching a musical at first because the actors entered dancing and singing in chants. But it was SO GOOD. No clue what they were singing, but it sounded really good I’d download that.

Mercy is barefoot and has one (1) sock on and also has a chain around an ankle???? That made me so interested in the story of why that’s there.

Also all servant characters had metal collars with a blinking red light on. So Mercy, Tituba, and Mary from what I could see.

Tituba was so interesting in this because, even though she’s a slave, she was dressed in really fine clothing. You probably wouldn’t even think she’s a slave if it weren’t for the collar.

Mercy enters the Parris house through the window.

While the scene goes on once Mercy enters, Mercy fucking starts digging through the trash can and eats whatever she finds. She’s a literal gremlin you guys

The Mary was literally the cutest thing ever. She was so small and acted extremely ADHD, at least to me, because she would constantly fidget and shuffle anxiously.

With her costume, she wore shorts that were probably sweat pants at one point but they were badly shredded. Her arms and one leg were wrapped in dirty bandages, as was her rib cage, as you could see them peeking out from her muddy and torn blue shirt. She still has a cowl, which she is always clutching onto tightly. The bandages interested me the most, though.

Oh and she also had one (1) dangly earring.

During Mary’s entrance, Mercy goes over to the window and wraps the black curtains around her shoulder like a cowl and mimics what Mary says.

After the line “What a grand peeping courage you have!” Mercy pulled out a fucking SWITCHBLADE and STALKED TOWARDS MARY

Then MARY scrambles to pull out a METAL PIPE she was hiding in her cowl and these two were about to fucking FIGHT EACH OTHER

Abigail looked at the audience like she was on The Office and then pulled out a goddamn GUN and shot it at the ceiling to part the two

When Betty gets up and says she wants to fly, she fucking SPRINTED towards the stage and I thought she was going to go off of it for a moment.

Abigail hit Betty so hard I legitimately thought she knocked the actor out

When Proctor enters Mary fucking LAUNCHES her pipe.

The look Mercy gave her was even better.

The scene between Abigail and Proctor was spicy as hell what the fuck

Also in the background you can see Mercy and Mary peering in through the window and reacting to everything it was so funny

At one point Mary starts chewing on the strings of her cowl and this annoys Mercy, who starts to whack her hands. A fight breaks out. Mercy takes out her switchblade and then they both collapse below the window and I fucking thought Mercy killed Mary for a minute

Then Mercy stands back up a few minutes later and she’s like

Because she- she fucking-

She’s fucking holding that dangly earring Mary was wearing and Mary stands up a half second later, holding her ear as what I really hope was fake blood spills down the side of her face.

The two of them stared at each other as Hale enters and gets introduced and then Mary fucking snatches away the earring.

Also Hale was played by a girl!! However, I think the character was supposed to be a female. Like, Hale was a woman pretending to be a man because of laws and stuff.

But that’s just my theory.

While all the girls start howling about who they supposedly saw with the devil, Mary stands there in horror and doesn’t partake in it.

THE ELIZABETH WAS HOT AS FUCK

Her and Proctor’s costumes were VERY fancy compared to their servant’s

For the Proctor house, there was this tall structure made of wood with a bed at the top. Inside was the kitchen and living room, and they brought the table out into the open.

After Mary gets onstage, she spends a lot of the time inching towards the ladder leading up to the platform with the bed, which was her room. One point she gets on the ladder, but Proctor literally pulls her off of it, carries her over to the table, and slams her into a chair so she can continue to explain herself.

When Proctor says, “I’ll official you!” Mary vaults herself up onto the table and stays on there on her hands and knees, yelling her lines, until Proctor pulls out a remote and presses a button. There was this loud discharge sound and Mary suddenly toppled off of the table, clawing at her throat and screaming.

Remember the collars I mentioned earlier? Turns out they’re shock collars!

Watching Mary clamber her way up the ladder and then snuggle up in her loft bed was great

And then Elizabeth has to climb up the ladder to go get Mary

Mary clung to Elizabeth when Elizabeth agreed to go with Cheever and refused to let go while sobbing

Proctor fucking maimed Mary at the end of act 2 and right before the lights cut off, you can see him raising his whip. And after the blackout, before intermission starts, you can hear the whip cracking and Mary screaming and crying.

The judges were kinda dressed like nobles in a kingdom 🤔🤔

There were more bandages on Mary when she enters after intermission. Also there was definitely blood matted in her hair.

Props to the actress who spent the entirety of act 3 crying.

At one point Proctor brings a glass of water to Mary’s lips to drink because I too would be very dehydrated after all that weeping

Proctor is frighteningly gentle with Mary. Like, when they’re standing to the side and not saying any lines, he would stroke her head or rub her back and you could see tears glisten down her cheeks before she presses into the touch. The toxicity of their relationship and Mary having no choice other but to give into it is haunting.

Giles jumps onto Parris when he was getting mad at him

We get more of Mercy and her switchblade once the afflicted girls enter, because when she hears about Mary’s betrayal you could see her raising her arm up with the knife before Abigail pushes it back down.

During the part where Mary tries to run out of the room when Abigail starts acting like she’s freezing, Proctor tries to grab her but she fights him and he ends up shocking her again. Mary drops to the ground as Proctor turns his attention to Abigail to call her a whore, and it’s actually Hale who goes to Mary’s aid.

When Elizabeth is brought in, Parris and Putnam have to hold Mary back because she tried to run to her 🥺🥺

During the bird and mimicking scene, Mary had a literal meltdown. Her actress sounded and looked like she was hyperventilating. And Danforth just kept yelling at her.

When Mary hugs Abigail, the other girls huddle around them and rub Mary’s back and hug her as well. And then they remove her cowl and the back of Mary’s shirt is fucking DRENCHED in blood. You’d be surprised at how many people gasped out loud at that

In the beginning of act 4, it turns out Tituba got her fucking eyes removed

#god this production was so unique and good!!!!#it gave me so many ideas!!#maybe for an au?#I dunno yet but it was fucking AMAZING #the crucible #abigail williams #john proctor #elizabeth proctor #mary warren #mercy lewis #betty parris #reverend parris #reverend hale

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the-unknown-storyteller · 5 years

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Graceless Friends

(Universe by @linkeduniverse)

(Loosely inspired by this ask by @awesomeunicat and What is this, Peter Pan? by @inked-myths )

(abbreviated: "Wild is a lab experiment"; "Wild and Shadow are friends")

Warning: Major Character Deaths, Blood

Summary: Wild is tired of losing people dear to him. He will go to all lengths possible, making sure that can't happen with his next family.

If it costs him his sanity, that's just a small price to pay.

"How come I never see you treating your wounds? Actually, I've never seen you with bandages or even a potion for that matter," Legends says, wrapping his own clawed up leg tight. He doesn't want to see any lizalfos at least for the rest of today.

Finished with the treatment he looks back up and sees Wild sit down next to him. He's surprisingly calm for someone whose left arm is still bleeding from a cut that goes all the way down from his shoulder to his elbow, bits of flesh just hanging of. Blood soaks into his cloak that's already wet with even more blood. This guy, seriously.

"That's probably because I don't need it," Wild replies, looking at his wound with a - for Legend- confusing expression of tired annoyance. "I mean, why carry around a bag filled with fragile glass bottles and some useless strips of cloth when Mipha can heal me without." His small frown that follows goes unnoticed.

"Mipha?" A puzzled look crosses Legend's face.

"She was a… dear friend of mine," Wild says. He watches, as tendrils of the faintest blue, barely noticeable, wrap around his injured arm, winding up and over themselves. The exposed flesh slowly pieces itself back together, skin pulls itself over open wounds, leaving hardly any scarring.

Legend gives a low whistle. "How efficient. Creepy and impossible, but at least practical."

Wild searches for something in Legend before he replies with a tired smile, "Sure. Practical."

"You were right, Legend. How very practical," Wild snarls, closing his friend's milky eyes with trembling hands. He moves them away and grips his cloak, searching for something to hold on to. He feels more than a little uncomfortable in his clothes right now. They're wet with blood that is not his own.

His eyes travel down his body, as he lets his head hang low, unable to contain the tears. They stop at the hole ripped into his tunic. Wild glares at the new scar marring his chest, sight obscured by the blurring of his tears. I was supposed to go with them. He looks away in disgust and stands up from his position on the ground.

He gazes across the field, taking in the sight of it all. Over there, several arrows are stuck in a tree, pinning a light blue piece of bloodied fabric to the bark. Not too far away from it lays a sword broken in two on the ground, the crystal embedded in the hilt split in four.

A sail cloth was ripped into infinitely small pieces and thrown to the ground. Once a brilliant white with beautiful accents of blue, now tarnished by irregular flecks of dark red and dirty brown. There are crumbled up bits of dried flowers strewn all over the grass. They lead to a small leather bag laying forgotten beneath a bush. There's something else beneath there as well. Something that was once just as alive as those flowers.

Curiously enough, a broken ocarina sits on the terrain next to a massive sword, half stuck in the ground. Only one of them fits into the scene, really.

Wild looks at the vibrant blue scarf stuck in a tree with a detached kind of expression. When he catches a glimpse of black and silver fur, though, he can't help but let his breakfast see daylight again. He stumbles over to the fur coat and falls to his knees.

"Twi?", Wild whimpers, reaching for a hand that's so cold too cold I don't want this please bring him back bring all of them back at least take me with them. Panic flutters in his chest. Everything feels so distant, but too close at the same time.

He rummages with frantic movements in his bag, but only comes forth with a cut on his hand instead of something to heal the massive hole in Twilight's right side. Blood flows his arm, disgustingly warm and alive, and Wild breaks down. Sobs shake his body, as he grips his mentor's tightly. Unwilling screams rip through his throat, they take his breath away. He wishes it would stay away.

He's just so tired. But he knows that sleep will never come for him. I was supposed to go with them.

Wild gathers up his sword, his shield and his half-torn cloak. Taking a look at his friends - his soul feels like it's breaking apart - he knows that he can't just leave them here like this. It would be disrespectful and unjust. They should be given a proper buri... He sets his belongings down on the ground again. A few taps on his Shieka Slate reveal a rusty shovel and several sheets of white linen.

At the end of it all, he can't tell if his arms are shaking from exhaustion, grief or the sobs that are still wrecking through his body. It doesn't matter anyway. He collects his things and walks away from his family's grave with unsteady steps.

As Wild walks up a hill, away from that clearing in the woods, he wonders with numb curiosity why only he's been gifted this power. This power to defy death, time and time again until his mind falls apart while his body doesn't. He's tired, just so incredibly tired and all he wants to do is sleep. People are scared of death, but he isn't. He's lost that primal fear a long time ago and he wants it back. He wants to feel human again, not like a cracked shell of a being that once must have been alive.

The shell is all that's left and even that is slowly crumbling away with every piece that falls off along the way. Sooner or later, Wild's body will fall apart. Hylia knows how badly he wants that to happen. Until then, he has to go on and set one foot in front of the other.

A nameless traveller trots along a row of trees and rocks, his steady steed unfazed by the rain. They raise their head to the sky with its dark and looming clouds, realising that this downpour won't stop for a few hours at least. A resigned sigh leaves their lips, as they hold up their oil lamp to try and see better.

After a while a distant flicker of what must be another person's lamp catches their attention. Leaning forward in their saddle, they can make out something far away if they really try and maybe strain their eyes a bit. The distance between them is slowly decreasing, so the nameless traveller can soon make out more than just a faint shadow.

They are met with the sight of young man with golden hair trudging along the muddied path, rain pelting down on his lowered head. His clothes, that show dark patches of what looks like dirt in the lamp's shallow light, cling to his body. He looks much too thin and fragile for someone carrying such an enormous sword on his back. The torn royal blue scarf wrapped around his neck doesn't really appear to ward of the gruesome cold of the night, yet the young man doesn't seem to mind.

The mismatched set of necklaces on his chest - one a delicate butterfly, the other an ocarina - intrigue the nameless traveller greatly, but before he can analyse this very interesting person any further, they've already passed each other. They turn around in their saddle, objecting their spine to a very uncomfortable position, trying to catch a last glimpse of this mysterious young man, but the rain and the low light don't help all that much.

They let out a disappointed sigh, not even knowing that the boy is also carrying around a piece of fur, that looks very much out of place, and a sail cloth hanging out from a leather bag that is infinitely deep. They also didn't have the time to notice the second oil lamp hanging from his belt. They will never know about any of those things or where they come from.

No, instead they pet the mane of their trusty steed, already thinking about their family at home waiting for them, surely with a hot bowl of soup sitting on his spot at the table, ready to warm his cold hands and bones.

Night turns to day and Wild looks up to see the gate sign above him that announces he's about to enter Hateno Village. He must have changed Hyrules last night without noticing, he is sure he was heading towards Ordon Village. Wild wipes last night's rain from his face, gets his hair out of his eyes and goes on, heading for a house the furthest away from the core part of this small, yet very inviting village.

The whole way there he doesn't look up, even as he can hear the people talk around and about him.

"Is that Link? What happened to him, why does he look so… strange and beaten up? Do you think everything's alright with him?"

"Oh, don't worry, this isn't the first time he's shown up like this. Give him a day and he'll go right back to climbing our apple trees and sneaking them to our horses. He may not look like it, but he's a very strong young man."

"That's not what I'm talking about, Azule. I'm talking about the way his eyes look dull even from this far away. And look at all those shredded pieces of mismatched clothing! They don't even look like they belong to him. You can't tell me that this was just another encounter with a mob of bokoblin or whatever. Something is clearly wrong.

Why is he alone today? Where is that little group of his, anyway?"

Since I don't want to risk that I hit the 100 text block limit with this fic (I don't want this to become as chaotic as "We are Four"), I decided to make it a two-parter. Sorry about that.

#addison writes #graceless friends #linkeduniverse #linked universe #hero of the wild #tw major character deaths #tw blood #tw major character death

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emma-poole · 5 years

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I dream of Robin before I meet her. The shelter in Long Island tells me there are three dogs particularly in need of homes. We have one. Not the youngest...or the most photogenic in her picture, but she has a special demeanor and needs someone who will give her a loving environment. She’s been sitting in the shelter for two years and no one wants her because she is a middle-aged Pitbull. I twist her name around in my mouth. R o b i n. It is not a name I would ever choose for a dog.

I am 25 years old, newly out of a string of unfulfilling relationships, nostalgic for a dog-filled childhood. A yoga colleague has put me in touch with a local rescue. I sign on as a foster. As a child, I rolled around with my dogs in the backyard, muddying my knees and hands to crouch in the grass and watch the bugs from their level. A home video captures me at 3 years old, screaming to my mom from across the yard that I would like to see where Stella pooped. Stella is our dog. I browse the shelter’s website. Scrolling through each cute, tragic face, my cursor comes to a halt. Robin. Age 4. She is chocolate brown with big, honey eyes. Sitting on on her hind-legs, pink belly exposed, her head is fixed in the classic pitbull tilt, furrowed brow, discerning. I smile. Contrary to their disclaimer, she is absolutely photogenic.

King is a giant pitbull puppy with big ears and a loppy gait. He wags his tail as he approaches, jumps in my lap, nuzzling his enormous head on my thighs. Eponine arrives next. Eponine! I immediately feel connected to her because of the name- I played Eponine in Les Miserables my sophomore year of highschool. She is older, a bit more reserved. Her eyes reflect the weariness of a hard life. I am told she does not interact well with other dogs. I stroke her malt and white fur, tell her she is beautiful and that I wish I could adopt them all. She softens beneath my touch. I kiss her forehead and mentally curse the humans that landed her here.

Robin is brought out last. She is both sheepish and energetic, seemingly overwhelmed with being out of her pen. I take her for a supervised walk around the perimeter of the shelter. She is one of our best walkers, they boast. I feel like I’m walking a bullet. Her little dumpling body tugs at the leash, happy to lead me anywhere but here, away from a closed cage, free amidst the cloying winter air. She stops to sniff every shred of garbage, gingerly peeing when she lands at a piece deemed worthy. Squatting down, her saggy nipples just barely brush the pavement beneath her, a result of over-breeding and improper after-birth procedure. They tell me she was found roaming the streets post-partum. I think of the babies she doesn’t know, how many puppies she must have birthed and where they are now. We give her a bath. She looks mortified and slightly degraded, but keeps her body perfectly still. Her courage makes my heart ache.

They give me a pound of kibble in a large sandwich bag, a new collar, and a bright red coat with fur accents. Robin sits in the backseat of Linda’s jeep the entire drive home from Long Island to my apartment in Washington Heights. Linda runs the shelter, and has offered to drive me to and from the visitation. She is British, zany, and a hero in my eyes, devoting her life to the cause. We pull up to the curb. Paperwork has been filled out. Background checks made. Payment handed over. It is January 31st, 2015. I am about to have the hardest year of my life. Thankfully, the universe swoops in and sends me Robin.

And so it goes that the longest and most intimate relationship I have ever shared with a living creature is not a human one. And I have an abundance of beautiful, magic humans in my life.

It is January 31st, 2019. Four years have passed since that fateful day. She sits at the edge of my bed as I write this, curled up in a brown half-moon, licking her paws and occasionally her vagina. She acts oblivious to me until I adjust my foot, disrupting her head position. I wink. She blinks. We have a rhythm. I can no longer imagine life without her

You know all my secrets. The weird things I do at night when we are alone in the room. Every conversation I have with myself. You hear me pray- to God, to the universe, to any ominous presence that will listen. I wonder how many times you’ve heard me play out a hypothetical conversation with past boyfriends, or their new loves, or the news anchor who exists solely in mind and asks, head perched, so Emma. Tell us what sparked the idea for your latest book? I speak to you in Australian and British accents, reminding you how gorgeous you are for the 23rd time in one hour. You think nothing of it, and even if you do, you don’t blink. Instead, you tilt your quizzical head, lift your snout, and and lick my eyebrow.

I try not to inhale every time I pick your poop up off the sidewalk. The amount of shit that comes out of your body could make a grown man pass out. And yet, no matter how many measures I take , I catch your lingering scent, at once proud of and disgusted by the aroma you are capable of producing. Your tail goes completely straight during the process, like a magic wand warning passersby to keep their distance. You hold eye contact each time. I’ve been told this is because you feel vulnerable and are making sure I have your back, if anything were to happen. I love you enough to get poop on my finger one out of the five times I clean yours up, although it is unfathomable to me that after four years I still haven’t mastered a method that prevents this at all costs. Still, we carry on. Across the street, a dog owner kneels down for the scoop. Solidarity. Dont fuck with me, it implies. I’m holding a steaming bag of shit.

The first time you see me have sex, you leap up in defense, assuming I am being hurt. What must you think of this tangled show. Of masturbation. The sounds I make when I come. I think you’d probably prefer not to see me in the act, as it crosses a vague line between us, despite the fact that you stare at me every time I pee, change my tampon, and parade around the bedroom naked.

You hate the vacuum. Are triggered by skateboarders, cyclists, and really any quick moving inanimate object. Trainers presume that you were abused, kicked, which is why you sometimes try to eat people’s feet. You are both incredibly affectionate and aloof in chosen moments, often elsewhere in your own far off world, until you hear the sound of a bag of chips crinkling in the kitchen. You get annoyed when I spend too much time on my phone, preferring candlelight to the blue glow of the screen. You’d rather I not take your picture, although you tolerate it long enough to satisfy me. I have never seen eyes widen as much as yours when I open a can of tuna, cook bacon, or grill chicken. To this day, you keep your entire body still when taking a bath, stoic but tolerant, holding out for the treat you are inevitably promised after. The second you leave the bathroom, you run at full speed around the apartment, rubbing your back on each exposed brick that lines our hallway. You are a piece of furniture, a fixture of our shared space. I feel you even when you’re not in the room, which is rare, as this apartment is your palace, the first place you called home. You are worth every dog hair on my bed, each crumb of dirt caked onto the bed sheet, and the million strands of fur I pick off my leggings at the start of every subway ride.

Sometimes I catch you looking in the mirror watching me watch you looking. You study the faces I make when I change clothes 7 times only to put on the original outfit I took off. On the days I work early, you doze back to sleep as I get ready, waiting for the moment I crack open the coconut oil to moisturize my skin. You love coconut oil. Despite it being one of the reasons you are probably fat, after my arms and legs are glistening from its sheen, I swirl my finger in the container and let you have your moment, licking your lips long after there is anything left to taste.

Warfare breaks out each time I leave the house, as though you have been robbed of your dignity. I wish I could tell you that I’ll be back and you’d believe it wholeheartedly, knowing I am always coming home to you, that you are the best part of my day. I wish you knew how much I talk about you to my students, to strangers, to anyone willing to listen. I once stopped seeing a guy with the softest lips I have ever kissed because he found it perpetually odd that we sleep in bed together.

It’s true. You are my most steadfast sleeping companion. You like to plop your 60 pound bum directly on top of my pillow, dead-weight, until I nudge you enough that you roll over, carefully side-eyeing me to sleep. When you want to be completely submerged beneath the covers, you shuffle your paws in an effort to move the blanket aside, using your mouth as a third hand, pushing everything into a messy heap until you’ve achieve your desired outcome. I warm my feet under your belly at night. In the morning, we wake up head to head, your muzzle on the pillow next to mine, eyes peaceful slits, breath toasty. I am convinced our breathing syncs up in our sleep, that when you have a bad dream, the weight of our bodies next to each other comforts you out of it. When I watch you tremble, paws twitching, I place my palm gently on your belly, and you relax. Recently, after waking from a bad nightmare, sheets soaked and my heart pounding, your body is the first surface my hand reaches out for.

I talk about your death often, mostly as a coping mechanism for my brain. I imagine having your ashes molded into a ring I could wear, joke about getting you taxidermied, a stuffed Robin head for the rest of time, casually perched on my living room wall. Oh that old thing? She was my first dog! Can you imagine people’s reactions? They already think I’m more obsessed with you than the average person. My cousin once expressed genuine concern that I will never love someone as much as I love you. I laughed, amused at the notion. But is it really possible for humans to love each other as unselfishly as you love me? We are always wanting something in return. Ownership. Possession. Validating to be validated. All you have ever asked of me is to show up.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, you bark suddenly, awakened by a footstep in the hallway or the sound of the moon howling out the window. I watch your moving lump struggle to break free under the covers, tiny limbs flailing in every direction, driven by new urgency. You leap off the bed, ears perked, alert. You are my nightwatch. In the blackness of the room, my eyes trace your outline guarding the door. I know, with more certainty than I know anything else in this world, that if that door were to open and you sensed danger, you would lay your brave, beating heart in front of mine, and armor my body with your own. I have never trusted anyone with my life as much as I trust you. Your unabashed instinct to protect makes me want to wrap my whole body around you, and whisper, over and over again, I don’t think you will ever realize how much more I need you than you need me. You are my biggest teacher, my most stubborn shadow, my earth angel.

Robby lou. My sweet peach. Potato puff pumpkin head. For all of the time I spend wondering about the complexities of the universe- why we are here, how we began, and where we continue onto, I live in gratitude that for a brief period of my little life, you chose me.

Someday you will not be here. And I will. That seems like the biggest injustice of them all. Because why would I ever want to live in a world without you? Perhaps, though, that is also the lesson: to celebrate, rather than cling to, the time we are given.

You are the biggest gift in my life, you beautiful weirdo. Thank you for keeping me in the moment, accepting me without judgment, and bringing me back to myself again and again.

Robin Noodle. My Sun and my moon. My north star. Goodnight, sleeping beauty, I whisper. See you on the other side.

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tsvitok · 7 years

Text

Daily. 24/03.

Symmetra and Sombra. Symbra. With some D/s elements, because I’m a sick fuck.

@homebasered‘s prompt.

Tomorrow I may reexplore a previously done prompt, so if anyone would like to see something in particular then hit me up.

Disaster. Insubordination. Satisfaction.

###

Satya reminded herself calmly, ‘Customer satisfaction is the most important thing.’ It was hard however as this man had no real concept of architectural beauty. Her perfectly crafted masterpiece rose up from the muddy mire that Dhaka called streets.

The Vishkar Corporation had happily annexed the country after the horrific disasters inflicted by the Omnics. That sad history had made it hard for the company to rebuild - unrest had disrupted the company’s building crews and regular riots stopped traditional methods.

Satya however, was not traditional, in just a month she had reconstructed the entire city. A shining beacon of her magnificence.

“Vaswani!”

Satya sighed, waving off the Bengali man noisily complaining at her to instead respond to her boss. The middle-manager CEO who claimed to know what was best.

“You didn’t follow the plans, even slightly!”

“Your designs were… discordant.”

“That is how the client wanted it,” then with the sudden realisation the client was right beside Satya he turned to lick the man’s boots, “I’m sorry Mister Dashwan, we will fix this. You, Satya, return to your quarters we’ll discuss this once I fix your mistakes.”

“I have made no mistakes, I am sorry neither of you can see this.”

She did not give them time to respond, taking her leave. At least there was someone who appreciated her in this forsaken city. Arriving at her trailer office/quarters at the side of the heavily fortified construction compound, Satya removed her glasses and flexed her synthetic arm to ease out the knots. Anger left her tense, but that was why coming home was so sweet. All of that washed away the moment she saw Cielo.

“Heja, you’re back already?” Satya slumped into the couch beside them, they were busy with their laptop on the small coffee table. Satya had created all of this herself, not that Vishkar particularly cared. “They did not approve of my changed.”

“Forget about them, they’re idiotes to not like your design.” “I know, right? Their original plans were so…” “Chaotic.” “Exactly.” Cielo hugged her, cradling her into their shoulder. She happily laid her head against them and sighed. “This is a disaster…” “Settle down, mami, you just need to stop sweating the little things. If they don’t appreciate your style, we can find ways of changing their minds.” Satya sat up, “What do you mean?” “You can show them how wrong they are, I know you. Not taking their shit is why I love you, Satja.”

Satya grinned, Cielo always knew how to fix her bad moods. “Besides, every time they upset you, you come home early and we get all night together.” Satya raised an eyebrow. “You know what I mean, mami. I was bad today.” “I was only gone for a few hours.” “Jes, but… I’m always bad.”

Satya adored the mischief in Cielo’s eyes, unable to disappoint them she stood and assumed her position. “Well, Miss Codigo. Perhaps I should punish you?” “Yes, please~<3”

With a flick of her wrist, light spiralled over Cielo’s body, pooling around their neck, wrists and ankles. It hardened into rope-like strands that snaked in intricate patterns over Cielo’s skin and shredded through their clothes.

“Ah!” Cielo gasped, bare naked before Satya’s reign. With just a jerk of her wrist Cielo was dragged to their knees at her feet. Satya smirked, pressing a bare foot against Cielo’s shoulder.

Cielo’s arms were tied behind her back, tied down to her ankles. She took in the feel of her breasts poking through the hard-light ropes, wrapped up in the soft silk-like material. Then leaned her face in to kiss her Mistress’ shin. Smooth skin against her lips and cheek.

Cielo didn’t need ordering, but Satya did approved of the insubordination. She shoved them down onto their bum, then pressed her foot down against Cielo’s chest. “Behave, and perhaps I’ll let you touch me.”

Cielo smiled, she could be good. Satya pressed their foot down on her chest, and she was mum. Oh, yes mami… she could be good.

“Up.” The hard-light dragged Cielo to their feet, up close to Satya’s face. With a gentle hand she cupped their cheek, cradled around the back of their head and then pulled them in for a tender kiss. Satya was tense, and the best way to handle that was by being rough. Being rough meant she had to reassure her little pet.

“I’m going to break you, darling.” Cielo couldn’t wait, she said nothing though every fibre of her body screamed out in excitement. Satya waved an arm down their body, the fabric that hid their beautiful brown skin dissolved into light particles and revealed the gorgeous body Cielo had fallen for.

Satya’s hand came to hover of her pussy, a few fingers trailing through her neatly trimmed bush before she eased from between her legs a thick rod of light, stroking and moulding it with her fingers. It formed a long, thick dildo that made Cielo tremble with delight.

Satya was not gentle, jerking Cielo’s body into place, suspended spread-legged in mid-air. Cielo’s body was in the perfect place for Satya to bury her face in their tits as she buried her hard-light dong in Cielo’s hungry cunt. She wrapped her arms around them, dragging them in and pounding them forcefully up and down her shaft.

Cielo bit her lip, sucking in deep breathes as her entire body was slammed against Satya’s dildo. The ropes squeezed her tits around Satya’s face and constricted as Satya plowed harder. She was just a pawn in their game, completely unable to resist their ravages. When Satya was bored with her tits, she pressed her down into the air, leaving her lying down. One hand against her belly, the other guiding her along that thick shaft.

Satya grimaced, Cielo groaned and then lost composure. Satya’s hard thrusts were rewarded with the sweet song of her Mexican lover’s cries. “Oh, Mami, yes~!” Satya groaned, the sweet sight of Cielo’s mouth agape, tongue lolling out - it was hard to hold back. “Ahhh, fuck me~<3” Satya pumped her hips raw, both hands on Cielo’s hips, driving home until the hard-light flooded forth into her lover’s womb. Cielo’s stomach swelled, ballooning up as Satya’s hard-light filled them.

She let them down, bringing Cielo back to their knees on the floor in front of her. Light particles dripping between their legs. Blue staining everything. Her lover was still love-drunk, satisfaction was the most important part of anything Satya did. Satya raised her fingers, ready for round two when the door burst open and her boss forced his way in with the business’ partners.

“Miss Vaswani-“ Satya turned crimson, trying to cover herself, but her pet still bound up on the floor could do nothing but stare in wide-eyed terror as their secret was discovered. This was definitely the biggest disaster today. “Well,” her boss stammered, “at least they liked your city plan…” Satya wondered if Lumerico would be willing to hire her after this.

#tsvitok #smut #flash fiction #symbra #drabble #symmetra x sombra

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davidastbury · 5 years

Text

April 2019

Old Bank Street

Someone once told me about Old Bank Street - he knew all about local history. I nodded politely and let him ramble on.

I did not tell him that it is part of my history too - that I have a claim to a modest proprietorial pride. That some fragments of my happiness are still pulsing in the atoms of the brickwork. I can look at the paving stones - the same paving stones - and hear the quickening sound of her shoes - getting louder!

It’s a pleasant conspiracy. Old Bank Street, narrow, undistinguished and gloomy, remembers with pleasure, how it was once lit up by her smile.

How it was

5.30 pm - Friday - 30th September 1955 - California - Junction State Route 46 and State Route 41.

Porsche Spyder in collision with a 1950 Ford Tudor. The aluminium bodied Porsche shredded like flaky pastry.

5.281 miles away a ten-year-old secretly kept the newspaper articles and tried to imagine the speeding car and what the crash must have been like - the low sun, the blinding metallic shine and then the silence afterwards.

He imagined the empty highway to Salinas, the loneliness of death and James Dean in a box.

On the Plane

Cool kid slumped in window seat. He had to be told by cabin crew to fasten seatbelt - slow blink and then a slow smile. Sour black hoodie, grey trackies, hi-tech watch with rubber strap, reversed baseball cap. He slept for an hour or so and woke with a jerk. Waived for the stewardess, the one who told him to fasten his seatbelt - asked her for a bottle of Bell’s whisky. He doesn’t look eighteen, but she gets it for him.

There’s a girl looking at him and she fancies him something rotten - but she’s wasting her time, he’s so cool - he doesn’t give a flying fuck.

All at Sea

A beautiful day - a cloudless sky marked only by the crumbling white trail of a vanished jet - freshly rinsed ochre beach; but the sea (I was the solitary swimmer) was cold. I only lasted ten minutes or so and my hands became numb.

As I came out of the water I was approached by a young black woman. For a second I thought I had drowned and was caught up in some sort of afterlife. She moved with the fluidity of a dancer or athlete - much taller than me, slapping the sand from her shoes, wearing only a turban and a green bikini.

'L'eau est froid?'

'Oui, bien sur'

'You are English'?

'Yes'

'You are a strong man.'

So we had a chat! Everyone on the beach was watching. Vanity of vanities; illusion is everything. Elderly, sun-tanned film producer - hillside villa in Positano - the girl laughing, showing perfect teeth, her shiny shoulders, her sand peppered legs.

And I breathed the beauty of this perfect day - the locals repairing the damage of Wednesday's storm, the barbecue smoke drifting over the railings and the white-jacketed waiter holding my drink on a steel tray.

Mother's Day

A Kurdish friend once said to me that love, like water, runs downwards; it flows downwards through the generations. I didn't fully agree with him but the following (totally true) story would appear to substantiate his theory.

The daughter said to her mother - 'I am thinking about a family holiday'.

'That would be really nice' replied the mother - 'Do you have anywhere in mind?'

'Yes - the Seychelles'.

Next day the mother eagerly made enquiries - which airports, dates, flight times, choices of hotels etc.

She telephoned her daughter and started to give her the details. The daughter interrupted her - 'Oh - I didn't mean you coming. I said we wanted a family holiday- you misunderstood me.'

The mother got through the next minute or so - put down the phone - not sure what day it was.

Overheard in restaurant

We slightly know the woman at the next table - she more or less lives here in the hotel and the waiters are planning a birthday surprise for her next week; she will be eighty.

Woman: ‘Where’s my water? You’ve taken away my water!’

Waiter: ‘No problem Madame, I’ll bring you some more’.

Woman: ‘That’s no good - I had dissolved my tablets in that water.’

Waiter: ‘I am sorry Madame ’.

Woman: ‘If I get pregnant it will be your fault!’

My hearing started to crackle and fizz as it was buffeted by the noise in the hotel swimming pool. The cacophony of screams and shouts and splashes all melding into a mangled mess.

Until, like sunshine bursting through clouds, my brain soothed the jagged tangle of impulses and I began to hear the massed Red Army Choir singing 'The Volga Boatmen'.

The Beach at Night

And so we talk of our happiness and fears; sometimes glancing at the sea and sky - at the lights in the sky! The individual brightness and the glowing smear of distant billions.

Mathematicians and prophets fail to impress; I am lost by page four and then return to my narrow wisdom - the victim - the rejected parent - the girl fussing her hair - the eyes of the hooked fish - the purring of a pregnant cat.

On the Beach

Young couple. Looking a bit incongruous in formal clothes; he fair-haired French; she dark Berber or Arab. The woman was holding a plastic cat basket; both of them looking down at the sand; both of them clearly upset. We walked towards them; the woman was wiping her eyes. I could see a beautiful white cat peering out through the basket grill.

Pat spoke to the man in French and he told his story.

They visit the spot because it is where they buried their pet cat. She was about to give birth to kittens when she died. They regularly visit her grave, as often as they can - and they bring their other cat with them. The two cats were devoted to each other and it seems right that he should come too.

The man, seeing that I wasn't properly following his French, said in English - 'She was going to have kittens but she died. That is why I am crying now.'

# 5 ... Winter 1965

They spent the winter of 1965 in that cold room in Whalley Range. They didn't need anyone else - it was always just the two of them and no matter how often they did what twenty-year-olds in love tend to do, they could never get enough of each other.

She once knelt beside him and said - 'Is there anything that you want? Is there something that you'd like - something you have never asked for? I will do anything for you - anything - you only have to tell me - I will do anything.'

And sadness choked him - sadness and pity.

She put a hand to his face and whispered - 'I've never said that before.'

#4 ... Winter Nights ... 1965

She was frightened of the man downstairs. Sometimes they came face to face in the hall and she would try to be bright and friendly but there was something about him that made her shiver. Sometimes at night she would lie awake listening for sounds outside her door; certain that someone was putting on gloves before working on the frail lock. There was one particularly terrifying night when a burglar was on the fire escape - she could see him through the side window.

Everything was better when her boyfriend stayed. The fears didn’t exist when another person was around. It didn’t matter that her boyfriend would have been pretty useless in a fight - all she wanted was someone with her - someone who would take away the dread of being alone.

#3 ... Winter Nights ... 1965

The boyfriend wanted to go out for a drink but she didn’t feel up to it. He asked her why she had an aversion to pubs; why she never appeared to be comfortable in them. She replied that she didn’t have an aversion - she just did not feel like going out - as simple as that.

Their conversation became a bit testy. He began to probe her past and she said more about her upbringing than she had ever done before. She mentioned her father’s oppressive, controlling nature; how she had tried to please him, but nothing seemed good enough. Strangely, the boyfriend defended her father; this totally amazed her; knowing that despite there being no chance of mutual liking or respect, there was some sort of masculine bond that over-rode everything she said. She became angry and cranked up the dispute until it became heated. The boyfriend grabbed his coat and stormed out.

Later at the pub, things looked different. He began to think that he shouldn’t have upset her. She was right and he was wrong.

Back at the flat, she regretted what she had called him - she had been unfair - she was wrong and he was right.

#2 ... Winter Nights ... 1965

Her boyfriend brought a Dansette record player and an armful of his favourite albums - mostly blues, Muddy Waters, Big Bill Broonzy and protest songs from a young Bob Dylan.

Every Friday evening she’d be invited to friends houses but, a bit guiltily, she’d refuse. Instead her boyfriend would turn up at the flat and he would break up cigarettes and sprinkle stuff from a little packet. He would re-roll them; they would share the smoke and sit listening to Leadbelly slapping his 12 string guitar.

But when her boyfriend was wasn’t around she didn’t play Leadbelly. She would brush her hair and put on a 45 she brought from home. She kept the record hidden amongst her books, so that her boyfriend didn’t see it.

(The record is in the link in the comments below)

Winter Nights 1965

Cheap rented room in Whalley Range. She’d tried to fix up curtains - tried to make it nice. No TV and burglars had stolen her radio. It was a large room; a leftover from a different world; you could see it in the high ceilings, the double dado rails, the missing interior shutters; the grandeur of the chalk coloured fireplace with its florid carved scrolls, now reduced to housing a sad little electric fire.

These were nights of twilight and shadows; when it seemed as cold inside as out. When the yellow streetlights leaked through the draughty windows and the twigs of the giant chestnut tree scraped across the glass.

And they huddled together. They couldn’t have been happier. Nights of cider and cigarettes - of sour metallic kisses - nights when he couldn’t get enough of her - nights when he was insatiable for her quick mind, her breath, her hair, her voice, her face, warmth, smell.

And the world could not offer anything better to him - nothing compared with their nights in that cheap rented room in Whalley Range.

Russell

I will never know how he navigated the perilous seas of adolescence. How he got through the deep waters - the rocks - the currents - the sharks! I will never know what became of him ... but of this I am sure :-

He was, and would always be a friend to every creature; he would never harm or be cruel to anything. He lacked (lamentably, according to at least one teacher) a competitive component in his character - he didn’t mind losing. Although his parents had spent a small fortune on musical instruments and lessons, the piano etc would only be items of fun and amusement. He was splendidly un-neurotic - pleased with his own genial personality and his dark, beetle-browed face. Things might not have been as rosy as I am painting them; there was a stammer and he chewed his finger nails down to the stumps; but that was all - he didn’t appear to be worried about anything and the stammer and twitches were just ... well, what Russell did.

In my little stories I have tried to describe Russell and what it was like being with him. Of course I cannot get near to it. He was extraordinary in his simplicity - he wouldn’t cheat you or try to get the better of you - he would listen to what you told him and wouldn’t repeat it to others - he wasn’t critical about things he couldn’t understand, such as my fondness for his sister; or why the grinning gardener at home was always putting an arm around him.

But the definitive image for me is when the two of us were once crossing a field. The grass was long and the sun burned our necks and legs. And Russell was ahead of me - he turned round, laughing, arms windmilling, falling backwards into a future where I would no longer know him.

Dreams and fantasies are vivid for as long as they remain dreams and fantasies; once they become realities they shrivel into the mundane.

A book unwritten can be a source of joy - it will be a masterpiece!

Think of Tolstoy - still in his thirties; having completed ‘War and Peace’ and ‘Anna Karenina’ - instructing the staff on his country estate to hide all the farm ropes. Despite knowing that he was the greatest living writer, despite his adoring wife and family, despite his wealth beyond reckoning - he could not trust himself alone with a piece of rope.

Ava and Andre

Andre Previn, as a naive seventeen year old, was playing the piano at a Hollywood party; melodies by Rogers and Hart, Kern, Gershwin.

He spoke of how Ava Gardner came across to him - ‘She sat on the bench next to me. She listened to me play, quite attentively, and then asked an incredible question: “Would you like to take me home later?”

The innocence Previn missed the subtext and declined. Two years later, and more worldly wise, he was at another party playing the piano. Spotting Gardner once more he finished playing, ambled over and asked: “Can I take you home later?”

As he recalled: ‘She gave me a radiant smile of pure sweetness, patted my hand and said - “Go fuck yourself, kid”’.

home in Missoula,

home in Truckee,

home in Opelousas,

ain’t no home for me;

home in ol’ Medora,

home in Wounded Knee,

home in Ogallala,

home will never be.

(Jack Kerouac)

The Drugs Bust 1966

Ian had been drinking in the Town Hall Tavern when the police did one of their periodic raids. I’m sure he didn’t do much in drugs, other than the occasional smoke, but he knew a lot of people who did. His girlfriend Lorna kept him on the straight and narrow, but she wasn’t with him on this particular night.

Ian was bundled with all the others; they were forced to stand in a line and wait to be questioned. And this is where he took up the story - and he loved telling it. He was a natural mimic and relished imitating the policeman’s accent and facial contortions. Lorna would fall about laughing even though she had heard it all many times.

The policeman asked Ian where he had hidden his drugs. Ian replied that he didn’t have any drugs. The policeman said he wasn’t happy. Ian said he was sorry.

‘I’m not happy at all!’ - said the policeman.

Ian looked at him sympathetically.

‘I am not satisfied ... and I am going to have to take down your particulars.’

(Lorna would be snorting with laughter)

Policeman - ‘Name?’

Ian - ‘Ian Smith’.

Policeman - ‘Address?’

Ian - ‘33 Orchard Grove, Heald Green.’

Policeman - ‘Occupation?’

Ian - ‘If you had asked me that question on Friday I would have said “subscriptions manager for American scientific journals. And if you ask me that question next week I would tell you that I have launched my own magazine.’

Policeman - ‘A magazine eh? What sort of magazine?’

(Everyone fell about laughing)

Russell and the Ambiguity ... 1957

We were all squeezed into the back of the car. Russell was sprawled and taking up too much room. Caroline’s friend was proprietorial with Russell - she was quick to push him, give him little slaps, rumple his hair etc.

So Russell was sprawling and the girl had flipped her bare legs across his lap; he looked back at her and giggled as the dog, wriggling with suppressed excitement, licked his face.

Caroline pretended to be bored and reaching back slid the glass panel which isolated the driver. And then she looked at me - and I looked away, and then looked back at her and she was still looking at me - and then I looked away again and didn’t look back because I knew she was still looking at me.

When we arrived we ran on the beach. There wasn’t much wind and our kite wouldn’t stay up. The tide was out leaving the sand ribbed, mile after mile; the sea glittering far away. Russell got sand in one of his eyes and Caroline’s friend offered to get it out with her tongue. He refused her offer and she approached him on all fours like an animal. Russell was lying on a striped beach towel, hands over his eyes. She pounced on him and they were both laughing.

Caroline was trying to pull a soggy ball from the dog’s mouth. He was shaking his head and growling. I was confused about what was happening - I was confused by Russell’s unsuspected maturity - his easy way with the girl - something totally unknown to me.

So I write about the ambiguity I felt that day - the medley of delicious confusion, which even now, all these years later, still evokes an image of innocence melting into the thick broth of adolescent lust.

Party 1965

It wasn’t such a nice evening - nothing special at all. It only figured in his memory because of two events. Earlier he had visited a city-centre barber’s shop and requested a new hairstyle. The man himself - whose walls were covered in photographs of smiling famous clients - did the cutting. He was made to understand that the maestro only accepted him because of a cancellation - but the price was still high. Anyway, the young man was pleased with the haircut which he considered very cool.

Later, he turned up at the little after-work party - someone was getting married or leaving or someone was arriving or having a baby; all that is forgotten. But the memory of the girl hasn’t faded at all. How she stood - how she held her drink in both hands - how cleverly her tight chalk-striped skirt and jumper contrasted with her dramatic eye make-up. Perhaps emboldened - perhaps drunkenly overconfident with his new haircut - he gulped down his second drink and went across to her.

He got it all wrong. She wasn’t having any. She muttered something and turned away.

So the evening remained in his memory. The friends who didn’t much interest him; the drinks he didn’t want - and the girl who turned away, leaving the immortal image of her pharaoh eyes, black jumper and tight, chalk-stripe skirt.

From 2016

He came in on Interstate 26, through Jamison and Sangaree - Goose Creek off on the left, and finally Charleston. He had a beer overlooking the Wando River; the waters sparkling in the afternoon sunshine, reminding him of his girlfriend's eyes - the girl he loved - the girl back in Volunteers Ridge, Daufuskie Island, just east of Savannah.

Summer in the City

There was high anxiety in Princess Street - sharp words at the junction with Mosley Street West. It was as if the sky was closing and the world was ending. But eventually the right words were said and they kissed for a long time - two lovers in the doorway of the Institute of Mechanical Engineers.

A concert consisting of three movements - a play in three acts - a triptych of three paintings - a third volume to conclude the story - the Three Graces - the Three Dancers - the Three Wise Men - the three aspects of the Trinity - something so satisfying about ‘three’.

But HE wants four! He wants to smash the first three into pieces and emerge totally free of shape, colour, sound - free of thought and reason - free of childish maturity - drunk with the bliss of knowing nothing, saying nothing, desiring nothing except the certainty of endless displacement, loss of self - loss of folly.

Everything has been said better by the ancients. Show me any modern author who can match this ....

‘This was Argos, trained as a puppy by Odysseus, but never taken on a hunt before his master sailed for Troy. The young men, afterward, hunted wild goats with him, and hare, and deer, but he had grown old in his master’s absence. Treated as rubbish now, he lay at last upon a mass of dung before the gates – manure of mules and cows, piled there until fieldhands could spread it on the king’s estate. Abandoned there, and half destroyed with flies, old Argos lay. But when he knew he heard Odysseus’ voice nearby, he did his best to wag his tail, nose down, with flattened ears, having no strength to move nearer his master. And the man looked away, wiping the tears from his face...’

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