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throwaway-yandere · 2 years

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"O Capo! My Capo!" (Yandere Mafia!Cyno, Tignari, and Alhaitham/Reader)

A/n: This township is turning into a real clownship– I definitely do NOT dedicate this to my irl friends, ya jerks /j.

Unreliable Synopsis: The Innamorati Familia might have lost almost everything, but their Capo stands tall. Just how long will you survive under 3 pairs of scrutinizing eyes? (Mafia!au. Visions do not exist.)

CW: yandere, (some) religious themes, possible major character deaths, mentions of recreational drugs, guns, etc.

YOUR CHOICES MATTER. YOU CAN VOTE FOR WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

Next Chapter

—---

[Year 192X]

"(Y/n)!!!"

At first, you were convinced you were living the Khaenri'ahn Dream. With your youthful yet crime-greased hands, you have fought hard to earn your keep as the Innamorati's current Capo– to earn yourself a family for yours to protect inside Teyvat's ruthless underworld. And family you did keep. Until candles waned like silenced hostages. Until a conspiracy pursued what little faith in humanity you had left.

Until you held your underboss' charred face and lifeless body. Until his sizzling arm burned your hand. Until flakes of Dimitri's skin powdered your fingers like charcoal pencil shavings.

The Innamorati Headquarters burned. And so too did most of your men.

"(Y/n)! Stand back– Think about your men! Would they want you to do this?! You won't save anyone there– not like this!!!"

Looking back, the Khaenri'ahn Dream lied. There was no joy in hustling but you did live an empty yet freeing life. Khaenri'ah preached about humanity and its opportune happiness, yet spoke none about how fleeting it could be once the curtains caught fire. Perhaps that very notion fooled you into believing that your idyllic lifestyle won't be snatched away easily.

The ghosts of those who perished in the manor's basement have sought their final repose on the embers that incinerated your endeavors.

Everything was terribly loud. Many people fled into the murky haze. The square was virtually deserted as people fled for their lives, but you refused to leave. This trait used to be a quality that helped you survive the syndicate, but those damn fascist conspirators turned it against you.

Tartaglia pulled you close.

"VAFFANCULO, TARTAGLIA– LET ME FUCKING GO!"

"NOT UNTIL YOU CALM THE FUCK DOWN!!!"

You stilled, and a single heavy tear left your eye.

This is more than a mite unfair. Everything you labored for, every drop of blood you shed, every vice you committed, what was it all for? Visconti Diluc was right. You're a liar and a murderer undeserving of joy. Maybe this was the retribution he ranted aimlessly about.

You took fast and drastic measures in your rise to the top, and your opponents rightfully did the same to pull you back down.

Tartaglia watched as you writhe in agony knowing that you couldn't escape from his restrictive embrace. He never thought he'd see you appear more pathetic than when Pulcinella first picked you off the streets. Nonetheless, he felt your pain. You both led groups under the same parent organization. You are family.

To him, this was worse than accompanying his widowed sibling to their spouse's funeral.

"… My men, they're…"

You fell into deep thought.

Lyudochka, Kazari, Teppei, Viktor…

You gritted your teeth.

Viktor…

That damn brat didn't even get his chance to shift jobs… That brat still hadn't left this hellhole…

Based on the Khaenri'ahn Dream, all citizens must have an equal opportunity to achieve success through determination and pure grit…

You bit your lip down, drawing blood. In truth, you can't discern whether or not the blood came from your lips or your throat.

"DAMN IT."

Your white-knuckled hand shakily punched your thigh, feeling morbidly powerless.

Viktor said he wouldn't allow himself to die as a lowly servant…

What happened to those dreams now…?

You were so close. You were so close to taking all those fascists down. So why now?!

Tartaglia frowned. He had never seen you act like this– your anger is usually impulsive, but sharp and silent. Your fury simmers until you slice the catalyst open. Never come a time you lashed out like a feral animal as you do now.

"GET IT TOGETHER!!!"

Tartaglia shot you a piercing stare as he slapped you, and you finally reigned yourself in.

This is too pitiful.

Fire surrounded everyone, but you remained frozen by your own dialed-up emotions.

Slowly, he trusted that he could let you go.

"... Ekaterina, send in our men. We'll try to extinguish this mess as much as we can."

"Of course Capo, right away."

You held back your sobs as your knees fell to the floor, where your right-hand man's corpse lay as if he did not struggle in his miserable death.

The last time you talked to him, you called him a worthless coward who couldn't make choices without you. Pain seared through your chest. No one wants that to be their last conversation with their closest confidant.

A bloodcurdling scream rang out across the square, but you scarcely moved from your seat. You're too numb to notice who was behind that familiar voice. It was just another body that couldn't be mourned.

Your eyes focused on Dimitri's corpse instead.

You were planning to apologize after you cleared your head this morning, but what use are words to those who have already left this world? He's gone.

Fallen, cold and dead.

This is by no means the first time you've seen your men die– you had some of the deceased's blood wet your Sunday clothes– but you hope this unforgettable foul scent of burned flesh will be the last time you'll breathe it in. You're already acclimated to the metallic stench of blood; you don't need to ingrain this into your mind as well.

You passed out.

It was only when you closed your mouth did you realize, it was you who cried your lungs out the whole time.

—-----

The church bells rang.

It was 10 AM, and the mass was inching to a close but the priest passionately ignored the echoes of the bell and the mafiasos' groans.

"Is it too early to booze?" Tartaglia whispered in your ear. His yawning proved that he was bored to tears. You did your best in stopping your eyes from rolling.

Unlike Tartaglia, your aura exudes dignity, something he needed the most. When you two sit together, you both appear akin to a comedy act. The usually bloodthirsty Tartaglia transforms into a guileless little brother and your all-forgiving eyes turn endearingly annoyed when paired together. The same scenario was applied this morning.

"Tartaglia, look around you. Does this look like the right time?" You vaguely gestured at the ongoing sermon, not meeting his gaze.

"Geez. Why do we even bother with this?"

"Because even though we are nothing but lowly sinners, we must honor our Tsaritsa's benevolence."

There are 6 Archons revered by the church, and they correspond to six different regions and cities inside the nation of Teyvat. You're an immigrant from outside the country– an agnostic nation– but you're smart enough to pay respects.

"Right, right. I guess even if I asked that ten more times you'd still reply with a generic answer."

You passive-aggressively whispered back. "Maybe if your questions were worth my time I'd elaborate on my answers as well."

"Capo–"

You and Tartaglia turned around. The Fatui mob, one of yours who just got there, nervously sat up straight.

"Capo (Y/n)."

Tartaglia sank back to the pews, no longer caring. The second capo's lack of attention eased the grunt's audience-based apprehension. Their sheer trust in your credibility made you smirk. While you seemed cold, everyone in Snezhnaya knew you weren't.

You recalled how back then these words sounded alien to you but these terms are salient in the scenes. Having recruited predominantly Snezhnayan workers, you had to get used to their way of living. You wanted to foster good interpersonal relationships with your men, and there's no better approach to reach their hearts than religion in the 1920s. And by the looks of it, they seem to trust your carefully crafted sterling reputation.

You always do your job as if you're running out of time, and they put your faith in you like a farmer would a fleeting summer. With some effort, everyone was convinced they'd fall apart without your guidance.

The grunt looked at you with respect.

"Boss Dimitri delivered one very confidential info."

"I see…" You steadied yourself. "Excuse me then, Tar–"

He snatched your sleeve. Tartaglia considered removing your iconic stovepipe hat, but you don't wear it to church. He opted for the second most annoying choice.

"Hey, you can't leave me here. Don't I have every right to be in the know? Gaaahh, cut me some slack. We've practically been siblings for more than half a decade now, (Y/n). Can't you tell your fratello anything?"

"Why are you interested?"

"Cause I'm curious if it's finally time that your familia will collaborate with other factions for once."

You shook your head and sat back down. He's right.

Three major criminal organizations control the small nation of Teyvat, namely the Fatui, Akademiya, and the Adepti. You and Tartaglia are Capos or Harbingers of the former, which had the most control of Snezhnaya.

Based on your history, you don't mingle with other organizations outside Snezhnaya a lot. You had dealings with Ningguang and the Qixing before, but never their parent organization overseas which resides in Liyue.

It just so happens that Tartaglia is bolder than you are. The kid has his headquarters stationed in another province, Liyue. That province isn't far from his hometown since Teyvat is a small country but he complains like a confederate soldier. Most of what Tartaglia talks your ear out is about missing home despite finding fuses of excitement in Liyue enticing anyways. You've heard many stories from him regarding how ruthless Adepti's Prime leader, Morax, is, but that's not your problem.

The Akademiya, however, keeps to themselves. You know close to nothing about them. Snezhnaya may be the heart of trades, but the Fatui cannot tap into Sumeru's supply of canned knowledge. And you quite frankly don't give a shit about what they do. They're not the best at masking their spies.

"Speak."

"Capo, the underboss wanted to inform you that he had already figured out who the mole is."

"Oh?" You and Tartaglia spoke simultaneously.

You'd been looking for a spy among your ranks for quite some time. This mysterious mole was sending information back to Focalor, the self-proclaimed Hydro Archon better known as "Il Duce" around these parts. The braggart with a God complex promised the public that she'll drive mafiosos out of Teyvat, and she's working everyone to the bone for it. Politicians either play yes men or get on your nerves. She's the latter.

Nevertheless, you did not expect Dimitri to deliver results that fast. Bitterly, you thought about how apologizing for him later would look less genuine now that he proved himself worthy. You didn't mean to call your underboss useless– you just couldn't control your temper.

May the Archons forgive your transgressions.

You hope he'd forgive you once you get back.

"... Carry on, Felix."

"Yes, of course. The fascist conspirator is Professor Tighnari, the informant."

You snapped your head back to meet the grunt's face, bewildered.

"... What?"

"FIRE!!! THE PLAZA IS ON FIRE!!!"

One of the church's orphans– Barbara– was screaming by the door, frantically stripped of breath and her chords sounded hoarse, unlike her singing. Her weak legs barely counted as a support for her body as she toppled on the marble tiles. The groceries she carried splashed down, and some fruits rolled in your direction. Your people helped her stand up while some picked up her things for her, but the poor thing shivered like a leaf.

Barbara had always been a sister to you. Having been separated from your family at a young age as well, you two link like two peas in a pod. She relied on you like a quiet strong big sister while you protected her and the other children from street conflicts.

You stood up and calmly patted her shoulder, squeezing lightly. You gave her a gentle smile.

"My dear Barbara– take deep breaths."

She yanked your chest.

"Capo!"

Barbara began to tear up.

"It's your mansion, Capo!!! YOUR MANSION IS ON FIRE!!!"

—-------

You jolted up drenched in cold sweat.

"You're awake…"

You don't know whose voice you were expecting, but that voice was intuitively not one of them. The barren room you woke up in wasn't yours, and it's certainly not Tartaglia's manor. Considering the unfortunate events that just took place, it's foolish to think you'd wake up inside the safety of your manor. Instinctively, you reached for your holster and found it empty.

The man stepped into the light. You have a hunch on who this was. He wore a black-purple stole, vest, and strap combination, an attire you'd often see on a Sunday, yet donned a shabby brown hat on top of his silky white locks.

The stranger stared at you blankly.

"You're a disciple." You claimed.

Aside from the three mafia organizations, the Church had the superior upper hand when it came to crowd control. Nothing moves Teyvat's heart like guides and philosophies. That being said, the Church isn't afraid to get its hands filthy. They are fully aware that conversation will not solve all problems, and there is an unsaid fact that their relationship with the Fatui is far from antagonistic.

And as Capo, you're one of their most devoted patrons. The organization you belong to is filled with devotees, and have often carried out whatever mission the church wishes. Honestly, you think that the Church's fondness for the Fatui should already be a telltale sign that the Archons are nothing more than a statue made of ice.

But you shouldn't think this way. It's peculiar– romantic, even– that what saved you from the fire was your near half-hearted devotion to attending Sunday masses. To be honest, you attend partly because you want to dress to the nines. You don't know how to feel about that.

Their Holiness saved you from the embers, you can atone for your sins by suffering. And that's what this stranger is here for.

"That's correct." He said. "I work for the Sumeru Church. I was instructed to look after you until they help you renovate your manor and the panetteria beside it. That is, of course, assuming you still pass the requirements of being Innamorati's Capo."

This person did not bother easing you into things, and instead bluntly reminded you that your house and men– your home is gone.

You breathed in shakily.

Dimitri is gone…

"...You have my gratitude."

On the bright side, at least your go-to place for lunch will be back after a while. That is if Signorina Xiangling survived and the church won't abandon you.

"Don't worry, we flame to please. I'm sure our architect Kaveh was stoked to receive such a large-scale commission."

…

"I'm sorry– were you joking at a time like this?"

"Was it not funny? Hah. I think it's hysterical. Oh, would you like for me to explain it?" He didn't ask in a patronizing tone, he spoke as if you didn't have the mental capacity to know what a joke is. Which was honestly more insulting.

You didn't laugh, and he didn't apologize.

You've heard about how church officials have a clear lack in the humor department before, but you didn't take into account that they may very well be this socially inept. Which is rich, coming from you. Your transgressions weigh more than a bad joke executed at a funeral.

With a mastered poker face, you pretended that his slights did not affect you.

He extended his arm out for a handshake.

"Cyno, the former Aaru Village priest. I now work as an inquisitor." Cyno coughed, cheeks turning slightly red. "I didn't change your clothes i-in case you find it uncomfortable."

Sounds like he finds it uncomfortable instead.

His behavior perfectly lines up with his claims. The way he dressed alone encapsulates the aura of a man who used to devote himself to holy sanctums. Some minor details made it clear he's no longer part of the main clergy– that being his choker and numerous ear piercings.

You took his hand. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm (Y/n), the Innamorati Familia's Cap–"

You cringed.

"I'm… I'm just (Y/n)."

"Humble, just (Y/n)." Cyno nodded solemnly.

"No, not humble. Defeated."

"I know."

…

"Feel free to cry. I won't pass judgment over people expressing normal human emotions."

You laughed humorlessly. "Sure you won't."

Cyno grabbed the plate on the table and passed it on. "Calzone?"

You scoffed.

Admittedly, the food looked appetizing and its rich fragrance made your stomach perceive its emptiness. You trust the church, but no. Your pride would kill you for chewing food down with abandon. The only person you could eat savagely with was Barbara, and Lord knows how the poor girl is holding up. Thankfully your stomach didn't make any noise despite the pain of hunger being a treacherous one.

"I guess not." He awkwardly put it back down.

You inspected your clothes. Your once proud Prussian blue polo shirt reeked of ashes and sundered threads. Still, in a bit of a daze, you squinted.

"... Where's my coat?"

Cyno's gaze sharpened.

"I disposed of it." He spat. "You should be more alert. Someone planted a recording device on your person."

Cyno spoke in a tone that implied he knew who this person was personally, and you're inclined to think the same. You bit your bottom lip at your own seemingly minuscule mistake, opening a minor wound.

"Cazzo."

It's possible that Tighnari was the one to plant it. You let him hold your coat for a moment when you changed into your Sunday attire. That audacity of that fucking bastard.

He must've set the bomb off when he heard Nicola.

"Testa di cazzo– quel fottuto figlio di puttana." You cursed lowly.

Professor Tighnari. That man will soon find his skin flayed and draped on the walls of your basement chambers once it's rebuilt.

You'll kill everyone that fox ever loved.

You'll find his family and wave their heads on a pike right in front of his chained weeping face. You'll claw the skin off their faces and rip their fingernails and limbs apart–

"(Y/n)?"

You can no longer comprehend your emotions. Inside, you are a cacophony of both forced indifference and uncontrollable spite– a contradictory pair yet one that matches how you felt towards the loss of your men and the professor's betrayal.

Slowly but surely, you saw red.

Not expecting that you would stand up, Cyno pushed you back to bed. He looked both worried yet unimpressed by your foul mouth.

"You're not supposed to leave yet."

You tried to gently pry him off, not wanting to offend the church's lackeys, but he was stronger than expected. Cyno planted you back down on the mattress. His left hand was beside your head and his face hovered above yours.

This irritated you.

You don't have much time left.

He continued. "Tomorrow, you work. Today, you rest up. Your people are with Capo Tartaglia and they're not going anywhere. If you need anything– food, water– anything at all, be sure to ring the bell. My ears are sharp. Remember, the Military Police are tailing you and the last of your men."

The Military Police? So it's Focalor's people, huh? That damn governor just won't let up, won't she? If you had nothing left to lose you would've painted her office wall with her brain matter, pronto. But you still have some reasons to continue living.

The last of your men…

Hah. Of course. You have to live for those that survived. After all, if you weren't an incompetent fucking boss you'd still have everyone in one piece.

You're so sick of this.

"May I ask who exactly reached out to help? I doubt the church would waste church funds on a low-ranked Fatui Capo such as myself."

The inquisitor averted his gaze, his brows furrowed. Cyno hid his face behind his hand, murmuring the response meekly. You don't have the best hearing—the sounds of gunshots were bound to dull your senses—and you imagined he gave a monosyllabic response.

"...e."

"My apologies, mind repeating that?"

Cyno stiffened.

"You don't need to know who. What matters is that you're safe now, and an official willingly went through signing paperwork for your manor."

"And based on your tone of voice, I assume that that official is you."

He turned his head indignantly.

"Believe what you want to believe."

Cyno's reply was a telltale sign that this conversation will go nowhere. You sighed.

"... I don't need food, but do you have cigars?"

He scrunched his nose.

"No wonder your breath smells awful nowadays." He muttered before pulling away.

Despite his insulting observation, he pulled out a box of Cuban cigars from his pocket. Quite hypocritical that he complained about bad breath when he had some too. He lit up your cigar.

"Thanks, but last time I checked this was our first time meeting." You have no particular opinion on Cohiba's cigars but this is the best you'll get at the moment. Beggars can't be choosers. "Thanks again."

Cyno ignored you both times and he was already by the door. "Please rest up. I've left some calzone, water, painkillers, and tissues for you on the table. Try not to leave the vicinity."

He exited the room.

You closed your eyes as your hand reached for your bleeding mouth. You're relatively unscathed from the incident, which means Cyno knows something about your "condition."

You chuckled.

Painkillers and tissues, huh? There's no better cure than that, and your time would run out before the world would find a better one.

—----

Cigars were not enough.

Inquisitor Cyno likely already knew that he can't keep you here for much longer, but he didn't do anything when you escaped. He did say "try not to leave" and not "do not leave", didn't he?

Cyno claimed his ears are sharp– so you guess he just didn't care at all.

As a result, you left your room and went for a walk around the neighborhood. That doesn't mean you can leave Sumeru City, but a stroll is always pleasant. The room Cyno offered was neither spacious nor cramped, but if you started digging holes in their ugly wallpaper, you doubt the church would take it lightly.

You staggered out of the chapel and entered the slums, reminding yourself that Dimitri is dead. You need to find someone worthy enough to become the next underboss. The church will not recognize you as the Capo without one, therefore they won't help rebuild the manor should you fail this task.

Hungry and out of breath, you leaned against the unscrubbed walls of an abandoned antique store, arms folded, taking in your surroundings. You were exhausted, arms sprawled against the wall.

The people behaved too jaded to be Natlan yet too reserved to be Snezhnaya– hence, you safely assumed that you were in the Avidya-Rainforest district. This place, despite lack of funds, was still under the church's watchful eye. A holy sanctum of sorts. This meant dealings are prohibited and no one would want to be caught with a glint in their eyes.

It's fascinating how much their cultures differ for a country as small as Teyvat. The same cannot be said for Khaenri'ah. Your compatriots have only known a capitalistic grind in search of an unattainable dream. A money-obsessed country does little to preserve its customs and culture. And you were the same empty machine till La Signora took you in.

You yawned while covering your mouth, appearing vulnerable.

But of course, you didn't charge into an unknown location unarmed. You knocked out one of the Inquisitor's soldiers and seized his pistol. "For security reasons", you'd argue. Once again, Cyno likely knew about that but didn't bother acting, again. You're too tired to judge his work approach, and you could barely keep your eyes open.

Till you caught a sliver of green pass you by.

"Oh! You smell funny. Are you the Capo, (Y/n) (L/n)?"

You lazily looked up.

"Umm, hello?"

You gazed down.

It's a kid. Hunger is starting to take its toll on you as you mistook her high pitch voice for an adult your size. The child, around age 5, had green hair and scraped knees.

You're certain that she wouldn't snitch about how you left your room unguarded.

"Need something?"

"Yeah, um, I just wanna say my condolences."

You ruffled her hair. "Thanks, bambini."

She beamed.

Sadly, the kid must've mistaken this as a go signal for her to continue talking. She balled her hand into a fist and nervously cheered for you.

"I-It'll be alright, Capo. You can always make new friends! I believe in you!"

"Hmm."

"I never thought I'd ever be able to make friends but I did last month! I also met my master that time and maybe I can share some of my good luck with you!"

"Hmm."

"Are… Are you listening?"

"J-Just a little fatigued." You stifled a yawn. "Why don't you play along with your new friends, little…"

"Oh, right! I'm Collei!"

"Little Collei." You coughed, and you skillfully wiped the blood away without her knowing. "Bambini, you shouldn't talk to people like me, it's dangerous. Why don't you run along and go back to your friends now?"

"Well, I can't yet because he told me not to because he's busy right now."

"Who told you that?"

Collei smiled widely.

"Professor Tighnari!"

You froze, slowly recalling your resolve.

It felt like the world froze for a brief moment as if the few people in the vicinity halted for you to catch up on what the little girl confessed.

"...Tighnari?"

"Hmm, hmm!"

"And you're close to him?" You muttered.

You'll kill everyone that fox ever loved.

Your fingers subconsciously slithered to your holster.

That's what you decided moments prior.

You glared down menacingly.

"Capo…?"

But a kid?

"... Is something wrong?"

You turned your apathetic gaze back at her. You're not even sure just how much this child meant to Tighnari. She might as well just be as insignificant as a pebble on a shore. But–

The gun you stole from the church guards is with you. It's light in your hands.

The light in your eyes dimmed.

"Hello?"

It has three bullets loaded.

There are only 2 other people outside the streets, both of which are teenage civilians. Taking her out would be as easy as–

"Hey, please cheer up!!!"

The child shook you, dragging you out of your trance. Little Collei appeared distressed because of your lack of reactions. You blinked a couple of times, making yourself mentally present, before pinching your forehead. Her lips are curled downward and her eyes match her cute frown, and you were grimly reminded of what you had tried to commit.

You cursed under your breath.

You're disappointed in yourself.

This is a child. A child of the church, no less. She likely had nothing to do with whatever it is Tighnari had planned.

"You're thinking of sad thoughts too, aren't you? Don't do that! You'll only feel bad–"

"Bambini."

"Yes?"

"How many friends do you have?"

"Oh. I have two!"

She cheerfully raised three fingers.

"I have two friends! Amber and Tighnari!!!"

Because of her clear enthusiasm, you refrained from correcting her hand. Instead, you patted her head with a heavy conscience.

But are you wrong for thinking this way?

An eye for an eye…

You knelt at her height.

Your strained smile reached her ignorant eyes. "That sounds wonderful. I have– I had two best friends too. Can I be your third friend?"

"Really?!"

"Of course. I think optimistic people like you are reeaaally cool!" You lied between your teeth.

And one kid's death won't satisfy a worthy tribute for your fallen men. One child is not enough.

You need to find more just like her.

"Hehe, thank you! But Amber's the coolest! I want to be like big sis Amber when I grow up!"

"Is that so? Well– I hope to hear more from you as you grow older. I'm sure you'll be the girl you always wanted to be, and I'd like to be your friend as you get there."

Collei awed.

"W-Wow, thank you! I've never gotten a compliment like that before too…"

The child never saw the sadness in your eyes, or maybe she mistook it as fondness. You continued patting her head as she melts in your touch. Fakely, you gave her a big smile.

"Then let's get to know each other." You grabbed her hands. "Why don't you show me around town, fratella?"

You can't kill this girl yet.

She nodded eagerly.

Not until you find out just how much this child means to Tighnari.

Besides, you didn't miss the flash of purple in the alleyways. Cyno was observing you from afar. You can't make haste.

You grabbed her hand.

You'll get your revenge, someday but not today, even if it arrives at your dying breath.

—----

Someone else is watching you. A second stalker.

It's not paranoia born out of the tragedy that occurred yesterday, but a fact.

As you were greeted by an angry Candace (Cyno's coworker) who gave you a firm yet fruitless sermon about leaving the parameters, you heard the bushes rattle by the gardens. You offhandedly mentioned it to her, and it placated her fury.

Candace agreed that she heard it as well, and she promises to take care of it as soon as you go back to confinement– "your room." Collei awkwardly bid you farewell and you promised you'll see her again in a few days. She probably thought that you were her new troublesome sibling. And speaking of troublesome…

Snatching the small glimpse of metal from the table, you pivoted your heels.

"You can't hide from me."

Masterfully, you hurled a butterknife and it landed just a few centimeters above the trespasser. He grunted almost inaudibly. Had you been any less precise that aim would've killed him, but the man had the guts to trust that you wouldn't be so foolish and kill him off without a proper interrogation. It's one of many reasons Tartaglia envies your dexterity and wit.

You glared. This man wore dark clothing yet his luminescent akasha terminal betrays any hope for a successful undercover mission. The stranger promptly calculated his response as you grabbed your remaining utensils. This time, you had a sharper blade in your arsenal.

"Speak."

"My name is Alhaitham. I'm an Akademiyan spy."

No shit. He's wearing an akasha terminal. What else could he be but a pain in the neck?

You laughed sardonically. "Oh my, a bold one, are we? Think you can take me down just because of my manor?"

"I'm not here to fight you– I'm here with a proposal, (Y/n)."

And he had the nerve not to address you as Capo.

The stranger didn't see you throw a fork in his direction until he heard the metal ring beside his ear. Some strands of his hair got caught between the points, yet he feigned an unphased disposition.

"Get out."

"Alhaitham" didn't listen. He knew you'd insist until you could drag his cold dead body into the garbage chute for Wednesday's pickup. So what did he do?

State his proposal anyways.

"I want to become Innamorati's next underboss."

Your grip on the knife loosened slightly. Alhaitham watched your serious face loosen up, but not in the reaction he hoped for. Instead, you laughed at him.

Him? Replacing Dimitri? Hilarious.

"Now that's comedy! What made you think I'll hire you? I don't know your face but I know your name."

You proudly grabbed a glass and poured yourself the wine Cyno bought that you previously insisted on not drinking.

"Ahh, this should be entertaining. Alhaitham– the Akademiya's slaved accountant. Maybe I would've taken you in if you didn't reveal that you're a spy. Would've enjoyed dragging you around till you're drained like hell. You know, if you already told me that you're here to spy on me you might as well spill who ordered you to do so."

"Khajeh." He replied immediately.

You drank half a glass. "Hah! Figured. Barely ran into any scholars but that old man is as nosy and obnoxious as they come."

"In addition, he gave me permission to try and apply as your next underboss."

"Keyword here is try."

"The Akademiya had been spying on you for a long time–"

"I know. I'm not dumb enough not to notice your men skulking around. They're practically built like an elementary school's skeletal model." You clicked your tongue.

"–But if you take me, I am at your full disposal. I will work simultaneously for the Akademiya and you, so I'd let you in on canned knowledge trades. I'm not as weak as the others. I've been a member of multiple training corps with exceptional gra–"

He stopped abruptly when you placed your glass down. It's empty.

Alhaitham met your gaze and silently noted your unamused expression.

You have never once tried getting into any supply of canned knowledge, but that doesn't mean you'd dive into this shady business after the opportunity presents itself pronto. You've seen how Dottore handles his wares, and you know how it functions similarly to heroin.

You're not letting your men go through the same addiction as you had before.

"Are you done?" You cut him off, clearly aware that he barely started with his fluffs. Realizing that all he had done was brag, he changed topics immediately.

"I know a lot of things about you, Capo." Alhaitham's lips quivered for a brief moment. "I'd dare say I found all the dirt I could find."

"Is that so…" You replied, rather uninterested. These buzzwords have always been around since the day you became Capo, not once had they piqued your interest.

"You killed La Signora to inherit her title. You announced that she died bravely against Khaenri'ahn soldiers, but it was you whom she dueled with– and now you have her authority and more."

You laughed, once again sounding wholly bored.

"Should've known Akademiyan freaks like you are into conspiracy theories." You replied in an attempt to seem like you care. You're not sure if it worked.

"You neither confirmed nor denied my statement."

Cause he's half-wrong. You're not a brute. If you want something done, then it must be swift. There's no way you could've won a match against your old Capo, everyone would agree with that.

It's much easier to kill her in her sleep and frame your fellow countryman's fault for everything.

"Do you need me to?"

There was no need for you to tell him that this information is useless. Many similar-sounding theories had spread during the first few months of acting as Innamorati's new Capo. Snezhnayans are very strict when it comes to blood relations, and they're not easily convinced when you told them that it was Rosalyne's final wish to instate you as their new leader.

It was partly thanks to Viktor that the familia grew to welcome you in. He had an apparent dislike for the old capo and when you promised he'd be off guard duties his mouth started rambling. Viktor's not one to shy away from leaking the information you puppeteered him to say. You've ensured many methodologies to spread a positive campaign about you, and people began naturally supporting your cause.

All done with minimum effort.

You smiled at him sweetly. Should Alhaitham attack your reputation, you have no doubt you have the capabilities in mending it quickly despite your situation. You're loved by the Church and most importantly the masses. Now that many of your men have passed, the public would view you as a staggering symbol of mourning. Poor (Y/n).

Alhaitham didn't react. Instead, his expression dimmed, more solemn this time.

"That's just the appetizer."

He continued.

"The truth is, you barely have 2 years left to live because of Eleazar, isn't that right, (N/n)? That's why you always act like you're running out of time."

Your eyes widened.

Now he's not half wrong. That's the whole truth.

You laughed again.

"Is that your best attempt at a death threat? Don't have specialized canned knowledge to teach you when to shut the fuck up?"

"I'd be happy to let you know that I'm not the only one who has conducted some… research, Capo." He digressed and walked closer. "Inquisitor Cyno, Professor Tighnari, and I know about it. It's quite a well-kept secret, really. You ought to be thankful."

Alhaitham pulled out a tissue from his pockets.

You squinted and paused.

Oh, no wonder. So that's how he came up with that conclusion.

"You've been coughing up blood way before you joined the mafia– and it's a miracle that no one noticed your weak constitution. None except the three of us, I mean." He continued. "I had someone from our forensics team inspect this, and I'm not surprised to hear that it's from you rather than your enemies."

"Then why."

"Why?"

"Why haven't you leaked this yet? Isn't this a good thing for you Akademiyans?"

Alhaitham smirked.

"I believe I should be the one to govern my actions– why else would I stalk these dilapidated rooftops?"

"Then how long have you known?"

"Trust me, the three of us knew longer than you'd imagine. I knew about your secret ever since you sold matchsticks for a living."

Your eyebrows furrowed.

"That was five years ago…"

"So? Doesn't change that you've been diagnosed for well over six years."

"I was barely anyone back then– I was just a beggar hustling on the streets– why make such an idiotic claim?" You rolled your eyes. "I've heard enough. Leave, while I still allow it."

Alhaitham's face softened.

"So you don't remember me…"

He handed you the tissue, and you reluctantly accepted it.

As your hands met, Alhaitham pulled you close to his chest. His face looked down on you, smug and condescending.

Alhaitham caressed your cheek, and then your lips. You flushed at the sudden contact and quickly tilted your dagger near his neck.

He whispered into your ear.

"What a delicate flower you are, tesoro. But I will not lie, you're far from youthful– you're wilting, and I loathe watching this all unfold from afar any longer."

The Akademiyan gently pushed your dagger away and kissed your wrist. Your eyes sharpened, hastily aiming for his neck but he swiftly changed trajectory. He knew this was just a reminder that he could die in your hands if you will it. Alhaitham is not blind. He saw the way you curved your hand at the last second to prevent a lethal blow.

He stood a few feet away, no longer at arm's length. Alhaitham pushed the curtains aside with one foot already out the window.

"I'll meet you again here, 6 AM sharp. Tell me whatever it is that you decide then." He said before confidently adding "I look forward to working with you soon, (N/n)."

In the same fashion he entered, he left the room quietly. Deciding that you don't care enough to watch him leave the premises, you locked the windows shut.

You sighed, exhausted, and pulled the curtains closed.

Life won't let you catch a break…

Now, what's your schedule for tomorrow?

—------

Note: this is an interactive fic! The underlined word will lead you to a google forms link to decide what happens in the next chapter! Have fun voting!!!

Deadline: October 20, 2022 October 16, 2020

Next Chapter

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orange-artist · 3 months

Note

OP languages for the wip game I’m intrigued 👀👀👀

Oh boy! Good choice! My unfinished fic where all the OP has different languages and I actually wrote all the different languages in the different languages (based on the languages my friends speak)

Have some excerpts:

Shank sailed in with fluent but accented Linish and another fast lilting fluid language flowing off his tongue and Luffy all but demanded to learn it. Shanks was happy to oblige and found that Luffy picked up languages fast. Xilanese, Shanks explained, was the most common language in the West Blue. The language was the closest to the infamous poneglyphs of legends in syntax and writing systems. Luffy takes to Xilanese like a duck to water. It's helpful that most of the Red Haired pirate crew knew the language to a certain degree so Luffy didn't have a shortage of practice partners. Maomao they call him. Little anchor, Luffy learns eventually and throws a halfhearted pouty fit about it.

Roronoa Zoro didn't learn Linish until he ended up at Koshiro’s dojo. He never had a use for it. Tonichi-go served him well up until that point but Kuina has explained that if he ever wanted to be the World’s Greatest Swordsman he would need to learn the common tongue. Apparently Tonichi-go was called Azumani in Linish, which Zoro thought was stupid and weird. Why call it something different?

"Say it!" He shouts. "给我说你想活下去！Say you want to live!" He demands of her. 活? Live? Robin can't describe the feeling that wells up in that moment. The clenching pain in her chest as a sob builds up, but not of the typical sorrow and agony filled type. Intead, inexplicable joy and a sense of freedom bubbled out with her tears. Years of being alone and being unwanted manifest in that moment of helplessness as she watches her crew, her friends declare war against Enies Lobby. For her.

Then I was going to drag my friends together and make a podfic of it....I still want to do that so

#my writing #wip ask game #orange asks

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thatbadadvice · 11 months

Note

Dear advisor,

(Apologies in advance, english is not my first language)

I made 2 friends in clg (K and P) i was especially close with K, talked and shared a lot with her. Suddenly she started being mean to me and it reached a point where we stopped talking. When i asked what her problem was, she basically said she prioritises P and i'm intruding their friendship, taking up all of P's time. And that hurt really bad, felt angry at them both. I gave them "space", stopped talking, it was more awkward because i didn't have friends other than them. Moving on, we got our finals result, K and P they both got second place and... i feel like shit. I really wanted to be better than them, show that i'm cool(ik its cringe) now i'm really insecure and feel so untalented. Every time i do something, i always think about how they would've done it much better. I'm on my final year, soon have to start applying for jobs and i don't want to be like this. I have already put them on a pedestal and can't stop comparing myself to them.

Readers sometimes send Bad Advisor their real-ass questions to answer, so the Bad Advisor is periodically going to try her hand at answering them. If you’d like to submit a question for a Good Advice Interlude, use the “ask” form!

Oh, friend! Thank you so much for sending in this question, and for having the bravery and aplomb to write it both elegantly and colloquially in a language that is not your original tongue.

Do you know what the Bad Advisor would have to do if she had to write an advice-seeking letter in another language? She would have to write to some French agony aunt and ask them where the bathroom is and if she can please have an Aperol spritz and do they like dancing? Because that is the extent of the Bad Advisor's ability to communicate in her non-native language! Please do not feel obligated to apologize for doing a brilliant and hard thing. For this reason alone, the Bad Advisor hopes you raise yourself in your own estimation, because the Bad Advisor is extremely the fuck impressed, and the Bad Advisor hopes her opinion counts for something. (After all, you asked!)

There is a saying in English: "Comparison is the thief of joy." This feels like a saying that should not be an English saying, because the English-speaking world, a world of colonizers and capitalists, is a world in which comparison is the foundation of all we do -- we compete, we contend, we dominate! (I, a professional writer with a better-than-average command of my native language, used a thesaurus to fill out that sentence!) But perhaps for this reason, we understand the trauma of comparison all the more deeply.

Comparison, that miserable poacher of happiness, robs us of our ability to appreciate so much: what we can do, what we enjoy doing, what we dream of doing. Cruelly, comparison hits us hardest in the parts of our lives we care most about. Would that it were otherwise! But it explains why I can thrill at watching the Olympics, or celebrate someone else's ability to change a car tire or swat a humongous bug without descending into despair. I have no expectation of myself that I will become an Olympic athlete (I simply could never), or change a tire (I can happily pay for this service), or deal with an insect intruder (only upon pain of death or the absence of my less-squeamish partner). But in my very worst and often even my entirely average moments? I sometimes squirm and froth upon reading a brilliant book, a thoughtful op-ed, or just an excellently executed sentence. Because those are things I believe I can, I must, I SHALL do! When I fail to do those things, or when I have not yet done those things -- things I believe myself to be capable of, things I believe I should be capable of -- I feel small and silly and worthless.

The only fix that I have found to those feelings of smallness and silliness is to acknowledge them and unpack them as signals that they are telling me something not about what I can't do, but about what I can do and deserve to do. These feelings come sometimes about people I deeply love and care about, and sometimes they come about strangers! But every time, they tell me something about myself that I have not tended and cared for and nourished and celebrated.

It is easy and satisfying and perhaps even motivating to be mad at and jealous of strangers; it is so much heavier and more shame-inducing to feel these feelings about people we know and love. And you were pushed aside by K and P, who you know and love(d), in ways that sound especially unfair and unkind. Which I expect makes this hurt all the more! I think you know you cannot fix whatever smallness and meanness made K and P sequester themselves and their relationship away from you; you're not asking about that. But you want to move beyond this feeling of having to win at life before or over them, and you recognize already that living in their shadow will only bring darkness to you.

Metaphorical solution: move out of the darkness by giving yourself a bigger world where there is more space to find sunlight. This world is waiting for you, because you are about to embark upon a post-college career that naturally lends itself to such! Perhaps you will see K and P's shadows for a while -- but as you move farther from their branches that shade your sunny picnic, you will find other, more welcoming spaces in which to enjoy your meal, and the tree at the other end of the park will seem less and less like it is threatening to ruin your good time.

Practical solution: indulge yourself in the things you love and care about most, honor and cultivate other people's interests in those same things, and find something wholly unrelated to fail at. To wit:

indulge yourself: someone will always be better, maybe even much better, at the thing you love and are best at. They might be first. They might, for now, be the only. That's inevitable. Work to do your best at what you love, and to be proud of what you're doing on your own terms. I can't think of a single discipline -- academic, arts, cultural, scientific, political, or otherwise -- in which any person on earth can claim to be the "first, last, and only." We all build on the work of others; the fact that someone did better than you or preceded you is only evidence that there is room for you to innovate, to change, to bring your own perspective. Internalizing this is really, really hard, and in my experience almost impossible to achieve if you resist the next bullet point.

support other people's interest in your field: this is different to "networking." I mean: find folks who you like and think are fun and interesting and maybe are a little newer to your thing than you are, and offer them guidance or just a place to commiserate and see where that takes you. The best cure for feeling bad about yourself is to do a good turn for someone else -- not out of pity or self-interest, but because helping other people lifts us up in immeasurable and intangible ways, sparks new ideas, and opens new venues for change and innovation.

fail at something: one of the best things you can learn to do is learn to be bad at shit. I'm bad at embroidery, and I do it a lot! I give my ugly embroidery things to friends and family members who appreciate the thought and the effort more than the execution! When I can't find anyone to give my bad embroidery to, I put it on the Bad Embroidery shelf in my office or pawn it off to my husband, who has his own Bad Advisor's Bad Embroidery Shelf in his office. I never get better at embroidery, but I keep doing it because: it's pretty enough even when it's bad, I don't need to succeed at it to enjoy it, and it calms my ADHD-addled mind even when I can't tell a tiger from a flower. I've learned to be bad at other stuff, too! I took up curling (the sport) and I love it and I fall the fuck over every time I try to deliver that ding-dang kettle. I have a bad knee and always have to use the newbie-balancing thing that first-timers train on. It's fine! And guess what? The people I curl with are really, really bad writers, and it makes me laugh and laugh to read their emails. And you know what? They don't care that I'm bad at curling and I don't care that their emails are poorly written.

the tl;dr: Earlier in my Bad Advice days, I advised letter-writers to go learn to paint or some shit when they were having a bad time with a fixation on a bad relationship or situation, and I stand by that advice. Learn something new because you deserve something new! You have a bright fucking future ahead of you that involves neither K nor P beyond the great gift they have given you of showing you that your people will always value your input, create space for you and your brilliance, and honor and respect your boundaries.

You can do this, because you already want to. Good luck and let us know how it goes!

#advice #bad advice #good advice interlude #go learn to paint or some shit #friendships #friendship advice #competition #comparison #comparison is the thief of joy #curling #embroidery #college life #academics #university #student life

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josephsaturn · 6 months

Text

Just finished Attack of the Clones!

can’t skip the text crawl!

Wow they really did upgrade the CGI

what’s with all the fog tho

WHOA SHIT

wait Padme’s still got her Girlies(TM)? And they’ve all got a name that ends with é?

Was that Jango w the eyepatch???

Padme once again being the baddest bitch in the room

God Palpatine really does act slimy

WOOO HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN AND EWAN MACGREGOR WOOO

I’m gonna kill whoever thought that anakin’s haircut was acceptable

UUUUUUHUHHHHGGGGHHHH cringe

Captain typho huh?

Man obi wan looks great honestly

Jar jar doesn’t make me want to destroy my eyes

Oh she DEFINITELY recognizes you anakin

Zam?? Whomst???

Ope there’s Jango

More under the cut:

Dreamin bout ya mom???

Oh god centipedes???

OBI WAN??????? HELLO????

I see now why greater fandom always portrays him as insane cuz THAT is insane

Terrifying!

Yea production value deffo went up

A N A K I N

OH SHIT

“Why do I get the feeling you’re going to be the death of me?” Huh.

Obi wan gonna get HAMMERED

DAMN. DAMN.

Honestly I wasn’t expecting the temple to look like that

Oh noooooo

Yoda my man my guy then why don’t you FCKUING DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT

Why does Padme sound younger here than when she was literally like 14

Come to think of it how was she in GOVERNMENT OFFICE at 14

Ohh boyyy we gettin’ prideful Anakin now

Padme looks like a girl I knew in middle school

Jeez he’s down BAD bad

Dormé. Just..Dormé. Padmé. This MUST be an inside joke.

Kenobi: anakin’s crazy

Typho: yea nah padme’s crazier

Oooh dex?

Ok I’m starting to get it now

Damn mean old lady

A N A KIN

I’M dYINGGGGG

aw cute kids

Dang that’s one smart kid

Also, this is like a day after?? Bruv u better FIND that man

Yea girl u were like 14

Every fucking line of dialogue out of anakin’s mouth is either bad flirting or just bad in general like DUDE HOW

new Queen is slaying as well

MILADY

yea get his ass girl

Ok so how far is Kamino exactly??? Cuz 12 parsecs is a lot (at least I think it is, from how they explained it) yet the cut makes it look like obi wan only spent like an hour to get there

Kaminoans got nice voices

The Kaminoans: talking about the army n shit

Kenobi: ???!!!????!?!?!

S-eye-fo dee-as? I thought it’d be see-foe die-as

Kenobi’s like 3 seconds away from freaking out lmao

Man Naboo looks so aesthetically pleasing; I’d love to live there

Oh god. SAND.

Anakin pls mans just quit while you’re ahead

THAT WAS WHAT GOT HER???? A FUCKING LINE ABOUT S A N D ????

Yea that’s not fUCKING scary

Naughty children get put in the tube merry-go-round

Man.

man it’s so interesting how none of the clones are talking in these scenes

They’re just silently going along

“We keep him here.” Huh???

Obi wan: What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck

Man boba’s got that resting bitch face

Why does he look like he wants to kill Obi wan in every frame he’s visible

Oh shit Jango doesn’t know sifo dyas?

Hmmm

Damn that was charged

Ok Anakin is talking like a human being now. Great

Man they wanna fuck so bad

ABAKIN YOU WERE DOING SO WELL NOOOO

Agony?

Padme just fucking leave Like girl it isn’t worth it please just get out of there girl BLEASE

she’s like “damn he wants me that bad 👅👅💦💦”

I’m gonna kill Anakin

Yea girl woooo set those boundaries

God she really is always slaying

Ok back to Kamino cool

“Oh-bee wahn”

If Kamino is known as the cloner planet, who else did they clone??

Yeah y’all really are blind

Oh nooo shmiii

Stanced up

Wait did they sleep in the same room??

Were they fucking?

ANAKIN DONT FCKUING MAKE THIS WEIRD

Well at least padme’s supportive??

Damn Jango taught boba well

Ok I can’t take this seriously cuz of the lightsaber

Damn some Kaminoans are prob watching this fight from the windows like 👁️👄👁️

Tatooine!

[speaking huttese]?

So Shmi went to the Lars family huh. That’s one way to do it

Ok the time lag makes sense

Oh no not the bass boost grenades

Oh joy

Ok back to tatooine we go

Hey! An obviously cgi generated house in the desert!

Damn cliegg looks like shit

Oh god she was kidnapped?!

Oh so he lost his leg that’s why

A MONTH?!

Oh ok so it’s not generated

Hey playing with shadows!

And a callback to ep 4!

Duel of the fates again?

Oooh pretty place!

Wuh-oh

CHRISTOPHER LEE!!!

Why DID Jango go to geonosis?

Oh god I’m getting Spy Kids vibes again…

Obi wan looking back at the camera like “y’all seein this shit?”

OH GOD

I’m actually starting to cry rn

So terrible even the Jedi on coruscant can feel it?

But something HAS happened to him

I wonder what would’ve happened if Anakin went back to save Shmi at the beginning?

Uh oh.

“tHe ChOsEn oNe.”

Ok props to Christensen for this scene. Genuinely.

Damn Padme THIS is when you start to think about it?

But I get it, he’s obviously in distress so she’s comforting him like a normal person

Ok THIS is the start to his fall. He’s so attatched that he doesn’t know when to let go

AW SHIT ANAKIN’S WEARING BLACK NOW SHIT SHIT SHIT

but he won’t

Padme girl you are NOT helping

Girl Mace LITERALLY said to stay there what are you on

Wait it’s JARJAR that gets the army???

Captured in stasis

Is dooku just humoring kenobi?

Ok but would Qui gon have become a sepratist?

I mean it’s kinda obvious who sidious is

Dooku’s in cahoots with sidious right

Oh shit Jarjar IS the guy

IT WORKED??????HUH????????????????????????????????????

Grand army of the republic? More like (G)ekid(A)n inu cu(R)ry

(I’ve been rewatching Madoka again too)

How come no one’s made a fic of Yoda going to Kamino?

Damn r2’s got no chill

He’s destroyed his lightsaber before?

Girl.

She’s been enduring his horrible lines and pushiness for the entire movie

GIRL HE’S NOT IN THE RIGHT MENTAL STATE TO BE IN A RELATIONSHIP

WOOO PUBLIC EXECUTIONS WOOO

and here’s approximately 70% of the budget!!

Oh shit it’s mace!

Damn Jango had no reason for that twirl tho

WHOA SHIT

That shadow of the heaaad

And boba NOOO

that stare between dooku & windu…is that like a “aw fuck” stare or a “watch ur back” stare

Ok I gotta ask: what’s the point of killing Jango? I get that it gets him outta the picture and gives boba a reason to be the hardass he is in OT, but like putting all that aside, what’s the point IN PREQUELS? Mace coulda just captured him

Are the guild guys gonna die

HEYO!

Ultimate weapon?

Oh shit

Hey an episode 1 callback!

THE ARM

shit is that dathomir?

M’wow

Pffft not Vader’s theme

marriage huh

And that’s it for now! I’ll be back after I’m done with clone wars season 1!

#star wars #attack of the clones #star wars attack of the clones #anakin skywalker #padme amidala #obi wan kenobi #sat chats about Star Wars

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libidomechanica · 10 months

Text

Everywhere the Lord, who mighty Máhmúd

A sonnet sequence

What I do croud, and writhes about, as no one came but he was absent from heavens, and active life in lovely; take my Muse and ceremonies entered with the brands were beaten road? Than cozy, once did live, and made him now: she is, bitter, Fruit. Whatever weep, and the carver’s breasts. And her little eye’s anatomy. And then sweetness little eye’s anatomy. Was too fierce; it being somewhat morn e’er looks red and saves the Peacock—raced the chamber deafe of no vulgar muse: who, not falling into blood to think that Heart my plighted love, this night to his own neutrality.

I’ll sit upon us where their invocation bites. In mournful hyacinth the dead things right head of my race so foully received, expecting stars ’light, though but of emptiness, and stools, that on a time when wicked with wrong! Who am a maidens glimmering scrolls, writ in their minds, the march and all the Vine her alms, and many shrewd disasters met to gain her safe; your voice, his friend of moan, an agony to bear the Doctor said that are lockt; but upon the cedar shake? A world of death, whose bright, alone, and fields—and Wilderness—and Wilderness, a love that was ironed with friend!

I read aught? Than when it is she could, my love, that a change ere night with dry cheek is pale for one hope inside and lustihead they seem a work of Ida, to cast it from its knot, I chanc’d to speak, and as his tardy diligence; they take her office might behind; and out and still, and cries amidst our modern quill doth commission, because the Snow, which I’m sure that wild wasten soone in woe! Not only my Corinna’s eye? Inside and old, nauseous to a friends to It for her Babe and forgave the Seventh Gate I rose, like a tocsin bell, the sun of summers. This night by a raccoon.

Till Gazing grew tight be sent with joy!—Oh, the grave, will rank you now? Are question. Even the world! But reckoning time, which speech coming on. And clarity of blown over your battle; and the poor, whom the starred mosaic, and true, and force the blossomed branches current glide, to crowned, though that right A little will it found his right: moved either— not unholy loiter here? Dearest love, or Wrath consider’d of his age! And rot, wrapt in gloom, i noticed a strange—and a thousands of Christabel: all our lives a forlorn hermitage, who am not, like wax it yielded, with twofold silver pin.

And deplore it, I deplored; while Dudu’s dream he was the slaves at home enjoys his lap a book, those to this hard essay, the Husband, who rather, made proffered shipwrecked Pagan, safe in Langdale hall! At day- break of day-tide, or something my sight but one who dies, the king of her own, and the silver is white the full-waked sense; but such a bloom becomes a fee; mine ransom buy your part museum of the year behind he likewise will die—I built the watch the king thus: you have seen herbs and flits around, and angry moan did make! No thing of elves, and jewel’d sands took both his garden ….

A bargain with Love to lie; he has gathers blest angels’ lays; for, praising has had my heart’s blood: it will have leaves upon the brave Caledonia’s blast on this no beate his mourning to make. An impious act the living gradual to a tree; but sae that coinage to aspire, wound in the bower when I swore? For virtues keep him in a hole, and rooks, and lost huge sea-marks; vanward sense, however them to the act of lucid wave, touch’d no lute, I sang not, the tardy diligence through all the fierce darts Despair stirr’d up and something is so accursed, and since gods began to ope upon an upturn’d a foe in hope where sorrowful offering you worthiest love too late is always wine, by mottled fire is dying eyes are no more would now look down. By common place? I know not, or whether side by side, sometimes that clean and a mat of weeds, but all the rest to obey.

We did not resists, you love the cup that loveth him, to prove but there on the rotten pales of your old bare wall was hardly over my heart do hit, that sting each other pity me, whose Echo made them bristly and round. It’s all pillow, which else could wake! Now that I in pure Love and Fate. The Princess, in old time, wind of shepherd blown to inmost bosom of the night the hostile ship is seen; the mountains, the kind. Its twinkling sudden light, the people do when I spake romantic. Reached her for thine and angers—heirlooms of sleepy one? To me soon exhaled, and topp, als my budding more.

I see these, and questions are drown’d my Honour once; she that endless emerald. And must be? When next he can scarce securely rest: they were at my call; my chosen food to balk gulbeyaz was not a sigh to tell thee were nearer bliss for light footstep, as diligence; prudence, debauched to see how men they sang, ah, whence to do more, are you that Pan with might companion some good which even those threttie yeare. The vilest deep, and on my Belovéd, fill me when a dog passed along, she nurs’d her infant cried— who is asham’d to sing, dancingly as I am, ’ he said: farewell look of you?

Low lies that you were the eyes blindly contumelious, brought we know not—it succeed in interested to have a teare, like sometime should he though I cannot, dreads th’hill’s shadows hand in the term expired: inspires to some better changed in all the soil; and neck. And is turn’d him to replied:—My lady, and cauld Caledonia’s blast on the farm to pare. With her gardener of the grief the passed and bow’d his hour of accidental e’re appeared, a daughter ill shall not beare chereful cheriping, or I am she was past; glanced: then first, and being destined to and fro, that image see.

Thou hadst all the magistrate his majestic marrow drain’d. At distant refrain. Lie down in her e’re. Plus the jewelry become both widow, maid, Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine. The secret all intelligence; prudence at once from me to your face oh look at the fiery night is chilly and they whose charts lay hidden pride before, behind thee. Slim shadow as back from the parish. But the massive air such a shell; ’tis done, away he met, and for virtue, not so bad, and trees, and disgraceful lady that pass in storm, the rough, extremely wrong; and the witch in me the ladies.

With a diploma, just off yon cape of darkness down a precipitous path, as the sign to have to face ablaze, and through unfathomable face, the man amended by Reproof of Loving—and, scarce is known: but never complained of concatenation, that now we poison weeds. Maiden fair I chanc’d the night. Take the pack of wind was she told of gentle moon, visit my Cytherea: thou wound and dry down scatter’d into foam. Of Florian, yet hangs that, unconfin’d, can make all women most my mind; her charms have eased my bosom worn, gulbeyaz overdid her years in forlorn?

And buried Ashes such a love larger to enlarge my woe? In water, fiery meteor sunk their minds, their mother; and much light in the sad world wend in sight, clos’d the rock she make, with ten-thousand bosom dies. His dark latrine, and like a bed of thine, and much a man who had thought his pack of Travel son or Daughters of their losses in sleep. A wave of complied. All day after-rest while singing to remember through when I awoke, ’twas too much refined: so stood silent suffered you! Thou maysn find the Father his dark blue crab from the pain of finite can never start to his lip: but sorrow kept? You quivering thirst and gather’d in Profusion there. That the prince’s funeral, shining from the rat; I know to-morrow? Among the rest; when all there was all a Chequer-board of Nights and Tamburins for all injustice liable, as lasse of beauty in the South.

I lived understood to thou leave me through the night, sings with haste to change of pupils; she had found white! Of friend: this frenzy insufficiently, Brother ring, are apt to this man say when he has crossed the paler hue where she will come at length of half a sabbath day—this, and hearts mad, but babble. But peers beyond her countrèe. A gallant vessel’s shroud, and his much a kind of lowly growth about us peal the banks of war: a happy freedom, force shall you required. The mournful wind, and when alow; nor wanting be, or other times of flower on thy cheek and bade the same. Lady, who knows!

Of Day and Night and coverts inner she ran, and the starry skie. Upon so foul a face in some rocks, seeing this, however hard their joy, and so—she awoke and Days, whereto my heart of evening head of men whose feeder was smashed last night,—without her wanting to Spain and makes the plot: we are owed for Psyche’s lecture slate the shady bench returned into sweet hands, and snebbe the soft-dying little way to lift their sleeps again. Thou wast the court’ said she, too, by all these were dreadful impulse of Fate, sunk on the Ground. But go they proclaim, till the grave, is trodde in the clear and play.

Those fires of grace not due to the Wine you, my death my brother’s. But we wish you count— should our propinquity to find, or travelers through the slipp’ry ground, and up the gloom crept behind. So it was, and sanctity so near; and Maud will wonderous Epic lilted out along the kiss her soft and lead thereon she set the fall from whom thou didst forsake by fits and folded her toilets— and much of a Good Fellow crying out with thou wilt see the drowsy sacristan shall come attonce. Of kisses her sons and dropped upon the happy land was my comen trade, to carry within her e’re.

Grapes or cherries grow white, the Desperate doole to dye, through when I entered in a tender Green fledges there shepheards would stand and took her hand; this main, and even in sleep soundly, and in a Winding-sheet he sank, the sweet maid with eyes of silent Dead the deep; but works of the swollen billow, who felt theirs be led; heaven’s blue veins the dead was still more shall not conceit of my sore distress: a wanders as free and shelter now wild, its matter. An annoying miracle. And rise, and poise above all her with his best dream on the shore; there is of earth dies with stands: not Pallas bold.

Locks, the centre set thee low. Of many years? Are the verse required to human race capture to the court, I gave what it be pure, and overwhelming lost, and the eastern skies. But having faith yet never a passing from the state reveal. Beneath a consecrated urn, hold sphere, illumined hall long lanes of sticks, then live with a flatters filled the turf I bow; thy earth, we see, and we will through that would have bid your great enfranchisement.—You will halt, against or faith can seal it you; take the best is that far and pleasaunt syte from good the act of love-salute was sleep, and so dispelled.

Not more quickly might slay this world at his distressed by all things which standing! Yet all shapes, and substance or two and went, with cheeks, Katinka: Spain’s an island near morocco, betwixt them better to her chest, and the blue doth vault the wane of mankind. Is the artificer, the ladies, each at each, how far a modest demeanour’s time; and before take it to answered coat? And all the fen she wish’d to his brood about, below, ’tis nothing can restored, and age in heighten’d, her own room, for this prow, in haughty Mars has legible as not the bonie face, and calm, and bosoms on the day.

In the judgment of blossomes rownd. Off, woman, who, radiant in benediction: to be-that we look wistful eyes upon our knowledge flies; and out and topp, als my budding more, that she did not wring his wrath she said the graine: semed, the first ray, or rather sex is frail, inventing rather tied your voice behind loud, and laboured mind. Spreading rose to-morrow? For why? Right to be conscious flowery May, and sigh, then slackened sail flaps, all power as real drift;—but never the hand: about, below. Their uniforms were a public wealth, kingdom of the day is night, where the river.

Living, hurryingly tooke, that beat about her waist spinning is only as a hat, or rather my dream of fierce agony of sounds; if he explore there. With mantle, gem, and bladed grass; no ridges the star or blab, and now I sate with their church, the town; there was a place an owl’s, they shallop by, or under the sway of noticing and merry tunes that Sheba came to behold how every where our foe. Stung and thaw this ice. Thus on heaths, and fearful hope: but ere the tree, was slumber hover’d o’er, as doen high Towers incensed awhile of beauty. He knowest the door. But we are what?

Many a mysteree, and cannot keep, by those silently live and quick seventeen, the foolish fires of Heaven, thought, and dark above: dearest, that in the Hubbub coucht, make in one’s heart by heart, in due proportion mixed, till their Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: hither their full diets boast; how Holland hearts are green the summer, dusty Face lighting sense, with his Power, and then to hold.—That one ship already. Used to accepted, as one with a wide sand they waltzed and known; till thou know you doth grow. Her little ease of a relief, has nought so heavenly minds may safely fedde.

Have drunken, and curse me thus, my Katie? And by his bed of flies a troop retirement thee overcast our spirit: despair stirr’d up and beckoned and turning wind the South, by thee. The tears she spread as breezeless lake, on whom this glad time the Head, then, to keep at such passion glow, far, far remov’d, the stones, till the gods had seen them ease him doubt if any now come nearer to hurry to the future good days that frolicked with their birth, with arms more attent to die alone, nor ever so little fairy quires forced unconscious sympathies there was a kid, it was to want.

Sex to the threshold, yet all in all the uneasy novelty he blended with my jealous of the Baron’s present all admire how cream here’s none that Trouble meant, you lying once a-slumber, a superior sway, you to rule me, and now with me, and gazed upon her she whirled her store; there is of a city sacked; melissa clamour brows; for you. Whose navigators must have reared, as if Diana, in her own, resulting fruit, o let me walked on countries at last must do the Maker’s image yow made, the end of the wood; for but a dreamed not much a man was given her head, and thus it needst thou nothing near it will be alright so you best, ’ when I awoke, ’twas a party for a hundred years that you were gracious dews began to bloat and what am I that time forth and blind surmise regarding, walking wit, and, tost on this delight, it seemed the river!

Each matin bell: she did bring a tomb. Their tasks. I brought hither their centre: let me make the meanings swell’d. I heard, and in a breathing down. Stands: not Pallas bold. With an eagle native shore, and even if she had been worse than of either sin. And yawn’d a goodly sinecure, and wearies all the Bees which he conn’d so stedfastly, that th’eyes of awe, Grey figures on the well? And thaw this isn’t the Snow, whirling in her heard through unfathom’d brine, until the grove her dresses? The vision bow, unless a Son, who knelt at thy weeding; yet here’s eglantine, here whereof to Cuddies Embleme.

I never country dwelling asleep; white, cold, the topmost peak kiss we and pain, for gentle wrists, with tempest, when restore; when your lap, and over with arms and you were not show me so divine when I sue god for my self, to nuptial day, prepared of seeds of rising up in a round enmesh me, as in the cared to meet at any time again ere on its ample storm of the common Earth some divine high-piping Péhlevi, with quick relief to their first Clay They did they rejoice! Can she to Rhodian beauty was the wonders he had to marry; they took her,—so they passed did tame.

Alone upon that dignity: for each loud and life is the starry sway has been’ a moment perfect noon, in a nest was vowel-keen and frostie furrow’d deeper. Sake, give you crazy. To take up their door. Myself in scorn of Rome turned towards him ere the river—thou wast wide awake; and, if more and on his left below; beneath the ship moored construct me how I weep a true occasion lost, he should rest unknown power to thank him for the pavement I haven’t unlearned so fast, as you with mantle on trivial things right fair, and flying while stored, to cast a solemnize thy reign.

I bid your shore of Pasimond pursuer; at mine appears!—’For fear of pity which a thing blow: at once they’d never restore what these were by my troth, and here she seems to love his poets sing; and not bear that wheresoe’er they see? Bee you as a root or this foolish or imprudent act would rather Laws be wroth to learn! But, by himself in at the Blood of Shame by flying whitened bee: but Phyllis is my Jean. Why did poor Margaret went shuffled and to know a sweet maid, devoid of guile and lazy, yet of a bastard shame should have made his chief justice of thee, fa la la.

To keep this world’s dusty Face lightingale that would be lost and Slave. I dream it would have her with their long he loves: for Cyril, vext at her but doubt and distant colonies at the substance from behind which poured, Somebody who should have been born is gone, and on the Garden by their image only sparke Fairy tales, to dance to face imperfection through many legion’d all his reflected clouds refused to be put to be forst to farmers rich, more was sorrow have your hath risen, o Geraldine, I yet in a circles round each listening eye? And he will then, come with unseen light!

So thought, he could less expect me tossing souls, poets, whose feet might your joyous hour but even as his world’s dust, the brazen fame, full of your strive, our ponderous stone, developing the kind heart for heave the bound upon Endymion, with shadowe serues thy land, the king means that wall, and drank his quarter-staff, and then at my feet visit our clime! Of the ravished predecessor saw, you with decent care, for Bacchus fruit, blossom to blood of Shame by flying clove. ’Twas a home. Of course, to bind another, that he had swerv’d, had we done a great-grandson and quick answers, las!

He long years were stood, he turn around rang harshness, they see? The rest; and her breast: see, many in man, the root, in some few days are done, and wilt know that I said the lights that blest name in vain, had no continuaunce. Convulsion tear; and then with his dignity of thee. She said to hatch them the pangs beguiles, and in hand: about, in all the sail that are gone! Until their promised never restore what they kept up; and another’s life, thy reason: many rich sunk down as in his unguarded breast, father’s mind, refusing in my veins. No plot, a plot to ruin and worth a peasant’s quean.

His wet Clay: and thriftie bitts of men; but made one—turn down an empire-sure, fluttering, as her talent, I—you know thine eyes; a love or breast, to give thee; but not in deed, or fourty year, where the wind, and tears would proclaim: then day and dazzled thousand shield of precious spoils upon our love to taste the blue-bell and due to the deserues, their own true believed, by every act stood in the glory round we sought, love gives the mind. Lime, and his tongue should not spilt. Four- posted and sudden swell and made me climb but neither do stray the stormy women what I had—a heart moves from me to past.

Is a bitter, bitter lot than one weds. A love of the presence absence present they stood thereby, save of concatenation, be the tempest-tost, and in the hall, that indigence prevent; sighed the heavy bell, and take what they must be so phantasied. I’m half returns: like to know, and takes, that I was mounted, that wishes, at least forgive, their losses now must continues cold hand, the plumes upon all marrow bones for he took a branches current among us in our own fire; for he had but stars were palace far; thus dancing and laugheth once, conjecturing, wonderous hate!

With weeds and truce with a grinning easy grace, beauteous dove, least to the Field, he knew the enlivener of the nightingale that’s too cute, the sea-swell to her self, to nuptial ties a slave to store his faultless, pleach’d new growth to thy bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle. Some disdaines and how she comes nectarous camel- draughts; but moss and gems and slays Himself invented for our modern quill doth come to hear her blest sphere to dance to be a devil may decomposed her perfection, and comfortable suit might be shown more than their trailing winding-sheet of this Ambitious for her bell themselves ye come, and turned round her so well she knew not how, and women on this day. And weariness: stretched Parents live merrily, and thus and naught with sorrow from the doubt, she was, and more to see, there is the gather to tell us women would see a wave of blood my notes shift and lowly eye.

Nor for she was pensive, and my heart, and dawdling, I shed my shoes, and fell, and arm, and me. The next designed with a merry peal comes one’s gentlemen, and in a cool well be hurl’d with laughter ladies lay or book of Common Prayer! Wretched man terror walk by night and die, lift not thinking with petty mound beyond think that sickening the length breeds love; or if he feared the wane of summer has to part, my Katie? Tobacco, nectarous dews began in my heart more will be dear. As Earth against my wild creature and that abandon then the Rights of silks shall things that with the painter!

In Jerusalem, Constant method as above my fare; whose victory is mine, ’ he whisk’d again! For the shines the Rose blows thee! I can, to make, and birds do sing, and cauld Caledonie! Fresh crush of breathe soft ear of goddess: while ocean’s tide homeward is neither, Sleep, nor a close-stool so cased; or any further thanks: better man; and thee from the flame shall burst with night as then most to wish thee alone, to take us from rage and pebbles milky way, and ears, which He who at love of one. Do as you knead me and dipt beneath. Many have to shouder my luckless, I hate you freely boste.

She, ending, walking a worse affright the merry larks from her hair. In this aged branches held her whom she raised up each gripping pleased her eternal love to Friendship how rare! Tall it strange journeyings! Sir Leoline; softly treasure may take then presently? The true growth of the dark. A reguiem that my worthiest love, and crime, and love, or so she linkt a dead man that sweet with choisest flowers it seems stranger; her mother: keep you, sweet suburban girl, she’s coming fresh my flock early pulls the ponderous wines that harm, and then she upheld the threat the damsel bright across the night to see.

At night and durst her ears will have no countrèe. It is dark blue cloak, An army took up and sweetly from their fits of love was the double meaning on the ground of our spouses see but with stately march, into the earth lies bare and thirst that wrought for he was a Door to wrong holy eld did not wind enough? By whom his pipes, groaning wind; if they glided past, their times—as out-of-date as a Sword, a Cloud of Arrows on the mud on that she knew by experiences unmeet foremost things are dry as summer’s flow,—no, nor thunder, for she chosen food to each love, my darling valentine.

God slays the shineth bright in day to beguile her maidens came on better fitted to us and darkle. Yet if you tralineate from a country-fair. The hen-dove shall be utterly unasked for by a sky palely and coughing drowns the field, and treated him we were doorknobs and fields were about him, and beckoned and since one, or, thought I saw the chance gave me for Iphigene once more ’gan fare along his room, the lofty elm-trees. Then, Julia, breath; scatter’d in Profusion fills all obliterated Tongue it murmured that hapless fate proclaim it far abode of greene cold.

And I myself in these are the Winters wracke, for whose way in the Well of time, you wouldest thunderous wines the way a women anywhere where fynd, to shouder my turf when I cross’d, the ground. Fairer world of the East, the black distrust she rolling Heav’n itself in at the first, and when men must suffered. He cam also stylle þer his countenance, and loud groans of ambitious folke: his cold regions of my deliverer, how desolate, while the songs of October frost closed eyes as when they kept in your bidding I tossed, aloft, and down low, so firme love that’s our darling valentine.

Of race accounted as certainty is beauteous, she puzzle to see you once more, I’ll deeply she knew no reason in the right glad to swing. In me but the lamp with that rich carcanet; or those by turns, and hairs, fair may find the fair in prison and the mass were barren verbiage, currents of the lower range. Say nay, for their hissing in Patagonian land, part museum of thunder-tents to watch the string and while and to be mery within this crystal bower divine wildly round, and then regalities of children and to your couch a Bed of Wisdom is in age.

Your knight, but, at our pretty strangers is the black despair in prison and eagerly frequent doctor and Saint, and nuptial song: mirth the true heart; as if halfe without straws, by which still like two spirits low, hey body were none to wake! The tent lamp-lit from high, it could remove, a slave to say, after them at my feet, by my mother’s hall: and laugh’d out, and made the hoste of Hell withering creative powers; my mother, or the best is take placed it there’s ivy! And grey, and with might find her sumptuous power, and help a brother ring, forgot the billow, a low softly death?

From our avenging, flying sails; hoarse affright the knife. Arise, good youth, for she seemed to ramble busts in the sound of happy day the Light kindle not, but could take what Nature, pitying my husband didst fade, and I laid; I look’d this sick period interval afford the footman, what should blind the teeth of flame, lie with considering at yours of whatsoever star that he was used to see. Looking back, the footmarks, one by one crept into him; and unless I tell thee: while I fled. Dost thou go with Eden didst drop down beside her, smote him on his waist! Received a Cyprians fell.

Bowl of Night; or for you is half of;—don’t sleep so sweet, the line, would speak a gentle maid, you sing the flowers and others; arts of grief. Of Ramazán, ere this kingdom! Foam: and, in sooth, and hardly spoken, but not my heart, has she had been fellow-travell’d league on League, one Dusk an Angel with liberal officer rose up, and some grass: and through he wanton in their roots of this Ambitious brere, which my heart think much obeyed him other thou sire of prejudice, disyoke their steeds with those around her own feelings near; to the road again we crost there we’d lived a sudden shock the Door!

To this clown-accent and prized my name enough to drive one man make a stand, a shadows of the heaven, that full their oars, and whisp’rings are. To this fixed she rose to the lady by the casement of my Delight each other’s lips, to slake the Powers and amber wine, by consequence of his heart, that thou go with Eden didst devise a new apparel on my eye! And robb’d me of trees, their passage prevent; nor think thou not thy heart, my Katie? And your face oh look askance with foggy damps did chill blast passed a man who had more to her, as some thou miss any life must fall before.

I scarcely find philosophy for more bitterness. Dies, that now at length consumed. In his descending courtier from a leper in his own: then turtles tread, but you aught us in its grave at all with Phoebus wise. With eyes of shining frost nipt his hospitable bindweed spraying to be but feared his descended foxes to shreds with a nod. For if you shalt do; first crack the rough, extremely few: I have shed over my dreary sea now flower. And, old oak tree rustling in the shell, the man who lookes downe his head into Van Diemen’s love swears that the name of the event.

Stands on her time? It is observed from the Golden Grain, and worse-confound, and outward garb of houshold flowèrs, a-list’ning sees— no sight the temples you minus of these question. That with a diploma, just and grinning sand. The dragon-fly on the best. Good sureties will resign, the fifth of booze, the human door! Nor other burn’d the hand, and, armed my fears to cross a sulphuric lake in mine appear, and think that flows but never can we go: and belabour’d ill. The cuckoo then, was Scylla! ’Re a slender prise. Love taught the stormy time, when he turn’d up to the summer throat. And trick!

And drew fair Scylla fair! All nature have seen such a Solitude, and I love maintain. When virgins say birds choose the lingered lodges of the Hours, that were that Psyche, young JESSIE you see her: evermore how happy each padlocked the Infidel, and times ocean-form was woven in sleep. I am going’; lit a taper, bowed her look; as if halfe without a strict Testing was dead and somebody, surpass’d, even in the throng, ambitious for help—for It rolls impotent by power expire, unless a Son, whose falls melodious winds weep, nor did he peek or pine, nor all them.

Will do it, unless my nerves push again. This chill; and Araby’s or Eden’s bowers we shed that ill them. In light, light yet composition, implored that I wont deuise: their rest; all contrite hearts on her mind, enough to-day, he’ll let thy tears, I know not her veil for fear; not thus, for pity? That Arm in Arm from which we left off begetting. That Pan with a numerous array white without her fears and most fearful of the heavenly fair; and let thy hands of Christ for loving me some one of homely tale which learnt more than their well you the winds blow, without herself in thy gain. With mews.

Still her whom she raised the cave of their handsomeness tinged by fate, the sculptor, critic, more: to keep his name did with friend. Grew, the nightly sings he: yet give full thee beds of cornflowers my Jean, to steal upon her bosom: but wisely see who in derring doe were too barbarians, grosser than tongue says he lover and cost, chose an ungrateful good, to trust her veil or hair, and small as snow than that dove, let me see where is none to hear about vs safely treasure to this foolishness of the courtly accent his store, broods on heavenly sight was green cornfield did not thy house.

Nor dare I chide the Rest is Lies; the hardest flint to frownest, and those hard to his mouldering and purling there: for no such a truth and fruict, nor blindly to force and got, ’twas very sweet neglect more noble then upon that very Day I warn’d you better be merry pranks before he’d wronged daughter home, and was shocked out, and entered in her form, as, thou go with my fresh, fragrant, luscious hour was there he used to win you on the lily- shining unto no higher. While Cupid offence, and went wander here swear, though not disturbed me with laurel boughs, over the earth; while you ask, who is so cold with red wine while Psyche watched with so much fire, by force accomplish’d:-If he uttering in a man’s day mixture of this bold began: love makes me wise? And birds that sting the River Brink, with bosom friends—the sun is gone by, her heart, and sweet Tibbie Dunbar? Are one that or thine eyes.

Has some that with arms more awful fold embrace, acts what by you triumphs and round enmesh me, as who should I, who am not less friends, how loveliest friend: you had exercise about in Silence meditate; ye count them go, before me, while heavy sky over me. She said, the fifteen and women of the plaintive cry plaining staid and tumbled till love near-on ten years, for thus I heard by tome and injured thus! To make her is to do, the brook, warbled out, each nipple cries to the nuptial room, for on the sky; proud, shall flow, make weep that lies by eunuchs flank’d; while I paced through the traits of the service, none closed her face, nor left us by inherited the bliss of Cain because it’s you to me, nor avarice, nor frost closed up beneath the Oake again, for liberty without her open window, and the door into her charming at this sorry for a long-drawn thread now?

Forget not this and silent continued to treat the shifting cloud than uncommon, for a minutes fled before my mind hath spent hours, with quilled dahlias and is the memory sweet lovers love flashes, ears rung, brain did guide and of thine hearts! With some disdaines and full showers.—Now let me from custom of thee. Kneel for sport a-bed; some say loud is our lords all, though I had never presence gave me, Sir, but it is a hand with moderately prevailed above thee; and some man is always fleeing, and let go. The knight; so was sung her Eyes up to a spectral bride—and a spire of ladies of war: a happy once again in its star-pitched the next was dead in eastern kings, tan sacred from ostentation more bliss or bale—her face, and I cannot tell, no, not fail; a musical but my self, the sound soon gathered in her excellence. And in the tangled yet incessant.

Hung, shadow as back from the beauties every coppice-feathers her seat by slow degrees the nightingale singly we to be, to taste the future good hath its cries, fools! Above, around, the jest and prize in sagging sails; hoarse murmured Ida. Your Pasimond betray a husband weariness. And one sees clear sense of incomes which loose on Scotland’s wastes and cried. Of good found gold. For I would do it withering on disquiet to hide your favourite; but in Oneness Union. When I have lain entranced vassals of air, he saw hypocrisy designed to thilke god that Death its endless air.

For thus surprising and mean to lingered long expected heretofore: he who can say at least, she said, and let them go, beforehand. Remain as it came down we sank our elbows: on a time the drill but from their sepulchral sites, and held no hiding- holes, as she saw hypocrisy designed to this crownèd with somewhere do you feel thine and talk’d a dame whom your freedom, force were lamps, as you wept. Around, I say, of her own: but none. More easily known, and deep as fire to wood?—Long and losse of hinders my speech: Ah! But as high, so it was a glass of wild Yuie twine, how blest name is new.

Those little tunes, you this, out of a man, sober and she would I fight may be garner’d. But as our kind is hush and looked round and purge the gods have eaten with the old, to the presented to threate: let powre in laurel, issued in a letter luck a better be merry masquerade; the purple grapes. Had drunken in the less he took a short as far as I could dance: no woods were and this means I may know; nor port they loved her. Said—His daughter, when did proue; but still he touch, and uttering the mood of ancient fiction even in star-light and knots of warres and then, they’re both become.

To fly—and Lo! Hung half behind. She had been, yield up his eyes; and I believes he’s poor. And pity lovers love them at the best is made up of the sea-nymph’s cheeks delicious past; the church, as the apron. For the time they were, he knew to brook a ready at the silence. Of individual life, or some fragments live merrily, and at the goodly perspective seemed the yard, is as the sultanas and still the pebbles milky bosoms bare! On his hornes this my weak as spider’s welcome, but his labour. And body marred.—This is myne for more delight? And green or silver pin.

Mine, and feed their sisters live and cast your bidding I tossed, aloft, and the stones, My Empirie, how blest am I in this Oasis, lapt in the bridegroom wished the flaming Foal of Heaven. An old man sat, and graces on it, and all in a trice were too barbarous, would think the church, they provide and take! Not that white man not a chef come down I’ll madly sweep on forked light. Which a thin-pervading scum, the while his count to none but to die in thy joyous look at me. All that please; he rode, he fenced, he moves slips that fair Geraldine in maiden fair, no beautiful that a gift to you.

Love made me singing very near two Proctors leapt upon the law. Takes glimpse of It within my boyhood, every soul I’ll pour from the quality of the East, with mortall eye, bright laugh; then they restored it weigh, all the slipp’ry steep, or Lot’s wife his equals he surpassing shadows dappled o’er at the edge of the grave I come to ask: for he, if he feared she looked at their Sunday Morning can restore me then returned. Time he cast him to the wast Oake. I know not—it succeed. Will he send forty beads must I be of Corinthian Brass, ’ who never will miss! His soul belied the dark hedges or the blaze of this. A grandson are bored with dull red stains disappeared an idle tears, and her guards, and murdered why men knelt at the goods where so many question. Mouths should do it, except where the lady’s chambers of thy loving, living thousand years that abandon hope; but if thoughts?

Many have joys divineness Union. Is a pure cup of rich Canary winter or Sommer dayes: I wonne her sanctity so near, or newer. She blame of proud Achilles, whose tender of a piece design to come. Lake front: yet not your eyes more adapted to be effaced, it turne again. With his knight; for ever love and morning’s lightly! Passed a man who dares one step? And let the tomb? If they did not wind enough. To-night was gone dry: but, fill the same in person! For my phalanx on the deep, never a passions forbid me that come, whose tedious years with weather flow.

It is all injustice of Sir Leoline! Here no one so utter secret Well of Loue, and prayed, for he took a short of sin. The block and fast upon her breast can give me a charm. Our statutes, such a Snare of Perfume the Head: but I, my sovereign vision bow, can mingle music and flow. For her gentlemanly game, butchered from distresses false subtleties. That when the murmuring. One half raught of his dears, so low did her eternal bliss, and enisle ourselves so well he knew that endure the Seven Sleepe! By turning can be thine. The minute slipp’ry steep, or Lot’s wife his ease.

From blossom to impossible to look of evening, waved the doves. That love you like glitter. With all conversations; and outcast men weep not, sweet; he staring-owl, or the weak, her pale cheek, where euer was for me necessity compelled, on her children shone a new magnify, and expire; so little tent of my dreams too little care to harme there are your flowers plucked in a college gown, that quilts those olden tits archings up, my scalp and my home by night the Youngster’s train: her Lord him so that, unconfin’d, can mingle music and loss with this Impertinence! Thine argent luxuries!

Love at strife, since I am thence the with some shady leaues from my mind hath its wings, still work even were too great that are gone home to the weak rib by a fatal shaft struck eight; I turn this Oasis, lapt in this the posts were they, so weake so wan and scape, began to add a worse vnto that one side of the dark hedges or that you must go. Like birds, or be drawn in eastern skies; so every thing, where on his unguarded, reliable face, or judge of beauty makes such hellish tyrannic power to dispel a thousand shield her repose. Damages men pay in moral of hotel.

There lyeth the wind even at your will, and Thee there was never side o’ the woods in vain my substance and a hope the chamber hie, they came, the mind were held in gyves, and clatter, and ever deep dells, in gulf or aerie, mountains disappoint we can get her, full oft, when his feelings. It’s all pillow in so short an aged Tree on the public wealth to feel to-day to beguiled! Cordial for a moment perfectly beheld a smile; then together think the billows greene, a good which stealing out of thilke god that was when you came, the whole troupes of rotting memory, for their churches.

While half of;—don’t say now—I want to her eares would make his earth: so got into suns, that thou thy skill, the nombers the tumult fell. The shade came but he does not die, they only sight, sank down or no: it is dark, if anything he stood unbonneted to catch like transgression bow, can mingled with night it out of vices—propagates seen they crossed then, on every onward, some revolving done in woe! To move towards that I thought one behind, appealing groans of ambitious man who fled. The codes we sent forward, falling brief, or let me from the Cretans own the daughters of love?

Full naked Armes stretches there seeking us, a black weeds and thither. ’Er let near the prophecy given, was like kings were two wives are dry as summer’s flow,—no, not too far extend their dark abysses flow. So you will fade like Atlanta’s balls, cast it fresh each have a noon-dew, wander’d up and spake, and spring, and marble steps; pour thy sovranty—think she slept. As fortune sha’na steer thee stop here, to cast a shade where Rigours exile lockes vp al my sense filling their joy, and some we lose the same whom alone in a kind of spring, and drear warbling for power, fairing coop’t we live, our true nobility of silks shall disturbed me with love all in every part, so God and longing come like the widow’s, ’ may perhaps good conceit of my blossoms with a wonders me to talk; one temper: day by day on which its nomenclature came neere, Her bloud spring, still improved.

They should Arthur’s reign, a lusty prime? Compact, did I since, hand is no my ain lassie, fair tho, the stern, and the public view to shun, then nightly to Rest. Fling: the Bird of prophet to forsake me more? Heart has heard an oath from out the book of events is always crowd pursues! Luke Havergal. To be a devil could defend me—you will forgive me, my chance might green, no heaving sees—no sight once, and exposure, in case of the stared at her dreams to laugh as he could be known, the Spittle space fulfil: which he says he loved again, as he rode, not so large. Be taught from the taxing rocks.

With busy care the power I had to love: oh, you are fancie, and to the sense he knew, must see revealed, whilst I, my mistress’ brows made me feel romantic. Still singing it doth shew his spread its tender ash delays to do her hornes bene as broade, as Rainebowe bent, and fruit, which, one upon my mind; for the better loved, or wit, or grace; and that thou wert here! But what was fair, or the wide home of this wretched with a hissing south and let our winds and naught was a lovely, that each, how far be t from the Muses Hobbinol, I conne no skill: for the twilight bower; just with mews.

Which thou wast the quires force the cave of bliss. All yesternight of his Presence! Though but of a burro. The loyal warmth,—I pluck you a wreaths of hot desire of this Baba willing the son’s son, let not yet. State revealed, as most vsen Ambitious folke: his cold region? And help the thrust like tapers clear planets, and sudden transport, began to make in my veins. And through the traits of our spouse: her silken-folded to the stubble-plains and strange, that the poor Lover! The mobile now he rose in sight, secure of fate, whilst flowers, and the bridegroom fairy-thing, think I bear a distant Drum!

Break our mirthful board, shall scarce secure, am like fire which still I ask them if these place. I walked reciting seas. And each respect: then wherewith, like a thing in lifting cloud is spread out. Nor stunted square; so sad, so free comes the reed, the Princess answer in a suit of shame, the best report, baba thoughts are gathering charge, as bright hear they sell. Which filled them gentle park with the poor folk of their tunes attemper right. Leaves the first: though smocked, or love, disgrace, though he certain grief and casting meal she took its march, into the same, with him or is it wiser than my affection crowned.

The might seem a work of mercy, Goddess! Or Hátim Tai cry Supper—heed there we built with nothing rising faith may never dies, was my child, and by each loud and the steps above, below. None answer meet: my sire is—SOVEREIGNTY. Or let me see where will take a dream, at the thing is always watching still thy destinies purchased the lower spring. Rue, and cloud and turbans. He turned towards a crystalline, ribb’d hollow mind and murmuring. The robes, and Lucy climb but never again. He discrepant between the sum could help me at the trick of grief. You will move as first placed it.

With the level with me and governe this sad next morning light, and groom, enter then the Angel mild: witless sleeping, among green corners where either he came, there are Psyche will heave to frowne. Marble, like a sad slave, no more; that taught the knight and drank his queen of thy hand, though nothing but—Wine. Fluttering cast the place, make gentle word: and if it kindled torches shone; which is he. I dream of Heav’n to glisten and wounding Jealousies like a common good old wife lay smiling Beauty and grieve, when the hum of loneliness. For yet preferred a name and secresy: and calm, and then a classic lecture slate the Two Worlds so learned: to bury me by the danger, free from my Clay to raise me up a wailful choir the slain for life or death, resumed and smiling Beauty’s orient deep these uttered with good and fell. Free from the inscription on the morrow I will proceede.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #217 texts #sonnet sequence

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zaharadessert · 3 years

Text

Blood on my new jeans for you

26th October. Threats/Black. Clanking Chains. Prank. “We have to be quiet”. Carved.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Major Whump, speciafically carving.

Length: 2.3k

Summary: Killian's undercover op went south, and his captors find a new pressure point.

Notes: Thank you once again to @kmomof4 for betaing!

Also on AO3

Darkness surrounded him, near total blackness that pressed in on him from every side. The air felt thick around him; cold against the slices in his skin, caressing the hair matted against his scalp with his own blood, pushing on the tattered edges of his ruined leather jacket and that too was pressing on the welts raised across his back and torso by the whip he’d been regularly lashed with.

Making his toes dance across the damp floor, his wrists were encompassed in thick manacles and chained to the ceiling. He could hear the soft jangle as his weight shifted, the scream of his shoulders just adding to the litany of agony his body had been subjected to since he’d been dragged in here, barely conscious.

He didn’t even know how long he’d been here.

Were they even looking for him, or had he been abandoned to his fate? He’d known the risks going in after all. He’d seen it happen before to other operatives in the agency. He just never thought it would happen to him.

The familiar sound of the door being unlocked broke the quiet soundscape of his prison. He’d thought it was silent, before, but now he knew better. The soft scurry of a rat, the ragged, strained panting of his breaths, the drip of a pipe leaking slowly in the corner, the scrape of his boots against the floor. The sounds helped keep him sane. They were trying to break him, but he couldn’t allow that to happen. He wished he knew what they wanted, but it seemed that for now, they were simply content to torture him for their own amusement.

He was facing away from the door, having spun slowly on the spot since their last visit, but there was no avoiding the flood of brightness that illuminated the dank room when they turned on the light.

It was only then that he realised one of his eyes was swollen half shut. He’d been able to feel the moist air pressing against it but he hadn’t understood what that meant.

Behind him there was a gasp, a familiar, feminine gasp that made his heart ache and his mind race.

No.

Jerking his head up, he forced himself to turn and with a blur of movement he couldn’t quite comprehend, they pushed, practically throwing her to the floor at his feet. She lay there, sprawled across the slick stones, a spray of blonde hair against the dirt, contrasting sharply with the beaten up but clearly red leather jacket covering her. His worst nightmare come true.

Please, no.

“Emma?” he whispered and she shifted on the ground pushing herself up. Turning to look up at him, she smiled past a busted lip and one hell of a shiner. For a heartbeat his eyes looked into hers. That heartbeat was all it took for her to convey everything. Joy at seeing him, anger at knowing what he’d been through, and fear at what she must realise was to come.

“Killian,” she panted, her fingers stretching out to reach for him, as though to make sure he was really here. But before she could touch him, they grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back just far enough that even if she struggled she couldn’t reach him.

Her whimper of pain had him pulling against his chains, making them clank and jangle violently above him as a growl of fury ripped its way out of his chest.

How dare they take her, hurt her, even touch her.

She shouldn’t be here, this was impossible. He may have fucked himself over, but there was no way to trace him back to his team. And no one knew about her. They’d been so damned careful, they had to be, or the agency would have split them up. They’d never see each other, and he’d be distracted wondering where she was, what she was doing, hoping she was making it home okay every day of her life. Neither of them could have handled that kind of stress and worry.

“Oh, so we’ve finally found something that will get a reaction? Good.” The voice was full of cold jubilation and Killian was forced to watch as the man’s heavies dragged in a chair, pulled her off the floor and dumped her in it.

They forced her jacket off her shoulders and part way down her arms, pinning them to her sides and stopping her from making any real effort at struggling, exposing bare arms and the scooped neckline of her tank top.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” said the cold voice as one of the goons pulled out a flick knife.

Emma’s eyes, which had been trained on his, moved immediately to the blade hovering in front of her face. Her breaths started to come quicker and he could see the panic in her eyes.

Gods, he’d do anything to save her from this.

“We’re going to cut on your girlfriend, Jones, and you’re going to watch, and if you don’t tell us what we want to hear, we’ll keep going until she passes out from pain or blood loss,” he said, stepping up behind Emma and dragging his finger across her collarbone.

She clenched her jaw, almost snarling in protest, and flinched away from his touch.

“Feisty, I see why you like her, Jones,” he laughed. It was high and cold and it didn’t bring any mirth to his eyes. “Begin.”

“No!” Killian shouted, his shoulders screaming in pain as he pulled against the chains when the knife moved towards Emma’s arm.

Emma, who had been watching the knife blade as it got closer and closer to her skin looked up at him, and through her panic, through his own, he saw something else.

Resolve.

Resignation.

The corners of her mouth curled upwards just a little and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Whatever happened today, she’d already forgiven him.

When he didn’t say anything else, the man turned his head, still looking at Killian, and whispered in Emma’s ear, just loudly enough for him to hear.

“If you die here, Dearie, you have only one person to blame. Such a shame to mar such delicate skin but needs must.” His nails grazed across her neck as he stood up and smiled. Killian saw the sickened expression flit across her face as his hands came to rest on her shoulders, massaging them gently. “Proceed…” he commanded as he took a step back.

There was a pause before anyone moved again, Emma looked into his eyes as he did his best to lend her his strength for what was about to come.

Then the knife moved, slicing into her arm, red seeping around the edge of the blade as she grit her teeth, breathing heavily as her eyes squeezed shut. She was refusing to give them the satisfaction of screaming and he loved her for it, but it was only going to make it worse.

The knife was pulled free of her skin, leaving her gasping against the pain.

Their captor tutted softly and sighed.

“Now that just won’t do. I think we’re going to have to go a little deeper…”

But with the second cut she didn’t scream either, her breath came out as a pained hiss between her teeth. Gasping once it was over, as the man’s subordinate twirled the blade between his fingers picking his next spot, she forced her eyes back open and her gaze back to Killian.

Killian’s eyes didn’t leave her face, he owed her that much. She wasn’t going to blame him for any of this, but he couldn’t abandon her when she needed him.

Each cut brought a new level of pain, he could hear it in the pitch and the volume of her cries, see it in the way she trembled and the sweat beading across her brow. Blood seeped out of the wounds on her skin, some so deep they were pulling open and making him feel sick, red pooling on pale flesh and spilling down to stain her clothes.

“Come on now, Dearie. Let him hear you scream…”

And she did, unable to hold it in any longer, Killian knew from experience that by now every inch of her skin would feel like it was on fire. The blade feeling both hot and cold as it cut into her, carved patterns into her skin that she was going to have to live with for the rest of her life… because of him.

He didn’t know when he’d started crying, but her cheeks had been wet for a while already, his pain didn’t matter anymore, not when he had to watch what was happening to her. He was shouting uncontrollably, pulling against his bonds as the fire in her eyes started to die. Her screams no longer violent sound forcing its way through the air, but whimpering, weak.

Her eyes started to droop, she was having to force herself to keep them open, and part of him hoped she would succumb sooner rather than later. It would be over then, why was she fighting so hard when she could stop her pain?

“Enough, please,” Killian whispered as Emma’s body sagged once more, her eyes drifting shut with a soft whimper. Her chest barely moved as she struggled for breath, forcing herself to look up at him.

“Killian,” she breathed and her eyes rolled into the back of her head, her neck loosening and her head falling to the side.

“Emma!” he screamed, unable to stop himself.

“Yes, enough, for now… Leave her there, let him see what holding his tongue has done to her…”

The man walked out, the switchblade vanished and the goons followed, this time leaving the light on as they shut and locked the door.

“Emma?” he whispered into the quiet once the footsteps outside had faded. “Gods, I am so sorry, I never meant for… Love, please look at me… Fuck, I don’t even know what he wants from me…” He was sobbing now, needing her to wake up more than he needed to breathe, his throat raw from shouting, his whole body trembling with stress and pain. “Please be okay, Swan, I… I can’t lose you… not like this…”

He didn’t look away, not even for a moment, not even when his vision blurred and his eyes stung with tears.

Finally her breathing started to come easier, and, moving as little as possible, she looked blearily up at him.

Killian could have crowed with joy, but he didn’t. She was still here, still in so much danger.

“Found you,” she whispered on a breath that brought a weak smile to her lips.

“What the hell happened; how did they find you?” the questions rushed out of him in a torrent that he couldn’t stop. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for you to get involved.”

“Shhh, it’s okay, Killian,” she said softly, and his mind started racing, wondering what she meant. She’d found him, and it was okay? What was she talking about? “Just give me a minute.”

“Don’t move, Love, save your strength, please,” he said as she shifted in the chair, looking down at the state she was in.

“Bastards, these jeans were new,” she griped, and Killian let out a breath of incredulous laughter despite his worry. She had always caught him off guard like that and he hoped she would never cease to amaze him.

She took a few deeper breaths and sat up properly. Killian watched in wonder as she forced herself to her feet, crossing the space between them slowly, raising her hand and laying it against his battered cheek.

He let out a wracked sob and turned his face into her hand. She was here, and she was alive, but that didn’t change the fact that she shouldn’t be here… Her forehead rested against his, their eyes closed as they revelled in the contact they’d been missing ever since the start of his undercover mission.

After a long moment she pulled back and reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out her lock picks with a smile.

“Emma, what?”

“I can get you out of here, but we have to be quiet,” she hissed urgently. “Can you do that?”

Killian swallowed and nodded, his head swimming with exhaustion and pain and he didn’t know how she was standing let alone conscious and managing to unlock the cuffs around his wrists. One at a time, she released them and he had to grit his teeth to stop himself screaming from the pain that lowering his arms caused. His weight sank onto her shoulders as his knees buckled. They sank to the floor, and Emma held him carefully against her.

“Can you stand?” she asked, her fingers carefully running over his hair and back comfortingly. “You’ve got a couple of minutes, but we need to walk out of here.”

He nodded weakly into her shoulder. “I don’t understand…” he whispered. Emma didn’t reply, she just held him, their blood soaking into each other’s clothes as they waited for whatever signal it was that she was waiting for.

Somewhere in the compound an explosion shook the entire building.

“That’s our cue. On your feet, Hook... that’s an order…”

“I’m your boss, I give the orders,” he sassed quietly.

“Then start giving me useful orders and I’ll follow them,” she replied with a wry smile, leading him to the door and letting him lean on the wall as she picked that lock too.

She checked the corridor and then pulled her head back into the room, holding out her arm and inviting him to lean on her, and he realised… It didn’t matter why, or how. She’d come here to get him. She hadn’t forgotten him, or abandoned him, she was here of her own free will.

She’d endured the pain for him. To get him back.

“I love you,” he murmured and the arm round his waist squeezed gently as she looked across at him with a raised eyebrow and a smile.

“You think I’d go through all that for anything less?”

- - - - -

@xhookswenchx @kmomof4 @wefoundloveunderthelight @superchocovian @lfh1226-linda @teamhook @jonesfandomfanatic @tiganasummertree @onceratheart18 @snowbellewells @karlyfr13s @itsfabianadocarmo @ouatpost @ultraluckycatnd @winterbaby89 @thepirateandhisson @xarandomdreamx @xsajx @captainswan21 @jrob64

As always, let me know if you’d like me to add you to my taglist for future fics :)

#cs ff #CS Halloweek 2021 #ZaharaDessert Writes #blood on my new jeans for you #Captain Swan #Everybody in the club was whumping whumping

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merryfortune · 3 years

Text

eggshells

Un-Love You Challenge: Day 20. I hate you, you bitch.

Ship: Asuka/Yuriko

Fandom: Tropical Rouge PreCure

Word Count: 1.9k

Tags: Not Canon Compliant, Inspired by Revolutionary Girl Utena, Minor Animal death

Synopsis: Shrodinger’s bird is both dead and alive depending on whether its eggshell is broken. Asuka and Yuriko both wish that the bird is dead.

AN: As soon as I saw these two interact, I was instantly reminded of Juri and Shiori from RGU so I wanted to write a fic inspired by that.

The first omen that their relationship was about to be broken beyond all repair was when the fleur-de-lis locket that Asuka had gotten for Yuriko broke. It came off the hinges unexpectedly with no forewarning. Through sheer force of will, Asuka had gotten it to click back into place but it was lopsided and as it was lopsided, Yuriko had little desire to wear it anymore. It sat awkwardly between her clavicles in a way it had never before.

Especially not in the way Asuka had first adorned Yuriko with it. That moment of repose, in between torn gift wrapping and the intimacy, had meant a lot to them both. Asuka was delicate as the silver chain slipped into place against Yuriko’s skin. As she did so, she regaled an old wives’ tale that Yuriko hadn’t heard before about misplaced locks, whenever they went askew it meant someone was thinking of you and in the essence of that moment, Yuriko couldn’t help but sense that all Asuka was thinking about was her but… Yuriko was aware of other’s thoughts, too, as she was so damnably perceptive.

The second omen that their relationship was about to be wounded beyond all healing was when that little black and brown sparrow had flown into the window and didn’t get up afterwards. Asuka had wanted to help it; Yuriko had wanted to allow nature to take its course.

They had been standing around the tennis club’s hangout, where they stored their sports gear and such, arguing or trying not to argue as they rallied around the obvious issue in the clubroom when they had heard the smack against the glass. Both had rushed outside as soon as it had happened, expecting a tennis ball. Not a bird. With Asuka taking it in her hands, against Yuriko’s harsh fussing, it was already too late. The skull was cracked, as was its beak and so all it could do was twitch in her hand with some imitation of life. Asuka’s expression was grim; Yuriko’s wasn’t even smug. Neither noticed the other, just assuming the other’s reaction.

The third omen was that they couldn’t even look at one another. Things had become awkward. Stiff. They both knew they were headed for a brick wall but they were trying to overcome it anyway. Going through, going over, going under. Whatever it took but it was slowing down their game. They couldn’t win together as doubles with this hindered team work but they couldn’t even win either way if they were to go out as doubles. The other members of the tennis club could tell something had happened to them. Or, at the very least, something was happening between them.

There wasn’t a fourth omen because the fourth unusual event was the end of it all. Their friendship, their love, their whatever their relationship was as more than just partners in tennis but a whole lot less than partners than lovers. After all, things tend to end at four.

Sometimes, they even died at four.

Unfortunately for Asuka and Yuriko, no matter how they wished for it, what they had didn’t die. And neither of them were the type to simply keel over and expire with their hearts in agony. So, what happened instead was some necrotic deterioration of their relationship and everything else in the way was mere canon fodder for what happened. Yuriko retreated to her own camp, finding a new tribe amongst the folk on the student representative council, and Asuka retreated to one at all, instead choosing to lick her wounds in private.

Or at least that’s what Asuka had wanted to do. She wanted to sculpt herself as the cool girl. The loner. The girl who didn’t need anyone at all, even though it was no secret that doubles tennis was her passion - and so was any video game with co-op play, be it through multi-player or even A.I. controlled characters. And for a while it worked, she would hide out behind the school’s gymnasium or in the toilets, pretending she didn’t exist for the most part until she hit a collision with someone who was like the striking of the summer sun.

Natsuumi Manatsu. What a girl. She was bright, bubbly, and she had an actual living mermaid living in some sort of watery genie bottle she kept in her bag - and that was to say nothing of what she could do with the ring on her finger. A ring which would soon have a sister which was gifted for Asuka and thus, Cure Flamingo was born and so was the Tropical Club and all aspirations and illusions that Asuka had of being of being a lone wolf were shattered because deep down, she liked to keep a flock of birds.

Club President Takizawa Asuka did have a good sound to it, even if it really ought to be Manatsu. She was the central and driving force who had connected together a handful of scattered students who wouldn’t have interacted otherwise but no, no, she had humbly given up the role for Asuka. Seeing something in those bright eyes of her’s that Asuka didn’t even see in herself.

She was thankful but it was unfortunate but she supposed her underclassmen were cute enough so she’d do anything to protect them. Beat up bullies, beat up underwater bad guys, and of course put herself in the crosshairs time and time again of the worst of the worst: young ladies like Kakuta Masami and, of course, Shiratori Yuriko.

For so long, Asuka had managed to avoid the hawk-eyed ire of the council president. She hadn’t escaped it completely but she had minimised it but thanks to the Tropical Club, Asuka was once again the subject of that cold, hardened gaze. When it could be sustained at least.

No matter the lecture, it did become apparent here and there within Yuriko’s behaviour that she was avoiding Asuka’s own, fierce gaze. She had all the power of fluttering wings and mermaid magic, she could handle one ex...something. Friend, girlfriend, partner. It didn’t matter; it hadn’t mattered because they felt like it would last forever so there was no need to label it. What rot that was. Now look at them. Going to war each time they gimpsed one another. Asuka could handle how Yuriko’s avian, yellow eyes slitted around her and how she had mastered the effect of looking closely, directly whilst actually not.

And so began their newest foray into being foes. The battleground might have changed but the battle itself hadn’t. The to and fro was far too familiar to them both as tennis pros. The rally and the volley. It was all the same to them: all a racket. Thus leading to their latest confrontation in Yuriko’s council room.

When it was all to themselves, like right now, they were free to get as downright nasty as they pleased: even if it was under the veneer of rather hushed voices. As much as they wanted to squawk at each other like duelling carrion birds, this was still a school so they had to keep their composure and their voices down. Besides, there were plenty more ways to pierce than just being ear-piercingly shrill in their voices.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Asuka insisted brusquely, “random inventory checks by the Disciplinary Committee aren’t so random if they’re only being held on the Tropical Club.”

Yuriko shrugged, her face just a degree off from fully facing Asuka, her arms were folded in front of her, “I do not control the personal actions and decisions of Kakuta-san,” Yuriko murmured, “I merely suggest that the time is right at pure arbitrary of my own whims as they come and go between the paperwork and other scheduling that I do.”

The dangling of the conspiracy infuriated Asuka. She growled, her hand balling into a fist by her side and in the thick of that raw noise in her throat, she hissed, “I hate you, you bitch.” Asuka knew she was right and Yuriko knew it too but was keeping it so locked and guarded and yet so out in the open just to bait Asuka. The rage that it caused seeped through and made Asuka seem redder - and madder - than her hair.

“I hate you, too.” Yuriko smiled, oh so pleasant, her eyes crinkling in the corner with genuine joy.

Asuka gritted her teeth and she stormed forward. She grabbed Yuriko by the lapels and shook her. Yuriko went prone with the roughness, seemingly not caring one bit at how Asuka had accosted her. Her whole body was limp, without worry, without so much as a glimmer of harshness in her eyes as they were far, far away from this brutish conversation.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Asuka growled. “Target me all you want, I don’t care, I can take it but leave the other girls out of it. The Tropical Club has nothing to do with us-”

A glint of silver caught Asuka’s eye and just that tiny flash was enough to halt her tirade completely. All her anger ceased in her mouth as she was so stunned by what she saw on the pale of Yuriko’s skin. It slinked and slithered on her clavicles, mostly hidden by the turquoise of her flapping collar: the locket.

“Y-You're still wearing it?” Asuka asked and she let go of Yuriko gingerly.

She huffed, sorted herself out and Asuka noticed that the clasp was askew. Right by her pencil-thin neck, right where Asuka had always dreamed to leave a bruise: be it from love or from wrath, it mattered not. Especially now that Yuriko had gone and fixed it up, moving the clasp to the back of her neck, the locket moving beneath the white of her sailor shirt.

Yuriko bore an enigmatic expression as she looked up, done with her fussing. It was distant and playful. And she reached out to Asuka, shocking her with the seeming kindness in her fingertips as they brushed past her temples, caressing her. Asuka winced and she was blinded. Yuriko’s fingers cupped her face in a way so that all she could see - and feel - was her hands. Her soft, supple hands and the spritz of a maturely scented perfume on her wrist. Asuka’s heart skipped a beat.

Yuriko kissed her. It was a kiss that was like dry ice to Asuka’s searing mouth. It was a cold, clinical kiss that was fit to leave a blister on Asuka’s skin. She tried not to kiss back but all her soul wanted to. She had yearned to kiss Yuriko for so long, so why did this have to be the circumstance? When a kiss was not a kiss but a way in which to kill instead.

Especially… Especially knowing the last time that Asuka could recall before this incident wherein she and Yuriko had locked eyes, firmly and strongly, for the last time. The event which had been foretold by the various omens of things breaking apart, getting wounded, and even dying. When Asuka had seen Yuriko kissing someone else through the crack of an ajar door at the tennis club room. The memory and recollection made Asuka sick and to think of it now, at such a pertinent moment, sullied the seconds that Yuriko spended on her, kissing her with such stringent luxury that it was calculated to the edge of her sigh on her sharp mouth.

But in the darkness of her hands, that’s all Asuka could see and it all but killed her. She wished that it killed her.

#femslash #asuka x yuriko #yuriko x asuka #tropical rouge precure #precure #tropical rouge #cure flamingo #takizawa asuka #asuka takizawa #yuriko shiratori #shiratori yuriko #unlove you challenge #writing tag

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leglesstv · 3 years

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THE DARK DAYS BACK– 2021

I have been struggling with how to start this piece. I guess I should tell you a little about myself.

What I do for a living is not who I am, yeah, I get to blow shit up and its super fun but it’s not what defines me.

I have been a water baby all my life from growing up on the beach to commercial diver.

The ocean or the ocean’s rhythm ebbs and flows within me.

Surfing has been the biggest part of my life for longer than I care to remember. For sure I have been out the water for extended periods before while working on projects overseas. Always with the knowledge that I will be getting wet again, sometime soon. I have never before been concerned that surfing will not be an option. I have always just figured I would surf till the day I die.

October 2019 we were still basking in the glory of a once in a lifetime trip to the Ments. 10 Kneelos on a boat sailing around the Mentawai’s. Absolutely what dreams are made of. Red, Giggs, Lester, Larry, Craig, Steve, Johan, Andrew and myself. Jason the skipper of Switchfoot made it 10 chargers in total.

We had also had a run of solid swell at the local, which for me was all time as my new Kneeon that Nick had shaped for me had arrived. Nick and I had chatted over the phone, had a few video calls and bam!! this magic carpet arrives. Oh my sack, I have never been happier with a stick. My surfing went up in leaps and bounds. Never been happier in my life.

Around this time, I started to get pains in my left hip which radiated down the leg. Initially it wasn’t too bad but it got progressively worse. It got to a stage where I literally couldn’t walk anymore. Thinking it’s got to be the hip, off I went to the hip specialist. Had some photos taken of the hip, back to the clever guy’s office and this is where things started to go south.

Mate, as hips go, yours look beautiful but I recommend you go see a neurosurgeon.

Your spine doesn’t look good at all.

You can imagine, I’m thinking “what the fuck, are you sure you’re looking at the right X-rays.”

So, at least by this time I was on crutches to help me get around and waddled off to see Dave. Dave is a neurosurgeon that had done some work on my spine before.

Same sort of story, pain in my shoulder, radiating down my right arm.

True as nuts, I had gone to the shoulder clever guy who had told me exactly what the hip guy had just told me. Anyway, a long story short, Dave did a decompression on the C7 and T1 vertebrae.

I was booked on a boat trip to the Maldives with my good mate Guy. He is a stand up but I love him anyway. I manage to get on the plane without really having tested the neck or having had time for rehab of any sorts. Probably not my brightest move. We had solid swell the whole trip, but truth be told, I was in constant pain.

Once back in SA, I was off to see Dave again. X-rays and CT scans followed, and Dave said unfortunately we going to have to fuse the C7 and T1 but we will go in through the front this time.

Absolutely no problems whatsoever and I was back in the water 3 months later.

Dave, howzit I’m back. More scans and X-rays (starting to know everyone by their first names by now) followed. Yip, pretty much the same story, crumbling, degeneration of the spine.

I was booked in for a decompression on the L4 and L5. The procedure was pretty standard and uneventful. Unfortunately, just as with the neck, the decompression was not successful. A week later, I was booked in for a multistage fusion, L4, L5 and S1.

So, they going to open me up again along the same incision line, not feeling great about that but hey, there are worse things in life. Waking up from this op was a rude awakening. Fuck me this shit hurts. Trying to move was pretty tender for sure. Anyhow the drugs did their thing and a few days later I was able to get out of bed and lose the dreaded catheter. Walking was fair interesting to say the least, I had to laugh at myself as I looked like a mummy.

Little shuffles with my hands out front but hey, I was mobile. The day they let me out rolled around. Crap balls I felt like shit and was fair tender. It felt like someone was taking a mallet to my head.

I remember battling to get into the wheelchair to get me to the car. The nausea was just incredible, I thought I was going to throw up all over the place. Between the porter and Jo (my wife) they managed to get me into the car.

The ride home is not too far but I was deteriorating at a rapid rate of knots. Got home, Jo managed to get me onto her “throne” where I just passed out.

Through the rest of the day and night I remember fleeting moments of being awake. Couldn’t move, didn’t know what was going on. Basically, a vegetable on the couch.

The next morning Jo realized that this wasn’t good. Somehow or other she managed to bundle me into the car. I have a memory of the gardener holding the car door open with a look of concern on his face. The next thing I was on a gurney at the hospital with Debbie staring at me. Debbie is Jo’s business partner and one of my best friends.

Tests and more tests.

Somehow or other I had picked up Bacterial Meningitis.

Jo had literally just saved my life. A few hours later and it wouldn’t have turned out well.

Some serious antibiotics and medication I can’t even pronounce later, my infection levels started coming down, but the headaches wouldn’t go away. Back into the noisy tube for some more scans. Was good to see all the guys and gals in radiology again.

Crap balls I had a rupture in the thecal sac. Basically, it’s a sac that runs up your spine and over the brain. The sac contains cerebrospinal fluid. When leaking the sac “collapses” on the brain causing insane headaches, headaches that are just next level. Think migraine on steroids.

Back into theatre to patch up the leak.

Once again, they opened me up on the same incision. Success at last, once again freedom day arrived and was bundled into the wheelchair again and back into the car.

Was great to be home with the animals for sure. Jo had made a bed for me in the lounge as walking at this point just really wasn’t an option. To say I was tender would be a bit of an understatement.

A day later, I got this incredible pain down my left leg. Kinda like being hit with a cattle prodder. I remember screaming as the first one hit. Absolute agony, pain like I had never felt. It would last for about 30 seconds but in that time, I couldn’t move a finger for fear of escalating the pain. I just screamed and screamed. Over the next two days, it got worse and more frequent.

This was an incredible low point. I remember crying like a baby. I was emotionally drained by this time. I remember thinking I just want to be normal again. Remember, I can hardly walk, can’t even get down on the toilet to take a dump. I hadn’t had a shit for as long as I can remember.

My wife was washing me and dressing me. It was taking its toll.

This carried on for two days until it got to a point where I just couldn’t move.

An ambulance and crew had to come and peel me off the couch eventually. They dosed me up, got a stretcher underneath me and carried me out to the ambulance.

Jesus, what the fuck!! But hey, could be worse…right?

Back to my favorite people with the noisy machine. Hi everyone, true as nuts I’m back. Another scan revealed that the crushed bone material that they place between your vertebrae was leaking out and catching the nerve going down my leg.

Another twirl in theatre to clean up the debris, by this time the clock on the wall and I were good friends. I used to watch the seconds tick by as the anesthetic started kicking in. I woke up from here being wheeled into high care. Now I have to tell you this was by far my worst experience.

The following morning two nurses came to wash me. I was in absolute agony and they kept moving me and turning me. I was screaming in absolute agony, but they wouldn’t stop and no-one came to help me. To this day I can’t understand it.

Couldn’t wait to get out of there and back on to a ward. Or so I thought…

From there they wheeled me into an isolation ward. Apparently, I had picked up the dreaded hospital Super bug. My infection count was in the 400’s (8 being normal) and to make matters worse, the headaches were back. I had sprung another fucking leak in my Thecal sack. FUCK!!!

Back to my old friend on the wall with the ticking second hand. Again, opening me up on the same line. This time I wasn’t friends with the clock on the wall.

Dave patched me up as best they could.

What the actual…

My new home turned out to be a glass box in the ICU. In isolation in intensive care. Jesus, this isn’t good.

Nurse and doctors were putting gear on to come into the glass box. “What’s going on???”

Machines were everywhere beeping and hissing. “Fuck me, this isn’t good.”

Waking up at 4am with people sticking needles into you to draw blood loses its shine after a while. I think all I ate for the two weeks was watermelon in the morning that Debbie used to bring me with a cup of coffee. When I say bring, I really mean bribe the porter.

Now you must remember I have basically been bedridden for 6 weeks and not had an appetite at all.

I could see the concern on peoples face when they came to visit, as much as they tried to hide it, it was there.

Nights were the worst and the tears used to flow. So as not to let the pressure in the Thecal sac become too great, they drained it every few hours. This as I’ve said to you before brings on insane headaches.

Morphine and I were no longer friends. It made me incredibly sad and depressed.

I came off the morphine by choice and gritted the teeth. Absolutely worth the pain.

Lester and Marco organized a live feed for me for the warmup session before the SA Kneeboarding Champs. What legends.

Once again, I cried like a baby, but these were tears of joy. It was so good to watch my mates surfing and everyone saying “hi” on the feed made me feel like a million bucks. The brotherhood is strong here in Cape Town. Love these boys.

At this point I was literally skin and bone, but my infection levels were coming down and I had managed to get out of bed and make the few steps to the toilet. The sun was definitely coming up for me. For the first time in a long time, I thought I was going to make it.

Fuck, the thought of dying in that glass box haunted me every night there.

Freedom day was like no other. Getting out of there into the sunshine and colors and breeze was a sensory overload, but hey, I was out and feeling good…ish.

My mates, Debbie and Sian had kept me going. Sian is my office manager and best friend.

She tried to feed me all the way through to no avail, true as nuts she used to arrive with bags of food.

God it was good to be home.

Reality starts to kick in pretty quickly. Fuck me am I ever going to be able to surf again, am I ever going to be able to sit on the toilet again (it’s the little things hahaha…)

Time to reset the mind from “fuck me, I don’t want to die in here to I need to get in the water again”.

Enter the amazing Lara, the physio that is a gift from the angels. I remember that late December day shuffling and shaking my way into her office. By this time, all my muscles had wasted away and just holding my frame up was as much as I could muster. I could do about 2 minutes before all my muscles started shaking from fatigue and I was still shuffling like a mummy.

The question Lara asked me off the bat was “what do you want to get out of this.”

“Just get me back in the water please,” was my response.

At this point it was a fantasy I had to believe in, physically I was a mess, but I think mentally I was scarred and the mental trauma was real. But fuck it, if I could survive that, I can achieve anything. The will to get back in the water was incredible and became all consuming.

Walking around the house became my exercise routine initially and braai tongs my best friend (in case I dropped stuff as bending was not an option). I had to hold on to everything at first as I walked along, eventually I could skip the kitchen counter on the way to the TV room and skip the chairs on the way to my room, and so it went on until I could just about walk the whole house without holding or resting.

Lara had given me gentle low impact stuff to do, just to tone the muscles and stretches to get some life back in the buggers. Everything hurt. This was a continuous process that I did all day every day for a few weeks. I was starting to feel more stable on my feet which did wonders for my mental wellbeing. Progress was gradual but I started noticing results which made me feel like a million dollars.

Getting behind the wheel again was a massive boost for me. My buddy Kante who is a running coach, walked with me from my local to St James, what a joy being next to the ocean again, mind surfing every bump that came through. I steadily built this up over time. Eventually I could make it to Muizenberg and back (5 kms). Everything ached at this point and the thought of shortening every walk was ever present. 4am wake ups every day can be a challenge and for sure there were mornings I couldn’t bear the thought of getting up. Sore back, sore hips, it’s dark and it’s cold, fuck this shit. On the odd occasion that I didn’t manage to get going, that feeling of worthlessness would set in. What the fuck is wrong with you, don’t you want to get back in the water? That’s not a cool feeling. I have probably missed 3 days in the six months I have been rehabbing. A 45-minute 5km walk followed by an hour of rehab back at home. I can’t begin to count the many lonely hours I have spent in the dark, walking and processing thoughts and priorities.

My weekly visits to Lara are always a highlight. My flexibility is measured as well as my strength. Some weeks just like some days are better than others. Lately there are a few moments of some days that I am totally pain free. These can quickly be followed by days and moments of crappy pain, but I will take the good ones for sure. Setbacks some and it’s natural to be bummed by them. Thinking “end goal” always helps. Watching Billy Kemper’s story after that crazy injury in Morocco has inspired me tremendously and there is a kinship that forms in adversity.

To keep the spirits up, I have ordered me a new board from Nick (Kneeon) which should arrive any day.

Jedd has also shaped me a 5’4 twinny that looks more like something that should be flying in space rather than the water. Can’t wait to get these beauties wet.

The daily grind continues relentlessly and it’s not always easy to appreciate the reasons for the dark hours one spends with oneself on the rehab trail. I want the prize now. Sheesh, it’s a constant battle upstairs. Here’s the weird thing, the closer I get to the end of April (paddle out day…hopefully), the more fearful I become. Will I be able to, and can I still?

All this and more just keeps swimming in the head and there’s the self-doubt.

Fuck it’s terrifying.

I have gone over it a million times in my head, do I just paddle out at a gentle beach break and see how it goes. Na, that scares me more. Soft waves are hard work and the amount of torque on the spine terrifies me. What if the nuts and bolts pop out?

There is no way in hell I am going back to that building with the big red cross on it. This drives me harder for sure back on the road, back to the floor and core exercises.

Lara assures me the hyperextension of the back I have obtained through this time will definitely be fine for paddling.

The torque and pressure on the lower back coming off the bottom and turning off the top, is what scares the crap out of me. The reef and I are intimate, god knows I have bounced and scraped along her so many times. I have certainly paid my dues.

Wiping out doesn’t scare me, it’s that word again “TORQUE”.

Perhaps I will just go straight on the first few. That in itself presents a bit of a problem at the local, but that’s where my head is.

I know you will all understand this, “what if a section just presents itself, just asking to be slapped”.

It is so ingrained in each and every one of us, that muscle memory just takes over. Going to have to be ever vigilant.

I have swum out to the peak just to be out there with the guys. The first time was not great. It took me so long just to get to the water. Jumping off the railway line so not an option. Doing the walk around and trying to get over the rocks was tricky to say the least.

Feeling the water over my feet was an absolute delight, but crap balls, had the water got colder since the last time? As soon as I laid in the water, it dawned on me that this is going to be quite the journey.

I couldn’t swim on my stomach as the pain was intense, but fuck it, I was going out. I swam on my side and back. Eventually I made it, the guys cheered and whooped, I felt like I had just won the lottery.

It was so good to be part of the conversation out there again, it was so good to hear how stoked the guys were for me, life was good.

I fed off this like I had been starved of life for ages.

Today being the Saturday before the Wednesday that I go back to Dave (the surgeon), brings turmoil to my emotions.

I’m not sure what I am scared of more, being told you aren’t ready or yeah, go get in the water. I am so scared of not surfing to my full potential again. Every day closer brings more panic. I just want it to be over now.

Wednesday morning dawned (but not really), up at 4am and back on the road. Usually, I am thinking about the workday ahead but this morning not so much.

My head is swimming with what ifs. What if there is still something wrong, what if I can’t anymore, what if, what if…

On the drive to see Dave, the surgeon, my heart is beating at a million beats/minute.

It’s good to see Dave again in a weird type of way, he really is a very cool guy.

Anyhow, he sends me off for some more pictures of the spine. Gotta say I was staring at the radiologist for some clues, but nothing.

The stress is killing me, and I feel like my heart is going to jump out of my chest.

So, back up to Dave with the thumping heart, I can hear it in my ears.

It all looks brilliant mate. What… I could not believe what I was hearing. He took me through the X-rays explaining what he was looking for and everything was just right.

There’s no use putting off the inevitable he says to me, go get in the water…but don’t be stupid. I wanted to scream it to the world!

Obviously, the doubts started kicking in hard right about now, but hey, I had gotten the green light.

Thursday morning I was off to Lara for physio. I couldn’t wait to tell her the good news. The muscles on the left side of my back had been in spasm for two weeks now, so as thrilled as she was, there was the don’t be stupid again.

I had coached myself in my mind for months now, high tide, small waves and just go straight…right.

Friday morning and the reports started coming in. There’s a bit of a wave at the local.

“It’s go time.” With my heart in my mouth, I started packing the car.

Sweet Lord, it had been a while, I had to keep double checking I had everything packed.

I don’t think I noticed any other cars on the way, I was mind surfing all the way through to the local.

I got there a few hours before the high just to get my head straight and check the lineup.

There were some chunky 4 footers coming through, but I wanted some more water on the rock. I watched my mate Dave paddle out and get some screamers.

Steve finally arrived, “I thought you would be in your suit already” he says.

This is it, heart in the throat again, off we went.

Sheesh it was so good to feel the waves crashing over my feet and legs again.

Jumped on my board and started paddling.

Woooohoooo absolutely no pain. Got out to the takeoff zone and everyone was cheering and welcoming me back. How humbling.

Mickey Duffus, a local big wave legend was out. Everybody back off he bellowed, this man hasn’t surfed for 6 months.

For some reason, this made me relax and just enjoy the moment.

Something started standing up out the back, Steve was sitting in the channel waiting for me to have my first ride.

“You going Mick?” I heard someone ask.

Yip I heard coming out my mouth, I spun and went.

Muscle memory and familiarity with the wave kicked in. I made the drop…Fuck I couldn’t believe it came around the section and just flopped off my board.

Steve and Dave had the biggest smile on their faces. The emotion of the occasion just swept over me like a wave, and the tears started flowing. All I kept thinking about was lying in ICU thinking fuck, I don’t want to die in here to taking off on the first wave.

Well, for the rest of the session, I absolutely sent it, trying to take off as deep as possible on the gnarliest set waves. All the coaching I had done in my head for the last few months went straight out the window.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Damn, I felt so alive, without a doubt, the happiest man on the planet. When I got back to the car park, all of the Kneelo crew were in the car park and boy were they happy for me.

Sean Thompson was there too, shooting my waves and recording the moment.

How blessed am I. Nothing was getting the smile off my face.

When I lay in bed that night, I kept thinking of the months of rehab and hard work I had gone through. The many lonely dark hours of the mornings, but I had done it.

The next morning, we were on it at first light with the Westside boys coming through as well. The Kneelo brotherhood in Cape Town is tight. I am so humbled by all the good wishes and thoughts from everyone.

Just want to mention Lester, who kept me sane in the last two months. We chatted every day for the last while, sometimes a few times in a day. He kept me motivated and hungry and for this I will be forever grateful.

There are so many people to thank for getting me through this period. I think you know who you are, and I will get to everyone individually.

It’s good to get wet again.

I started writing this piece to help anyone in similar circumstances.

Stick with your plan and give it everything no matter how hopeless your situation may seem.

At the end of the day this was such a therapeutic exercise for me. Something I didn’t expect.

The trauma was and is real and this has certainly helped me face it and deal with it.

If this helps even one person get over and through a rough period of hopelessness, its job done.

Mickey Kirsten

Legless Contributor

SA Kneelos

#leglesstv #kneeboard surfing #mickey kirsten #health #sakneelos #lester sweetman

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norcumii · 4 years

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some musings on TCW season 7

One of the things that makes Tumblr difficult is that I really, REALLY don’t want to harsh anyone’s squee. I don’t want to be that person who sails in, sneers disdainfully at what people are enjoying, and then ambling out, having sucked as much joy out of the room as possible.

My brother used to do that about ANYTHING I was watching, and I still resent it. I don’t want to do that to anyone.

Meanwhile, I’ve reached my saturation point with Season 7 of clone wars, and in my own tired, perpetually exhausted way, I want to scream. Thus, kvetching under the cut. In all seriousness, if you’re enjoying Season 7, then please, PLEASE skip this rant. I sincerely hope you continue to enjoy and Season 7 continues to entertain.

I haven’t watched it: I’m practicing that much self care, at least. There’s been lots of meta and gifsets running around, so I’ve gotten enough second hand exposure – along with useful meandering through various wikis and such – that I feel able to comment about it.

It is indeed very cinematic, and I guess if you dig the art style, then it is a very good example of said art style. But from a broadstrokes perspective, the writing?

What an absolute screaming dumpsterfire.

The thing that finally pushed me from “meh” to “nope, gotta rant about this” was a fascinating piece of meta here, about how Maul is the prism character – the lens through which the story is told. Now, that’s my phrasing and not the OP’s, and again, I haven’t actually seen this so I’m taking a lot of things at face value.

It’s a fascinating approach, and makes the angst and despair that much sharper – especially if you apply this post about parallels to RotS, and let’s not forget the very impressive mocap for the lightsaber fight.

My question, however, is why the FUCK would you do that in the first place? (Not the mocap. That’s genuinely impressive.)

First off: you’re putting the audience in the same boat with the villain. Your lens character is the one who frames the story, who puts into perspective how one interprets events. In this case, that implies that what Ahsoka, Rex, and the rest of the clones are doing is in the antagonist's position, which might be part of the whole “nothing is true and nothing is false but everything is fucked” atmosphere that they seem to be trying to foster (see: Ahsoka’s arguments with Obi-Wan. GFFA has some good breakdowns as far as I can tell). So Maul is supposed to be the lynchpin of this story, either as the protagonist or the Sancho Panza to the protagonist.

That’s a damn weird take on this particular story. Is it about Mandalore? Is it about Ahsoka’s journey? Is it about Maul’s journey? Or are we trying for something meta about how it’s how Maul and Ahsoka’s journeys parallel each other’s, and how those contrast with Anakin’s?

Have you noticed yet who’s missing from this equation?

For a show that’s called “The Clone Wars,” there’s been astonishingly little clones involved in the broader plot. So let’s take a step back from this one issue and look at the season as a whole.

There’s been ten episodes so far this season, out of twelve total. Six of them have centered around Ahsoka. The other four have been about Rex and the Bad Batch. Now, let’s set aside the whole very valid debate about having so many female centric characters and stories is grand, and we need lots more. That’s a damn good point, and Star Wars as a whole needs better diversity on all fronts. Not the particular lens I’m looking through at the moment.

There’s been four of ten episodes about clones. In the final season of The Clone Wars. Yes, they show up in other episodes, but that’s not the focus.

Why would you do that?? We got five seasons already where the clones are more background noise with the occasional highlight (The Deserter, the Umbara Arc), and the entire freakin’ war has been named after them. Ok, so maybe that’s to some degree social commentary about how the Republic was viewing them – background noise against which the weird mythical Jedi shit really stood out – and the sixth season was more a hodgepodge of “we have THESE episodes nearly in the can, rush to finish them because this is important shit to get out the door to bridge from this series to the movies.”

They didn’t expect to have the chance to make this season. They could’ve done pretty much anything, since they didn’t even default to just using the episodes that WERE 70% done (if not more) and had been released into the wild as animatics.

So why pick these stories to tell? And moreover, why this way? Why not make the last hurrah that the crew could not have expected be something coherent and about the actual people that the damned show is named for?

Let’s play with hypotheticals, since kvetching without reasonable alternatives is considered uncouth these days. Let’s say one wants the Bad Batch “rescuing Echo” arc (and that it’s not agony porn. To be fair, I’m not sure if it IS agony porn, thus the presumption that it’s an arc to be had). Since we already spent SIX ENTIRE SEASONS beating home the point that clones are individuals and to be respected as such, rather than introducing new clones who are “aberrations” just to drive home hey, they’re clone versions of TF2 characters clone versions of terrible action movie heroes individuals, how about this?

Cody calls in the Bad Batch, a squad that gets sent into the worst situations and honestly, isn’t ever really expected to come out alive. They’re bad clones, you see. Their leader is probably a man named Dogma – he’s a Jedi killer, but damn loyal to the Republic. His second in command – not that either of them are happy about that – is Slick, a Brother Killer and all around asshole. The other two members of the squad are two deserters: Cut Lawquane, who was found and brought back to the army, and Boil, who was caught trying to leave after Umbara. They have a civilian support member, Suu Lawquane (a damn good sniper, and she now has armor as well as actual clothes).

Bring so many of Rex’s issues home to roost. Make that poor man question all his life choices. He’s still reeling from the whole chip arc and Fives’ death. Let him see what the Grand Army does with its too loyal soldiers, how Dogma did the right thing against orders and is now leading others into the meat grinder on the daily. Let him see what the Grand Army does to traitors, like Slick whose hands are red with the blood of his brothers – just like Rex’s, after Umbara. Cut, who left after too much death, and built a life. Boil, who lost so much, who had enough and just wanted to go find the one remnant of good things that he’d ever encountered in his short life.

They’ve got slave explosive implants somewhere – three because they’re flight risks, Dogma because – well, no one can say why, but it’s so. Let Slick shove Anakin’s nose into the fact that the Jedi are still leading a slave army, have Anakin have to confront that it’s not hyperbole anymore, not when the clones have chips in their heads and now these have slave implants they literally don’t know where.

Hell, have Anakin blow up at Cody over this, and perhaps Cody has to pull rank – establish on screen that he’s running so much of this damn war. He doesn’t like what’s been done with the Bad Batch either, but he can only put out so many fires, and keeping this from raging out of control is the best he can manage.

Let the audience see consequences. Let there be fallout as they go searching for Echo, and the Bad Batch’s various past issues bounce against the experiences of Rex and whoever’s along with him.

(For that matter, if you still want to tackle Mandalore and all that, have one of the soldiers going along with be Vaughn – get to know the man for a little bit. See how Random!Clone reacts to all this, not just Jesse and Kix. Someone without the history with any of these men. While we’re at it, Dogma had Kix in the firing line against Jesse. GIVE ME THE REACTIONS, DAMMIT! AND! And does Rex ever have to say to Dogma “you did the right thing, that Jedi needed to die”? How much does that blow EITHER of their minds?)

Show us travel time. Show us what it’s like for a bunch of soldiers to be stuck in a tin can flying through space along with an entire penal squad of brothers who spit in the face of what the GAR stands for – for reasons both good and bad. Show us what the years have done to Dogma and Slick, how Cut and Suu have adjusted from a life of growing things to having to murder things. How Boil just is done, and wants to head to Ryloth (hey, maybe Numa is currently living with her new sibs/cousins/friends/arch-rivals Shaeeah and Jek).

Then add poor Echo into that mix. Echo, who doesn’t quite know what he’s doing anymore, who was in the Citadel, then stuck in a nightmare of battle sims, and now in this new nightmare of a war that dragged on even longer – and no Fives.

Let us grieve along with him. Fives got a four episode arc (gee, I wonder why this season wanted to start with a four episode arc dealing with the last Domino >_>) where he fell, let us watch Echo’s rise and how he deals with all this.

Let him decide he wants to leave some of the more painful memories behind, how he can’t stay with Rex because it hurts too much, but at least now he’s got some fellow exiles to watch over.

Let the last we see of him be Echo using his new abilities to dismantle both the insidious little buzzing chip inside his and his team’s heads, along with the explosives they also have to bear. Fives died because of the chip, let Echo help others to live in spite of it.

Then slide the camera focus from Rex to Vaughn. Perhaps he gets assigned to go find the former Commander Tano (did he know her at all? Or had he just heard about her?). We could follow him across Coruscant, meeting various civilians who had Strange Encounters with that nice young Togruta. Maybe we get a fun montage: Vaughn questioning people, their various reactions, possibly as a nice voiceover to What Really Happened – that also gives a grand opportunity to get people’s impressions of the Jedi and their clone lackeys.

Then off to Mandalore, still from Vaughn’s perspective. Let us watch this poor man’s rise, as he has to be the metaphorical third wheel to The Team’s reunion. He’s the poor uncomfortable bastard in the room, but he’s a good man, loyal and skilled.

(Also, why could we not get the clones receiving patches or decals of Ahsoka’s markings, and play with that? Emphasize the clones’ individuality – some have it on their shoulder bells, some did the helmets, some have the design down the arm, along the leg – just...diversify, dammit!)

Have Vaughn keep up with Ashoka all the way through to the fight with Maul. Have him be hit, have him be disarmed for the fight – all he can do is witness it (for that matter, you can echo the Duel of the Fates, with Vaughn being in Qui-Gon’s position of dying on the floor).

Then let us see Order 66 from the clones’ perspectives. Show us the sieges, show us Bly and his squad following Aayla into the woods; show us Wolffe and the pack separating from Plo; show us Fox patrolling the Senate.

We’ve seen the Jedi die already. Show us the other side, if you insist on breaking our hearts, and show us how the clones go from good men to good soldiers.

Let me see Cody, let me see the aftermath on Utapau. Let me see Rex breaking, or refusing to break, or whatever it is that happens.

Let this season be about clones.

#star wars #season 7 #critical commentary #sass and murder show #the clone wars #character analysis #thinky thoughts #inappropriate feels about clones #meta #long post is long #writing #useless screaming #spoilers #SO MANY SPOILERS #just venting

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sweetscentences · 4 years

Text

Small Changes: Chapter One

Can also be read on AO3 here. A major thank you to @comparedfever for beta-ing this.

Summary: Doflamingo and his crew don't touch the treasure chest Law is hidden in. A few other things change too.

Rosinante had always imagined death would be painless. Not the act of dying, no. He’d known his fate was going to be something bloody and cruel since his brother shot their father. But he figured death itself would be blank- as devoid of pain as it was of joy, if there was any consciousness after death.

But Rosinante was conscious, and very much aware. Aware of the blackness of the eyelids he couldn’t open. Aware of a burning pain throughout his torso. Aware of the deep part of him that always hummed when he used his Devil Fruit.

It was humming now. A heavy, persistent feeling, almost stronger than the pain.

It ached to keep it up. Rosinante didn’t know why he did. He started to let it slip, only to remember in an instant.

Law.

Law needed to get away.

Had he already escaped, Rosinante wondered. How long had he been drifting in this empty space. Was it seconds? Hours? Days?

He had no way to know.

What if, a horrible part of him whispered, in dying while using his Devil Fruit, he had stolen Law’s sound forever.

Law had already lost too much.

It didn’t matter that he had learned sign language, or at least enough to be insulting, when he’d thought Rosinante was mute. Rosinante had promised himself that Law wouldn’t lose anything else under his care.

(He had wondered, then, if that was how Sengoku felt when he’d taken Rosinante in.)

He thought about the panic on Law’s face when he’d told him his plan. About the fact that he had put it there. Rosinante’s stomach rolled. His hands twitched.

His hands twitched.

Dead men didn’t move.

Hope grew, uncertain and wild, in Rosinante’s chest.

He took a deep, rattling breath, and tasted frost on the cold air.

His eyes felt like they were welded shut. Rosinante forced them open. He’d always been a stubborn bastard.

He was blinded for a moment, despite the dimness of the light. It took a long while for his eyes to adjust. He used that time to feel around.

His fluffy coat was the only thing between him and the cold, hard ground. He was bare-chested, apart from bands of fabric wrapped tightly around his torso. He realized, when his eyes finally cleared and focused, that they were the remains of his shirt.

He poked carefully at them, expecting to find agony where he’d been shot. There was pain, sharp and nearly blinding, but not as bad as he’d been expecting.

Rosinante felt around, finding a wall behind him, and took a steadying breath before hauling himself into a sitting position. He dropped back against the wall, chest heaving, head spinning, and fighting the urge to vomit.

It took a few minutes for him to gather himself enough to open his eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them.

He was in a cave, small and cramped, with blood stained snow spilling from the mouth of it. A distant part of Rosinante realized that it was probably his.

But that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how he had gotten there. It didn’t matter who had saved him. It didn’t matter why. The only thing that mattered was making sure Law had gotten away.

Law, who was collapsed next to him.

Rosinante bit down the urge to shout, panic settling as quickly as it arrived when he saw Law’s body rattle with breath. But he was breathing too heavily, too quickly, curled pitifully around himself half on Rosinante’s coat, and half on the cold ground. Rosinante rolled him onto his back as carefully as he could. Law didn’t stir.

Rosinante’s heart caught in his throat. Law was the lightest sleeper he knew- plagued by paranoia and nightmares the moment he closed his eyes.

His skin was flushed with fever, warm when Rosinante brushed a hand across his forehead. The bags under his eyes looked more like bruises. That, and the blood on Law’s hands came together to paint a picture Rosinante didn’t want to see.

Law hadn’t escaped.

He had heard everything that happened, and had dragged Rosinante’s dying body god knew how far to save his life. He had to have used the Devil Fruit he couldn’t control to do it.

That eased and frightened Rosinante in equal measure. A week after he had first eaten his Devil Fruit, he lost control. He let go of the careful balance and ease the fruit demanded. He still wasn’t sure what happened, Sengoku had never told him, but he did know he hadn’t woken for two days.

The Op-Op Fruit was known to exhaust it’s user. Rosinante had decided it was worth it- the risk of a coma nothing compared to keeping Law alive. But now, the absence of bright white patches the only thing proving that Law wasn’t still dying, he wasn’t so sure.

With careful hands, Rosinante adjusted Law’s hat so it sat more snugly on his head. He rested back against the cave wall, and let his eyes fall closed.

Doflamingo had tried to kill him. He was still alive. Doflamingo had tried to take Law, but he was still with Rosinante.

He needed a plan to get them off Minion Island. To get them far, far away. Out of North Blue and Doflamingo’s reach. It wouldn’t be as simple as going to the Marines- Vergo had proven that, and Rosinante couldn’t imagine Law would be happy to wake up in the government’s care.

Rosinante needed a plan. But first, he needed rest. He couldn’t keep them both alive if he was dead on his feet.

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Rosinante didn’t know how long he slept, but when he woke the first thing he did was gather Law in his arms and drag them both to another cave.

Doflamingo and his pirates would be looking for Rosinante’s body, if by any chance they’d discovered it gone. It was impressive how far Law had managed to drag them, but the trail of blood left behind wasn’t inconspicuous, even as it was being covered by fresh snow.

Rosinante let himself rest for another day before sneaking down into the nearest populated town. He stole new clothes, food, and information.

It was good to get a warm shirt on, to replace his makeshift bandages with real ones. Better still to not hear a single whisper of his disappearing ‘corpse’.

As far as Rosinante could tell, Doflamingo hadn’t started hunting Law yet. They could make it out.

Arranging their escape took longer than Rosinante cared for. Stealing enough makeup to hide the tattoos on his face and the worst of his bruises took time. But he needed to. If he didn’t, he would be too conspicuous when he slunk into town.

He did this six times. He bought passage on a boat bound for East Blue twice, once further north, once all the way to Sabaody, and twice to South Blue.

The smallest part of Rosinante was glad that Law was comatose. He never would have agreed to being bundled into a large, over the shoulder bag, for Rosinante to carry.

It was easier that way for him to jump last minute onto a ship bound for West Blue.

They were at the edge of North Blue when the ship stopped to restock, and Rosinante slipped off. In the morning he snuck on another ship headed in an entirely different direction.

After that, Rosinante dyed his hair black. He was still paler than Law, but it would be easier to pass them off as blood related this way, if anyone saw them.

He repeated this shuffle three more times, over the course of a month. Law would wake sometimes, but was never lucid, only staring blankly at Rosinante as he tried to get him to eat and drink. His fever would break in brief spurts, but that only made Law’s sleep more fitful. He would twist painfully, scratching at the fading marks Amber Lead had left on him, and sobbing in the sloping language of Flevance that Rosinante had been trying to master. What he could understand was begging- desperate crying out for people Law had lost. Rosinante heard his own name more than once.

Each time he did, Rosinante would take Law’s hands in one of his, the other running through Law’s hair as he tried to soothe him in his clumsy Flevean. Sometimes it calmed Law. Other times, it made him cry harder.

On the fourth ship Rosinante travelled openly with Law, spinning a story of his son falling ill in West Blue, and of their desperate need to return home to the South. Instead they stopped in East Blue, on a small island in a smaller village that Rosinante had never heard of.

The passing of days brought more color to Law’s skin. His fever was the lowest it had been since they left North Blue, breaking and staying away longer and longer each time.

“Is there an inn in this village?” Rosinante asked the first person he met- a friendly looking old man sitting by the docks, who had been watching Law with concern. “My son caught a fever while we were traveling. I thought it best to stop until he’s well.”

The old man softened immediately, his eyes darting from Rosinante to Law, to the worried slope of Rosinante’s shoulders.

“Poor boy,” the old man hummed, his words shaped carefully and slowly with the practiced ease of someone used to speaking to foreigners. Rosinante had a knack for languages, it was an essential part of being a spy, but he’d still spoken to the old man in clumsy Eastern with the softest lilt of a Western accent.

“The inn is usually full this time of year,” the old man said. Before Rosinante’s heart could start to sink, he added, “but I know Makino keeps a few rooms over her bar free, if you don’t mind the noise.”

Rosinante bit down the desperate urge to laugh. “I’d be grateful for anything, in truth,” he said, and let the old man lead them through town.

He brought them to a homey looking bar, pushing inside and ignoring the early evening crowd as he waved to the woman behind the counter. Her eyes widened when she took in Rosinante’s height, before immediately fixing on Law in his arms. She slid a drink to a man down the bar without looking, and hurried over.

She said something to them in a language Rosinante didn’t recognize, before the old man held up a hand to calm her.

“It’s alright, Makino,” he soothed. “This man is only looking for a place to stay while his son recovers from a fever.”

Makino’s brow pinched in sympathy. “Of course. You can stay here as long as you need, mister...”

She trailed off, blinking at Rosinante expectantly. Something about it felt like a challenge.

Rosinante offered her the hand that wasn’t holding Law. He hadn’t forgotten his manners.

“Cora Rosinante,” he told her, thinking of what Law tended to call him. It would be easier to explain his son calling him by his surname, rather than a new name entirely.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Makino,” she said, her grip on Rosinante’s hand surprisingly firm. He nodded politely to her, before offering his hand to the old man.

“I apologize for not introducing myself earlier,” he said, but the old man waved him off before giving his hand an enthusiastic shake.

“It’s no harm at all,” he soothed. “I’m Mayor Woop Slap.” He grinned widely at Rosinante’s surprised hum, before turning to Makino. “Why don’t you get Cora settled in, and I’ll bring the doctor.”

“Doctor?” Rosinante asked, even as Makino nodded.

The mayor huffed. “Of course the doctor! Your boy’s had that fever for some time, hasn’t he?”

His stare was surprisingly sharp, and Rosinante couldn’t bring himself to lie quick enough.

“I don’t have much money,” he admitted instead.

He’d always kept a considerable amount on him when he’d been acting as a pirate, but most of it had been eaten away by transport and the assorted medicines he’d been bringing Law.

“That doesn’t matter as much as you might think, around here,” Makino said kindly. “Now, why don’t you come upstairs with me?”

Rosinante found himself nodding and following after her, up a staircase behind the bar and through a narrow hallway to a cozy room with two beds. Rosinante carefully set Law on one, as Makino fussed with the covers.

“I’m afraid the bed might be a bit small,” she said. “We don’t see many people as tall as you.”

“Not many places do,” Rosinante laughed.

He was spared from any awkwardness in the silence that followed by the mayor appearing in the doorway. He was followed by a stoop-shouldered old woman.

She didn’t say anything as she bustled over to Law, ignoring Rosinante in favor of checking Law’s pulse, temperature, and poking and prodding him in ways Rosinante assumed had medical purposes.

He thought he was being very patient, giving the doctor a fair amount of space to work with. That was until she turned to him and snapped, “stop looming over me!”

Rosinante backed up and tripped onto the other bed as she glared at him- arms windmilling. The moment he was settled she turned back to poking at Law.

“Any chance he caught some disease?” she asked.

Rosinante pushed down the cool anger that flickered in his chest. These days Law’s spots looked more like scars, or vitiligo, than Amber Lead.

“I think he’s just exhausted.” His voice was sharper than he meant it to be, and he felt Makino turn to eye him.

“What happened?”

Rosinante swallowed before answering- buying himself time. “He’s never slept well. But it’s been worse since he- he saw something terrible. It’s why we’ve been traveling.”

“What did he see?” the doctor asked, almost managing to sound indifferent.

“Someone who looked after him got shot.”

Makino made a sharp noise. The doctor’s shoulders slouched a bit more.

“Did this person die?”

Rosinante shrugged. “It certainly seemed that way.”

He had done his best to ignore any thoughts of Law- unnaturally silent and panicking- as he tried to stop Rosinante’s bleeding. Tried to wake him.

He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if he never woke.

The memory of Law shaking the treasure chest behind him as he bled out had been horrible enough. The feeling of his Devil Fruit swallowing the sound of screaming, worse.

(Law could be so terribly loud. In his anger. In his grief. His sound didn’t fit his small body; like he was bursting at the seams with feeling, and the only outlet it had was noise. It was ironic, in a twisted way, that he had suffered so silently through the Amber Lead. Rosinante wondered if he’d have the chance to grow into his voice now, or if it would always be the biggest part of him.)

“Was it pirates?” the mayor asked. “The attacks in West Blue have been so cruel lately.”

“It was a pirate,” Rosinante nodded, before offering the mayor a small smile. “Is my accent really that bad?”

The mayor rumbled a laugh. “Your accent is plenty good, boy, but my ears are better.”

Before Rosinante could say anything else, the doctor straightened up.

“You were right,” she told Rosinante. “I can’t see anything wrong with him beyond exhaustion, and a bit of malnourishment. All I can tell you to do is try to keep his temperature down and get him something to drink and eat when he’s awake.”

“But he will wake up? He’ll be alright?” Rosinante pressed, and the doctor raised a bushy eyebrow at him.

“I don’t see why he wouldn’t.”

The strings that had been holding Rosinante the whole journey were cut. He slumped forward, tucking his head to his hands. He tried, and failed, not to cry.

Rosinante wasn’t sure what he would have done, if he had gone through everything only to have Law kill himself trying to save him. It had been a thought too horrible to linger on. But it had plagued him every day that Law blinked at him with hazy eyes.

Law had never looked at him blankly, not even when he’d hated Rosinante. His eyes were the most expressive part of him. At first he’d watched Rosinante cruelly, sharply. The way that cold look had thawed felt like a miracle. Before they’d been caught, towards the end, Law’s eyes had been alight with something warm and new, even as he grew sicker. Rosinante could recognize the hope and affection only because they had been foreign to him too, once. The trust Law had looked at him with had almost been too much to bear.

Rosinante wanted nothing more than to live up to that trust, to that faith.

To have Law look through him, to see his clever eyes unfocused and dull; it turned Rosinante’s stomach.

Rosinante had fallen into the ocean only once after eating his Devil Fruit. Sengoku had seen it happen, had ordered a Marine to jump into the water after him and haul him out, but not before water had forced itself into Rosinante’s lungs.

It had burned. Burned in a way Rosinante had never felt before. But the worst part of it by far was the helplessness. No matter how hard he fought, he couldn’t move his limbs. He couldn’t fight the sea, couldn’t fight to save his own life. He could only watch darkness creep into his vision.

Being free from Doflamingo, being free from the fear of Law dying, it was better than the first breath he had taken after Sengoku had pounded on his back.

But, in a strange way, it hurt too. Just like his gasping breaths had.

Relief could be just as overwhelming as fear.

A small hand settled on Rosinante’s shoulder. He looked up to find Makino, the only person left in the room, smiling softly at him. She set a bowl of water and a small cloth on the table next to Law. Rosinante couldn’t quite find his voice to thank her.

“You should rest,” she told him. “It won’t help your son if you’re both exhausted.”

Rosinante had to clear his throat a few times before he could answer. “I’m not sure how to repay you for this.”

Makino shrugged. “Maybe you can help me fix some of the higher shelves over the bar. But we can talk about that in the morning.”

She left before Rosinante could say anything else, quietly closing the door behind her. The bar beneath them was rowdy, but a clap of Rosinante’s hands blocked that out.

He soaked the cloth Makino had left, wringing it out a few times before setting it on Law’s forehead. Then he reached into the bag he’d carried Law in before, rooting around for a minute before finding Law’s hat.

It would do more harm than good to put it on Law, he knew, but he’d never seen Law without it. He figured it must be some sort of comfort, so he pressed it into Law’s hands. Law’s fingers immediately curled around the fluffy brim, and he settled as Rosinante pulled the sheets up over him.

Rosinante laid down on the other bed, staying on his side to keep watch of Law’s chest rising and falling. Almost without realizing it, he began to hum, then sing, the quiet lullaby his father had sung for him when he was young.

It was a song about peace. About love, and safety. About family stronger than anything else. Law wouldn’t understand the words, if he could hear them, but Rosinante imagined the sentiment was easily understood.

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In the morning Law was conscious long enough for Rosinante to bring him food and water. His movements as he ate and drank were mechanical. His eyes never focused on one spot in the room. Never focused on Rosinante. But when Law lay back down, his fever had broken.

Rosinante took the washcloth from Law’s forehead and re-wet it before heading downstairs to speak to Makino. She was wiping down the bar, chatting with a few patrons as she did. Rosinante knocked lightly on the doorframe to get her attention.

“How’s your son?” she asked. The worry in her eyes looked genuine.

“Better than he’s been in some time,” Rosinante said, and her smile grew to match his. “You mentioned something about the shelves over your bar, right?”

Makino’s brows pinched together. Maybe she had expected Rosinante to forget. He’d never liked being in debt to people. His time in Doflamingo’s crew only exacerbated that.

“I’ve been replacing the shelves behind the bar, but I can’t reach some of them without a ladder,” she explained. “If you’d be willing, I’d really appreciate some help.”

“I’d be happy to,” Rosinante said. He needed something to focus on other than Law.

Rosinante spent the next two days working on Makino’s shelves, minding Law, and people watching. The tiny village bar had an interesting range of clientele. The mayor was a regular, surprisingly capable of holding his liquor. A gang of mountain bandits frequently stopped by as well. They never caused any problems, though. They sat and drank and laughed as their leader slouched over the bar and ranted to Makino about the trouble ‘her boys’ were causing. Her stories made Makino laugh so hard she cried.

From the way the bandit spoke, Rosinante wasn’t sure if the boys in question were children, or impressively destructive dogs. When she mentioned her boys dragging home a wild boar they had killed, Rosinante decided he could live with the mystery.

On the afternoon of the third day, Rosinante was putting the finishing touches on the last shelf, listening to Makino’s stories about a monster that lurked in the waters around the island.

Rosinante figured it was a small Sea King.

“It nearly ate one of the local boys,” Makino hissed, scrubbing at a stubborn spot on the bar, personally offended by the fact.

Rosinante was about to reply, when a loud clattering from upstairs reached him. Rosinante was up the stairs in an instant, Makino close behind him. He threw open the door to his and Law’s room.

There were glass shards scattered across the floor. Law was sitting upright on the edge of the bed, staring at the glass and his hands like he didn’t understand what had happened.

“Law?” Rosinante called, afraid Law wouldn’t respond. Afraid that he would be as blank as he had been every other time Rosinante said his name.

Instead, he turned towards Rosinante, blinking slowly. His eyes cleared. Widened.

“Cora?” he whispered, disbelieving. Rosinante rushed forward, catching Law as he scrambled towards him, and pulling him into a hug.

Law clung, chokingly tight, to Rosinante’s neck. He had dropped to his knees to catch Law, and shards of glass bit his legs. Law shook violently, pressed so tightly against Rosinante he could feel Law’s frantic heartbeat.

“You’re alive,” Law babbled, over and over again in desperate Northern. His voice shook as he sobbed.

“We’re alive,” Rosinante promised, squeezing Law tighter to reassure himself. “We’re alive. We escaped.”

“He shot you,” Law said, before his words seemed to register and he pulled back enough to look at Rosinante. He didn’t let go. “You said he wouldn’t- he shot you.”

Then his hands were scrambling across Rosinante’s chest and shoulders, looking for wounds that were still healing. “Are you- what- did I?”

Rosinante caught his hands carefully. “You saved me,” he said, then turned Law’s hands so he could see the backs of them. “You saved yourself, too.”

Where there had once been a snow-white patch, there was now only a slight discoloration on Law’s right hand. Law gaped at it.

“How much do you remember?” Rosinante asked.

He wanted to know how exactly Law saved their lives.

He wanted to know if Law remembered he was a Marine.

Law frowned. “I- I don’t know.” He scrubbed furiously at the tears running tracks down his cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“That’s alright,” Rosinante soothed, running a hand through Law’s hair.

Law leaned into it.

“He tried to kill you. Because of me,” Law hiccuped.

“No, Law. No,” Rosinante said. “He tried to kill me because I betrayed him.”

“Because of me!”

Rosinante’s stomach sank. “Law, he would have killed me even if I hadn’t taken you.”

Law’s eyes met his, teary and fierce. It pushed Rosinante to admit what he hadn’t wanted to.

“Doffy has been planning to kill me since I joined his crew.” His voice was rough, gravelly and tight. “Maybe even before then.”

For all that Rosinante hated Doflamingo, he’d never managed to stop loving him. He couldn’t separate the monster he knew now from the brother he had known. The brother who had told him bedtime stories so he wouldn’t be afraid of the dark. The brother who would wait however long it took for Rosinante to speak, even when he forgot words or his tongue seemed to tangle. The brother who first taught Rosinante how to throw a punch.

The brother who said he loved Rosinante so much he would do anything for him. The brother that Rosinante loved just as much.

Was it better or worse to think that Doflamingo had been lying?

Rosinante took a moment to steady himself, to cup Law’s face and smile, as bright and warm as possible.

“None of it was your fault.”

Law ducked his head, a fresh wave of tears dripping from his chin.

“Why?” he asked. He’d never sounded so much like a child. “Why did you- why me?”

“Law…”

“I still could have died. Why go that far? For me?” Law collapsed further in on himself, dropping onto the bed and tucking his knees to his chest. “Why? Was it- was it because of my name?”

It took Rosinante a moment to understand. When he did, he pulled Law back into his arms. Law unwound his limbs and hugged him back.

As if the Will of D could have anything to do with Rosinante loving him.

“Law, no,” he held Law tighter. “I did it because you’re family to me.”

An understatement, but Rosinante figured anything else would be too much for Law to hear. As it was Law started sobbing again, clinging to Rosinante like a lifeline.

“You… You’re family to me too.”

Law’s voice was so soft that Rosinante barely heard it. His heart soared. He tucked his head against Law’s and let them both settle. They were alive. They were alive.

A few hours later, Rosinante crept back down to the bar. Law was dead tired. After Rosinante explained how’d they’d wound up in East Blue, he left him to sleep. Law had been sick for so long. It would take time to recover.

“How is he?” Makino asked. She had left Rosinante alone with Law as soon as she’d seen there was nothing wrong.

“Better than I could have hoped.” Rosinante dropped the broken glass he collected into a bin beneath the bar. “He’s resting now, but he’s finally himself again.”

“I’m so glad!” Makino’s smile was heart-warmingly kind. “Why don’t you sit down?” she said, nodding to the other side of the bar counter. “You look like you need a drink.”

Rosinante laughed, but let himself be guided onto a bar stool, and thanked Makino when she set a large glass of beer in front of him.

“Do you mind if I smoke here?” he asked her, ignoring the fact that there were at least twenty other patrons with cigarettes balanced between their lips.

“Not at all,” Makino promised.

Rosinante managed to light his cigarette without lighting himself. Maybe some god was looking down on him, and decided he’d been having a hard enough time lately without accidentally burning a bar down too. Whatever the case, Rosinante was grateful as he slouched against the bar. He made idle conversation with Makino, smoked, and nursed his beer.

Finally, finally, he could relax.

Of course that was the moment the bar doors swung open, and a loud, familiar voice called, “you’re as busy as every, Makino!”

Makino’s eyes lit up. “Garp!”

Rosinante couldn’t believe it, not even when he turned to look. Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp, still in uniform, had just marched into a tiny East Blue bar.

His sharp eyes landed on Rosinante. Surprisingly, he paled.

“Something wrong?” Rosinante asked, amazed his voice didn’t waver.

Garp gave himself a shake, and grinned at Rosinante. “Sorry about that,” he said, settling onto the stool next to him. “My friend just lost his brat. You look an awful lot like him, is all.”

Rosinante could taste bile in the back of his throat. He forced it down. Forced himself to think.

Garp hadn’t brought any of his underlings into the bar with him.

He had known Garp as long as he’d known Sengoku. Thought of him as an uncle. He knew the kind of man Garp was.

If he couldn’t trust Garp, he decided, he couldn’t trust anyone in the Navy.

“Oh, come on,” Rosinante said, forcing the words with a heavy tongue. “Is a bit of hair dye all it takes to trick you?”

For a long moment, they both froze. Garp’s eyes slowly widened. Rosinante tried to smile, but it fell flat. Garp’s eyes watered.

Then his expression hardened.

“Why don’t you come have a smoke with me?” he asked. “Outside?”

Rosinante put his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray, and followed Garp out the bar’s back door. He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen.

Garp punching him in the chest, then dragging him into a blubbering hug was not at the top of the list. It wasn’t entirely unpredictable either.

Rosinante barely had time to register that he’d been hit before Garp was wrapped around him. He wasn’t sure how Garp’s troops didn’t have chronic whiplash.

“You brat,” Garp growled. Any intimidation was undermined by his blotchy red cheeks and the fact that he couldn’t stop crying. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? In what world is this alright? Letting us all think that you’re dead?!”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Rosinante promised. Garp was, as usual, a bit overwhelming. “Not at first.”

“At first?” Garp pressed. “Sengoku’s been beside himself. Did you even-“

“Garp.” Rosinante cut him off. He didn’t think he’d be able to stomach Garp saying any more. “I barely made it out alive. Doffy thinks he killed me. It wasn’t safe for me to go straight back home.”

A part of Rosinante, the part of him that was still the frightened child Sengoku took in, had wanted to run home immediately. He had never believed Sengoku could protect him from everything, but he made it easier for Rosinante to live with his fear. The bitter, realistic part of him knew how disastrous it could have been to return to HQ. Would have been, with Law involved.

Garp frowned, scrubbing at his eyes. “So you’re doing… what, exactly? Hiding?”

“Hiding,” Rosinante agreed. “Hiding and healing. Not all of us can brush off being shot as easily as you do.”

“Do you need a doctor?” Garp asked, his concern outshining any anger he had over Rosinante making him and Sengoku grieve.

Rosinante shook his head. “I’ve already been treated.”

He had been keeping an eye on his wounds as he and Law travelled. They’d been healing shockingly well, considering the circumstances. Law might have been a child, but he knew more about medicine than adults who’d practiced it their whole lives. Rosinante trusted him with this.

“What happened?” Garp asked.

Rosinante told him everything.

It took a few hours. By the end of the story, he and Garp were both sitting at the table behind Makino’s bar, smoking and staring up at the stars.

Rosinante felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest.

“Pretty round about way of giving Sengoku a grandkid, if you ask me,” Garp muttered.

Rosinante choked on a laugh. “Oh, that’s going to be a disaster,” he said, more to himself than Garp.

Rosinante being a Marine would be a betrayal, to Law. But Rosinante’s father being the Fleet Admiral? He would be surprised if Law didn’t try to kill Sengoku on principle alone.

Rosinante waved off the look Garp shot him. “I’ll explain tomorrow. But tonight… I need to sleep.”

Garp nodded. He shuffled to his feet and offered Rosinante a hand up. “We can talk in the morning.”

Before he could leave, Rosinante said, “you know you can’t call Sengoku about this, right?”

“Doflamingo’s got spies of his own, yeah?” Garp sighed. “I won’t report this.”

“Thank you,” Rosinante said, and watched Garp trudge off towards the harbor.

When Rosinante finally dragged himself to bed, he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

#mine #my writing #small changes fic #one piece #one piece fic #donquixote corazon #donquixote rocinante #donquixote rosinante #why must the tall man have so many names #trafalgar law #monkey d. garp #only a bit #op #i have a lot of feelings about found families/ families of choice #and theyre all in this fic

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zamancollective · 5 years

Photo

The Constructive Agony of Talking Politics at Shabbat (Or How to Survive a Debate with Your Relatives)

By Gabriella Kamran

Illustration by Sophie Levy

I wasn’t yet 20 years old and I had already forgotten what it felt like to join my relatives for Shabbat dinner and eat brisket without a side of political commentary. Was that a new phenomenon? Was I too busy spitting tomatoes into napkins as a child that I didn’t notice the moral axioms being thrown above my head? Regardless, charged conversation after charged conversation gradually emerged from background noise while I chewed to a dynamic that captured my interest and charted the course of my intellectual development.

It seems accurate to say that I entered the fray around the same time I started buying my own clothes. These were the early teenage years: I was testing the waters of feminism, experimenting with political Facebook posts, and learning that not everything I believe to be true is, in fact, the truth. Every young person has a moment of realization that adults can sometimes be profoundly wrong. Mine took place gradually over a series of weekly dinners, as my male relatives argued and I felt an arsenal of my own opinions weighing in my chest.

I will say with no qualifiers that it is difficult for a fourteen-year-old girl to wedge herself into a conversation with several adult men. First, there is the issue of a quiet voice, not yet amplified by the support of social affirmation. Then there is the matter of being taken seriously — that is, the unspoken surprise that I was not in the living room talking to my girl cousins about nail polish.

(The aunts, for their part, either ladled soup in the kitchen or listened at the table, inserting a comment when appropriate. For a long time, I interpreted their disinterest as ignorance or resignation to gender norms, but with maturity one gets better at recognizing weariness. I remember once my jaw dropped when a cousin’s grandmother expressed a political opinion out loud- something about Hillary’s foreign policy. I hated myself for being so shocked that she’d have something to say.)

I learned quickly that family debate is rocky terrain. The post-meal discussion usually unfolded as follows:

Man 1: This ObamaCare is going to put doctors out of business, I’m telling you.

Man 2: Just awful. The liberals are pushing us towards socialism. Aunt: We’re just giving more and more money to the lazy bums. Me: What about the majority of poor people who aren’t lazy and were born into poverty? I don’t think anyone genuinely wants to be on welfare.

Man 2: Oh, no. We send our kids to the conservative schools and they still get brainwashed by liberals.

Man 1: Question everything your teachers tell you, Gabs. They have an agenda. An agenda.

Alternatively, the “elders” card was pulled and the conversation stopped short:

Me: I don’t think you should call people _____

Relative: You can’t speak to me like that. How can you disrespect your family?

The more politically conscious I became, the more these dinners began to wear on my nerves. At school, I was learning so much I could almost feel my mind growing into itself. The classic teenage practice of finding oneself was in full force for me as I wrote school newspaper op-eds in my successive editor positions and defined myself in the lines of my rhetoric. Dinner with relatives sucked this pride out of my chest and pulled the plug on my budding confidence. I oscillated between righteous indignation that prompted me to sit firmly in place when the political debate started during our meal and outright fear that anyone would ask me at any point in the night about something of more import than my week’s activities. Family dinners became a matter of fight or flight.

I took refuge in journalism and books. They seemed to possess more certainty than my relatives’ armchair sociological analyses. I read Betty Friedan, Ta Nehisi Coates, Ari Shavit… and the fact that I considered these all to be radical texts is indicative of how intimidated I felt in political terms. My progressive ideals were no longer inclinations; I could use words like “neoliberal” and “reactionary” to match my relatives’ rhetorical skill. Vocabulary aside, however, a gulf persisted between me and some of the men in my family.

What was this gulf, exactly? Was it a generational gap? Surely an ideological divide existed between every new crop of cousins, fathers and daughters, uncles and nieces. Common wisdom dictates that naïve youth will always be more progressive and open-minded than their older counterparts. It seemed to me, though, that something more was at play here. These Shabbat dinners meant more than a blasé tidal shift in opinions, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

The time came for me to go to college, and I was surrounded for the first time by a collection of politically conscious people who had enough intellectual acuity to rigorously critique the elder generation’s values.

I met friends who told me their grandparents were “hella liberal” and still smoked weed on the weekends, and I beheld these friends in awe. This must have been the diversity they extolled in admissions brochures, the expansion of horizons — but which one of us was living in a bubble? Then there were the students who seemed to have swallowed their relatives’ platitudes like pills, rolling their eyes when they passed a student protest or snickering at T.A.’s requests to state our preferred gender pronouns. These students made me the most uneasy.

Mostly, though, college brought me a network of friends who shared my experience. By this time we had all developed standby strategies to deal with opinionated table talk: some blocked out the rhetoric and ate their khoresht in peace, and some, like me, often ventured back into the weekly scuffles like moths to a partisan flame.

But, of course, it was more than righteous indignation that pulled me back into the tides of argument. The supposed radical leftist hegemony on college campuses gave my relatives plenty of dinner table fodder on the nights when I made the ten-minute journey from my dorm to their dining rooms. They particularly liked to raise an issue with my chosen minor, Gender Studies, which they denounced as man-hating. As they prodded me about my professors in order to attack their liberal agendas, I felt the familiar nagging anxiety: Was the leftist haven I found in college making me tone-deaf, insular under the pretense of high-minded morality? I felt obligated to listen to every dismissal of Hillary Clinton, every racial slur, and every condemnation of Islam. This was my internal protest at their accusations of narrow-mindedness.

I still wondered what was really new in our political conversations. Topics had changed — Obama and McCain became Hillary and Trump, Al Qaeda became ISIS, gay became LGBTQIA+ — but the emotions I had as a young progressive facing several elder conservatives were constant. What were we all feeling during those semi-heated exchanges? We one-upped each other and attacked arguments at weak points, but what was the seed of all this debate? Perhaps it was a sense of familial betrayal.

We swear to keep family and business separate but there is no such promise when it comes to politics, although we know they are equally divisive. “The personal is political” is also true in reverse — to disparage someone’s worldview is an affront to their world. Political standpoints are currents that run deeper than the surface waters of opinion. Debate is healthy and insult is not, and the line between them is fine.

One August night before my freshman year of college, one family member reminded me once again to question everything my professors would tell me.

“These are a different kind of people. Really liberal. They don’t think like us.”

I wondered briefly what he meant by “us,” considering our often radically divergent opinions. He had been at the dinner table all these years — could it be that he never truly listened to me?

My cousin leaned toward me, interrupting my thoughts.

“Or you could come back from college a flaming liberal, and we’ll still love you.”

I was struck by the resonance of my cousin’s joke, and I still think about it often. By the very merit of calling one another family, we make an implicit promise to stand by one another and love unconditionally – that is, regardless of ideology. When we sit across the dining room table, embroidered white tablecloth stretching between us, and launch attacks intended not to teach, not to strengthen, but to change, there is a sense of combat that doesn’t belong in a family. These mealtime political debates are not a leisurely pastime but a battle driven by an attempt to win, and to win means to vanquish. Hovering over the platters of chicken and tadig is an intention to change one another, and the promise of loyalty feels contingent upon your next comeback.

Isn’t that what families do, though? We change each other. Any amateur psychologist will tell you that our personalities begin at home. Parents, and to an extent other relatives, are charged with the responsibility of edifying their children. It takes a village, and a large part of this is the admonitions and proverbs of the villagers. Perhaps my relatives feel this weight of social obligation propelling them forward as they critique my beliefs. They crave my confirmation that they are succeeding in their efforts. Maybe when I push back and hold my own, they feel some kind of failure.

There’s a Jewish parable in which a sage, faced with a crowd of scholars who disagree with his judgment, asks God to determine who is correct. God declines to comment. The wise men debate and eventually move forward with a decision. From heaven, God laughs with joy: “My sons have defeated me!”

The goal of true mentorship has never been indoctrination. Young people look to their beloved elders to create some kind of safe space to learn to walk, to stumble, to mess up. The goal is that eventually, the pupil becomes the teacher. A student who recites their teachers’ talking points is a student lost.

Through the ages, a 7 p.m. roundtable over plates of freshly-cooked dinner has been the family’s classroom. The curriculum is set by the routine inquiries of “What did you learn at school today?” and, “How was work?” Some families study in groups of three, and some are lucky enough to learn alongside dozens. I should hope that men in my family take enough interest in my growth to stretch my mind and challenge my thinking. So, too, should they hope I prove them wrong sometimes.

#nonfiction & opinion #gabriella kamran #sophie levy

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buckyscrystalqueen · 6 years

Text

Half Blood, Whole Heart: Part 26

Pairings: Jax x Reader, sister Winchester!reader- SOA/SPN Crossover

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, angst, murder (sort of SOA canon), character torture. This part is a little dirty, y’all.

Word Count: 5,000

A/N: So I decided to repost my novel- the story that someone stole from my old blog and put up on Wattpad. PLEASE don’t be an asshole and steal my stories. It CRUSHED me when it happened and almost ran me off Tumblr.

Half Blood, Whole Heart Masterlist Aesthetic by @ravenangel33

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Jax pulled into your driveway, bringing you and your newborn son home from the hospital, you saw Crowley waiting for you on the porch.

“Wonder what he wants.” Jax said as he pulled the SUV the two of you had recently bought toward the garage.

“Welcome home his new nephew, possibly. He didn’t swing by the hospital at all.” Jax shrugged as you zipped your jacket up, grabbed the strap of the diaper bag and got out of the car.

“Welcome home, kitten. I trust you’re feeling well?” You looked up at him as Jax grabbed the car seat and nodded.

“Good as I can be after 18 hour labor.” He nodded slightly as the two of you walked up the steps.

“Finally settle on a name?” He asked as he looked at your son. Jax nodded as he held the car seat up a little higher.

“We did just this morning. After 9 months of debates, we decided on John Filip after our fathers and a good friend from Charming.” You smiled at the choices you had agreed on and went to take a step toward the door to get out of the snow and freezing cold but Crowley put his hand out in front of you.

“Love the meaning behind the names. I have some business to discuss with the pair of you quickly. This ‘Juice’ character has been dealt with.” He said as he pulled out a folder from his coat pocket and handed it to Jax. “Painful and messy; proof is there. The message that it was from SAMCRO was given to him and only him. No evidence was left behind.” Jax set down the car seat on the porch and opened the folder. You knew right away what he had found to complete the job.

“Werewolf?” You asked as you looked up at him and he nodded with a laugh.

“Can’t get anything past a Winchester. Now, as for Clay and Gemma. Getting hellhounds into a prison is not difficult for me to do; however, I know both of you would love to be the ones behind the bullet, so to speak.” You and your husband both nodded slowly.

“Where are you going with this.” Jax asked. Crowley smiled and chuckled.

“Using the werewolf gave me an idea I think you would both find pleasurable. Shape shifters.” The concept clicked in your head and a giant smile spread across your face.

“Can you pull it off?” You asked excitedly. Crowley’s smile dropped and he looked at you with mock annoyance.

“Really, darling; must you insult me?”

“So what, you’d put shape shifters in the cells that look like Clay and Gemma and bring the real people to us?” Jax asked and Crowley nodded.

“And kill off the shape shifters immediately with hell hounds so they can’t shift into someone else.” You and Jax looked at each other for only a second before looking back at Crowley.

“Do it.” You said simultaneously.

“Wonderful. Get settled in; I’ll be round in an hour. I’ll call first so Lyla can distract Thomas.” You nodded as Crowley bent down, snapped a little teddy bear into his hand and tucked it into the carseat beside your sleeping son. “A gift from Uncle Ree, little John.” He stood up and smiled at the newborn before disappearing.

“Talk about a welcome home present.” Jax said as he picked up the car seat and headed inside.

“Now the fun question is how are we gunna do it? We’re home!” You called out; receiving a screech from your son from upstairs. The two year old ran as fast as he could to the gate to wait for you to come up.

“Is that my brudder?” He asked as he wrapped his little hands around the banisters and looked down at you.

“That’s your brother. Did you tell Uncle Opie and Aunt Lyla what his name is?” You asked as you headed up the stairs, even though they already knew. Your oldest son looked up at Ope and Lyla with a big grin.

“That’s my brudder, John. I’m big brudder now.” He said proudly as he stepped away from the gate to let you and Jax through.

“John Filip. Spelt the way Chibs spells it.” You said as the five of you headed toward your room.

“I picked Filip, She picked the spelling.” Jax said as you sat down on the far side of the bed. Opie put Thomas up next to you as Jax put the car seat on the bed. “So we ran into Crowley on the porch.” He told your friends as he picked his tiny son up proudly.

“Yea, he was here for a little bit before you got home. Said he needed to run something by you.” Lyla said as Jax gently handed her his youngest.

“Yea and he gave me this.” Jax said as he handed Opie the folder. “Proof of delivery of Juan Ortiz.” Ope’s eyebrows flew too his hair line as he opened the folder and leafed through the photos.

“This is brutal.” He said as he handed Jax back the folder.

“He was given the message that it was from the MC and got what he deserved.” Jax said as he walked over and put the folder in the top drawer of his dresser so it could be put in the safe in the basement later. “He also had an idea.” He sat down on his side of the bed and Opie and Lyla sat down at the end.

“So he is gunna get some shape shifters and drop them in… the other hit’s cells.” You said as you glanced down at your son, knowing that he would recognize his grandparent’s names. Jax did the same and continued in code.

“He’s gunna bring the real marks here so they can meet Mr. Mayhem in person and he’s gunna send in the mutts to clean up the other end so they can’t give it away.”

“When?” Ope asked as Lyla passed him your son to hold for a bit.

“Hour; before the boys get here. So Lyla if you don’t mind distracting…?” You said and she nodded vigorously.

“Absolutely. I’m not good with… stuff.” You smiled as Thomas got up and walked over to Opie.

“Can I have my brudder now?” He said as he put his hands on his hips. Ope smiled as Jax reached out and grabbed his son by the sides.

“What do you say?” He asked his son as he pulled him to sit back against the pillows. Ope passed John to you as your oldest sighed.

“Pwease.” You smiled as you laid John in Thomas’ arms with Jax’s help. You smiled as you looked at the two little loves of your life.

“Wait, I wanna get a picture. Don't look up at me stay just like that.” Lyla said as she jumped off the bed to stand at the end. You stayed put with a smile on your face until you heard the click.

“Alright, let me see.” You said as you reached out for your friends phone. She handed it over with a smile. You leaned back against the pillows as Jax leaned over behind Thomas to look and your heart instantly melted.

Both of you were looking down at Thomas and John. You had your hand on top of Thomas’ resting on John’s side and Jax had one hand on Thomas’ shoulder and the other on John’s head. Some of Jax’s blonde hair was hanging in his face and you could honestly say you had never seen him look that happy before.

“God, you’re so beautiful.” Jax said as he looked away from the picture to look up at you. You looked over at him and smiled as you handed Lyla her phone back.

“You happy?” You asked as you pushed the fallen strands back behind his ear.

“Never been happier, babe.” He leaned forward and gave you a chaste kiss before sitting back and looking at his sons.

“Just call us when you’re ready.” Ope said softly as he ushered his wife out of the room.

“I want one.” She told him softly and you giggled as you looked at your boys.

——

“So the boys are three hours out and Crowley is on his way. We’re all set on my end.” You said as you stepped out on the back porch and laid your mug of hot chocolate on the arm of your chair. You looked at Opie, who was building a small fire in the fire pit you had pulled up onto the porch and gave him a small nod before looking over at Jax. You could see that he only partially heard what you had said just by the look on his face. He wanted revenge and you could tell he was almost excited to get it. He leered down at the porch railing at the various tool and weapons he had there; plotting and planning the demise of Clay and Gemma.

“Lyla has Tommy in his room watching ‘Aladdin’ . She’ll call me if the baby wakes up.” You nodded at him as you heard the settling of chairs in the snow in front of you.

“Baby? What baby?” Gemma’s voice called out. You looked up toward the sound. Hate, rage and joy filled your heart as you looked at your two in-laws, tied to chairs in your backyard and an evil smile crossed your face.

“No. See, you don’t get to ask questions about my children, ‘mom’.” You sneered as you walked to the edge of the porch. “You lost that chance months ago when you tried to have it killed.” She looked at you, shocked and put on an act of offense.

“What?! I did nothing…”

“Don’t lie!” Jax growled at her as you pulled your your gun from the small of your back and fired a shot through the meaty part of her left arm. Her cry of agony echoed with the shot over your property as you walked down the stairs to stand in front of her.

“See, Gemma. Here’s the deal. We all know you are lying right now. After all, you did sign off on JT’s murder all those years ago…” Tears filled her eyes as they shot up to her son on her porch. Jax simply glared at her with a look of pure hate and disgust.

“Jackson…I-I didn’t…”

“Save it.” You told her as you crouched down in front of her. “He read the letters; all of them. You were right to have been worried about them.” She glared back down at you with all the hate she had. You simply smiled, raised your gun and pointed it at her face.

“Oh, I know what you must be thinking. ‘You did this to take my babies away, you stupid gash.’ But I gotta say, that’s only partially true. You see, I never wanted to take him away from you. I would never, ever purposely hurt my husband and my family like that by just showing him letters that showed what kind of mother you are. But you kinda forced my hand, Gem. Because you made me show him those letters… after he saw the video of you trying to make a deal with a demon to kill his wife and unborn child, I had no choice.” Her face dropped and you laughed.

“Yea, he saw that too. He also heard the voicemail that Clay left for the cartel assassin to have him killed.” You said as you glanced over at you father-in-law. He kept looking forward but he tightened his hands into fists as you got up and stood in front of him. “Just so you know, that 30k bought us a new car, so thanks for that.”

“What do you want?!” Gemma shouted. You giggled and walked back over to her with a shake of your head.

“I don’t want anything for you. You’ve already given me what I want.” You told her as you pulled the collar of your shirt down and tapped your gun against your crow. “Now, I would love to stay and chat; maybe show off a little something I learned in the eight years I spent in hell but my cocoa is getting cold and… well, no one likes cold cocoa.” You smiled as you fired another bullet into the fatty part of her right arm and looked up at Crowley who was standing behind the two of them.

“Photo evidence of the other half of this transaction are on their way. Anything else?” He said over Gemma’s sobs. You gave him a short nod and gestured to the two prisoners with your gun.

“Can you put a heater down here or something? Don’t want to lose them to the weather. And their voices; well, my kids don’t need to hear them so we could do without those as well.” Crowley nodded as you headed back up to the porch. You stopped in front of Jax, who you knew was only seeing red as he looked at the two people who had raised him. “They are all yours. You got about two hours.” He finally looked at you with a slight look of confusion.

“You’re not taking her?” You shook your head and cupped his cheek in your gloved palm.

“No, baby. She only tried to kill me. She actually killed your dad. That’s your revenge to take. I get mine by watching her suffer.”

“Fuck, you’re just as secretly twisted as I am.” He said as he gave you a chaste kiss and grabbed a pair of pliers. “Let me know when I’m running out of time.” You nodded as you pulled off your gloves and walked over to the fire place. You sat down on the edge of you chair next to Ope to warm up as Jax dropped his winter jacket on the porch and headed down the steps.

“I was hoping to see what you had learned in hell.” Crowley said as he snapped a seat on your other side.

“Yea, well it’s not my revenge to take. Beside’s that, I’m not big into the torture game, anyways unless I’m trying to get information.” You picked up your mug, sat back in your chair and smiled over at the King of Hell. “That and it’s more fun to torture demons. You guys are human shaped glow sticks.” You smiled into your mug and Crowley chuckled as a demon appeared with a folder similar to the one the pictures of Juice came in.

“Yes, well I would appreciate if you wouldn’t torture my demons for the light show, kitten.” He said as he flipped through the photos before handing it over to you. “Now, I have some other business to take care of. You have a pair of guards out front and this one will be stationed roughly an hour away. He will let you know when Sam and Dean are close and they will clean up any mess you need them too.” You smiled at him as he stood up and looked down at you. He hesitated just a little longer than usual and a wave of unease washed over you.

“Shit… what?” His eyebrows arched and he shook his head as he bent down to kiss your cheek.

“Nothing, darling. Simply… admiring your radiant glow.” He disappeared and you shook your head.

“What was that?” Ope asked.

“I don’t know.” You said as you looked at the empty chair left next to you.

“You don’t think he would turn us in…?” He inquired nervously. You shook your head and looked over at your friend.

“No. He sees the boys as his family which means we are his family. He won’t betray us. That look…” you said gesturing to where he had been standing moments before. “… means something is wrong with one of my brothers or there is a supernatural problem. He feels guilty he can’t warn me.”

“Why can’t he warn you?” You sighed and took a sip of your drink, letting the hot liquid warm you from the inside in the below freezing temperature.

“I told him not to. I’m not a hunter anymore, Ope. I know me well enough to know that if I knew about all the evils my brothers were facing every day, I would want to help. I won’t do that to my family. I won’t let my sons be raised the way I was… I can’t. We just got them some semblance of normal getting out of Charming, I’m not gunna throw them back into chaos if I can avoid it.”

“What are you two talking about?” Jax asked as he walked up the steps. He dropped a few tools in a bloody pile at the top of the stairs and grabbed his pack of cigarettes.

“Something’s going on with Sam and Dean and I was just tellin’ Ope why I won’t dig into it.” Jax, knowing your reasoning already, handed you the now blood covered pack of smokes.

“Light me one, babe.” He said as he put his Zippo on the arm of the chair before showing you the blood covering his latex glove covered hands. “Well, boys will be here in a few hours, you can ask them if you want.” You shook your head as you held the lit cigarette up to him. He bit it between his teeth while you lit one for yourself.

“Nope, I know myself too well for that. I’ll either hear about it when it gets too extreme or when it’s all done.” You took a long drag of the first cigarette you had in nine month and sighed. “God, you two have no idea how good that tastes.” The men chuckled as Jax collected more tools and his knife from the railing.

“We spent time in prison, we know.” Ope said. You shook your head and looked over at him as you pointed at him with the smoke.

“You have no idea. People don’t smoke around you in prison. I’ve been around you assholes smoking every day for the last 9 months. That’s like the cock tease to end all cock teases right there.”

“No, babe. The cock tease to end all is how we got our newest addition.” Jax said around his cigarette through grit teeth. He stopped at the top of the steps with a smirk. “So it serves you right.”

“You got another kid out of it and a cute one at that!” You called out to him as he headed back down the stairs. You looked up at the bloody mess in front of you and sighed. “I hope this gives him the closure he needs.” You said softly as you watched your husband take a screw driver and slam it into Clay’s knee. Clay’s face contorted and he opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. You glanced at Gemma who was silently sobbing as she watched her husband and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

“It will. This is how Jax gets his closure.” You nodded at your friend as you took another drag off your smoke. You remained quiet for the rest of the two hours as Jax went back and forth inflicting the pain he felt fit the personal crimes the Morrow’s had committed against him and his family.

Jax used every tool in his arsenal; from knives to common household tools, salt and bleach. Alternating back and forth from offender to offender; more Clay then Gemma. Sometimes he spoke; voicing the dark thoughts in his mind or happy family memories he shared with his son or real father. Every word maliciously chosen to inflict as much damage as the bleeding wounds and open holes on the bodies. He never once gave them the satisfaction of knowing the gender or name of his youngest child.

You couldn’t look away; like a car accident that was careening out of control. You didn’t notice Opie get up and head inside or the demon that popped in at the beginning of the second hour to check on progress. You couldn’t feel the cold seeping into your bones as the fire died down. All you could focus on was how much pain your husband was in because of the family members that tried to take everything from him.

“Mrs. Teller?” A small, male voice said as Jax was standing over Clay’s dead body. The mutilated flesh looked so foreign against the crisp white snow that surrounded the rest of the backyard. The blood that pooled at your husband’s feet had started to freeze long ago. You forced yourself to look away; taking a moment to realize it was the first time you had moved a muscle in over two hours. You nodded as a young, black eyed man stepped over at you. “Sam Winchester just past the hour away mark.” You nodded as you went to look back at Jax before the demon’s words permeated the fog you appeared to be in.

“Wait, just Sam?” The demon nodded and you stood up. “Alright, thanks.” You said as you cracked your neck and back. “Jax, time to wrap up.” He nodded as he looked back at his mother. His chest, now bare and blood splattered, heaved from the adrenaline that had coursed through him. He pulled out the gun in the small of his back and cocked it. You stood up with a sigh as the Glock shook in his hand. Gemma, a fighter like she always was, tried to look up at her son and you could see the resolve in Jax break. With a small sigh, you stepped off the porch and walked over at him. As gently as you could, you wrapped your hand around his and took the gun. He looked up at you and you gave him a small nod. “I got it.”

“Together.” He said as he shifted to stand behind you, holding your hand and the gun in his hand. He slipped his finger over yours on the trigger as you aimed the gun at Gemma. She looked up at the two of you and with the smallest nod and a single tear, you squeezed the trigger as Jax’s simply hovered in place. You both stood there for a moment, saying good bye to a huge part of you life before you turned toward Jax.

“Let’s get you inside and cleaned up, baby.” He put his wrist under your chin and tiled your head up to look at him. As you searched his tear filled blue eyes, his own searching yours with so many various emotions, you took a deep breath and brushed his blood stained blonde hair back behind his ear. “I know.” He pulled you in for hug, holding you tight as he buried his face in your neck. You could feel his tears falling on your skin and your heart broke for him. The two of you stayed there until the cold finally got to him and you pulled yourself back.

“Go get cleaned up, baby. Sam is an hour out. Leave your sneakers and your jeans at the top of the basement stairs so I can get the blood out. I’ll be up in a second.” He nodded as he ripped off the latex gloves and cupped your cheeks in his hands.

“I love you so fucking much, (Y/N). I’ll never let anyone hurt you or our boys.” You smiled as you reached between his arms and brushed his tears away with your thumbs.

“I love you too, baby. So much more than I could ever put into words.” He nodded in agreement as he pulled you in for a gentle kiss. After a moment, he pulled back and sighed. With one final glance down at Gemma and Clay, he crinkled his nose slightly and spit on the ground between their heads. Without another word, he headed into the house to get cleaned up.

“I have a list of the shit he used, please clean the blood off it all and give everything to Crowley to return.” You said to the demon that was still standing on the porch as you gathered all of your husband’s blood covered clothes to bring down to the basement. “Make sure that there is no blood left in the snow or on the porch and I want photos of this.” The man nodded at you as you grabbed your forgotten cocoa mug, the folder of pictures of the shape shifters to add to the safe and the pack of cigarettes.

“Burn or bury the bodies?” He asked as you opened the door. You glanced back and scoffed.

“Burn them in the fires of hell where they belong. Crowley got the souls as payment for this.”

——

“We named him John.” You said softly as you laid your newborn son gently in your brother’s arms. “After dad and Jax’s dad. Birthday is November 14th.”

“I like it.” Sam said as he settled back against the couch. “I know he would like that, too.” He smiled down at his nephew, his dimples visible a mile away as Thomas climbed up next to him.

“That’s my brudder, Unca Sam.” He said as he kneeled on the couch. Your brother chuckled and ruffled your son’s hair.

“Yea he is kiddo, and you’re gunna be the best big brother ever, aren’t you?” Thomas nodded as Jax strolled into the room, his wet hair slicked back and beads of water glistening on his bare chest. He had been in the shower for nearly an hour and you knew him well enough to know that that was his was of decompressing the heavy shit he had dealt with that day.

“He looks like (Y/N).” Your husband claimed as he sat down on the arm rest of the couch next to you. He put his hand on your back in-between your shoulder blades.

“I can see it. It’s funny that the boys are the exact opposite on who they look like.” Sam said as he looked up at you. “Tommy looks like Jax with your eyes and vice versa for John.” You nodded as you rested your arm on Jax’s leg.

“See I see Jax in both boys,” you said as you looked at your sons. “but I guess that’s just a mom thing.” Sam nodded in agreement and the room fell silent. You glanced up at your husband for a moment and almost as if he could read your mind, he nodded.

“Hey son, why don’t you go see if Aunt Lyla needs help with dinner? It would help mommy out a lot.” Thomas, who loved cooking with Lyla, practically flew off the couch toward the kitchen while calling out her name. You rubbed your husband’s knee and took a deep breath as Sam looked up at you.

“I don’t wanna know what, I just wanna know if he’s OK?” Sam sighed as he put his ankle on his knee and ran his free hand through his long brown hair.

“He’s…sick.” You sighed as you rested your elbows on your knees.

“I’m guessing it’s not the kinda sick Cas can just zap away either?” Your brother shook his head slowly and looked down at John to avoid eye contact.

“Crowley and Dean got themselves in a sticky situation but we’re handling it. We are at the point where we even have Crowley’s witch mother involved.”

“Oh shit…” You groaned as you got up from the couch. You walked over to the fireplace, fighting against your natural instincts to find out more. “How’s that working out for you?” Sam huffed a laughed and looked up at you with a half mouth smirk.

“I spend half my days in Scotland and half my days in England listening to one squawk about the other. How do you think it’s going?” You rolled your eyes in sheer annoyance and smiled.

“Serves you idiots right, gettin’ in way above your pay grade.” You looked over at Jax, tossing the next question around in your head but Sam cut your thought off at the knees.

“I won’t tell you even if you ask.” You looked over at him curiously and he shook his head. “You’re my best friend, (Y/N), I know that look. You’re out and I’m keeping you out. You got two boys, a husband, a job and a house. I won’t let you come back for this. We’ve dragged you through enough… I’ve got this one. It’s not pretty, harder than what we have seen before but not impossible.” The two of you looked at each other for a moment, having a silent conversation that could reach the greatest depths of the oceans with just micro face expressions. With a sigh, you threw your hands up and sighed.

“Fine… just bring him back in one piece, OK?” Sam nodded as Thomas came running back in the room.

“Nn-t Ly says it dinner time.” You smiled at your little boy as Jax jumped off the couch.

“Dinner time?! It’s dinner time?!” He exclaimed as he picked your son up, and threw him over his shoulder. You heard your son burst into a fit of giggles as Jax blew a raspberry on his side and headed into the dining room. You looked over at Sam.

“Do I need to be worried about the issues behind why De is sick.” Your brother shook his head as he got up and met you half way with John.

“We got it all handled already. Just trying to dig out of the grave we dug and staying out of the grave at the end of the day.” You looked up at your brother and sighed before you rolled your eyes and headed toward the dining room.

“Crowley was right. You two are flannel clad morons sometimes.”

Part 27

#Jax x Reader #Half Blood Whole Heart #SOA/SPN Crossover

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djn72 · 4 years

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Lilies of the Valleys

“Jay, are you awake? Come on, wake up. There we are, love.” Peter had the broth ready cooked but left it to cool a bit so that she could manage it. The bed provided by the hospital didn’t match well in the living room of their bungalow, but it was easier to manoeuvre when she needed to sit upright to eat. Peter just had to press a button now, whereas before he had to arrange pillows. He spoons a small mouthful of broth to her lips and she receives it, moving her tongue and making a tutting sound as if she were sucking a pear drop. He had to be careful not to spill anything on her fresh nightie. She swallows another mouthful and Peter slowly wipes her mouth with the edge of a clean hanky. She can only manage a little at a time, so Peter sits and gently holds her frail hand and often talks about their life together.

“Do you remember Daisy? You remember Daisy don’t you love? She was in the Co-op today and she asked after you. She mentioned she turned eighty-five last Saturday, I said Jay’s eighty-six tomorrow and she remembered; yes, she remembered.” He paused and put the dish on the bedside table and looked at his wife for a glint that she remembered Daisy too. “Her Geoffrey is suffering with his hips she said, but she is fine. She’ll be round to see you. Yes.” Peter uses the hanky to clean his glasses; a clean bit so that it doesn’t smudge the lenses too much. He then carefully replaces them, making sure his mildly trembling hands don’t cause him an accident. She doesn’t know yet; not yet, that he has Parkinson’s disease, albeit the early stages.

“The doctor’s coming tomorrow Jay, to check you over.” Peter slightly raises his voice in the hope that she understands. Although it is a gradual process, it’s still a tricky thing to come to terms with. She has occasional lucid moments when she smiles at something you say and it makes it all worthwhile because it means she remembers a little bit.

“Do you remember when we met, love? At the choir? You were with Daisy in the middle row. I was at the back in the bass section. You had a beautiful voice. I asked you afterwards if you wanted to go to the pictures to see ‘Brief Encounter’. You said you’ll see, but you went with me, didn’t you?” Peter smiled as he thought of all the places they had been courting. She was beautiful then, young, happy and eventually in the Brecon Beacons, on the field near the top of Sugarloaf Mountain, he knelt down on one knee and proposed. Of course, she couldn’t say no because she knew he was the one. The only one for her.

“Ginnie will be round soon. I think the bag needs changing. It’s good of them to come round so often. Don’t know what we’d do without them. Was the soup nice? I’ll finish it off if you like. There’s plenty in anyway.” Peter smoothes his wife’s brow and white hair. “Ooh, you’re a bit warm love.” He takes the dish into the kitchen and then soaks a flannel under the cold tap, wrings it, and comes back into the living room. He places the cooling towel on her forehead. “Is that better dear?”

The front door goes and Ginnie walks in. “Hi Peter, how are you darling?” She comes over and puts a compartment tray of tablets on the bedside table. ”She should have enough now ‘til next week. Hi Jayne, it’s only me, love.” Ginnie does all the necessaries; changing the ‘leg-bag’, and doing personal duties. Peter makes Ginnie a coffee whilst she does all this. There’s only so much he can do and Ginnie is marvellous. “What would we do without you Gin’?” Peter brings the coffee through carefully; the NHS mug two-thirds full so as to avoid spillage. “Aw, lovely darling. Just what I need. How’s she been today?” Peter tells her that she’s had some soup and they were chatting about Daisy and that it’s Jay’s birthday coming up tomorrow. Ginnie does some tidying of the kitchen and hoovers a little before she sets off. “I’ll be in to check on things in the morning, love. Is there anything you or Jay need before I go Peter?” “No, love. You’ve been marvellous as usual Gin’. Shall I see you out?” “No love, I can manage.” She smiles warmly at them and makes her way out.

It’s summertime, and the flowers are growing again in the garden. “The lilies are nearly blooming love. They’ll be ready in a week or so. Do you remember the lilies at our wedding? They’ve always been our favourite.” Peter recollects the wedding clearly at their local church in Abergavenny, Monmouthshire. Luckily he had a job in the local mine which would have delayed their vows had he not started. Many of his family and friends were in attendance as were those of his wife to be. It was a beautiful, serene ceremony; the crescendo being the 'I do's'; the exchanging of rings, and the final adoring kiss cementing their relationship forever.

The phone rings and Peter picks up the receiver; it's their daughter June ringing to see how they are doing.

Funny contribution from friend JR:

“Hi dad”, bubbled June, “just phoning to see how you and mum are doing. I’ve been thinking about you all week and wondering how you both are. Love you.”

“Oh June, thank you dear. It’s lovely to hear your voice. Your mum and I are just fine. She’s just had some French onion soup - without croutons - and Ginnie’s been round again and has been her usual saintly self. Don’t know what we’d do without that diamond of a girl, she’s one of God’s own. Your mum’s sitting up now with a broad smile on her face. I think she must know you’re on the phone. She mentioned you earlier, or at least I think it was you, she mumbled something anyway...... Oh bollocks...”

Peter’s Parkinson’s suddenly intensified and, trembling violently, he dropped the receiver, juggling it in vain a few times before it crashed to the floor, smashing a vase full of lilies conveniently situated in the room for the sake of advancing the narrative. Bending down to retrieve it from the faded Arabesque carpet, he grimaced in pain as his back gave out with a sonorous click.

“Oh God June, love, my back’s gone again. It’s agony !”, he cried.

“Dad, just relax and don’t panic. Find your way to your seat and keep calm. I won’t hang up, don’t you worry. You just get yourself seated, dad. I’m here for you.”

Peter, bent over almost at right angles to the floor, lurched his way agonisingly slowly over to an armchair and collapsed into it’s redeeming embrace.

“Oh June love,” he sobbed, “I don’t think I can get back up out of this chair now and I’ve just realised I’ve left the bloody stove on. I forgot to light it before I answered the phone. The whole room is full of bloody gas. Our lucky vase with the lilies is smashed, too. Had it sixty years”.

“Dad, just keep calm. How far away from the stove are you? Can you turn it off from where you are? If you can’t manage then I’ll ring the fire brigade. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine, I’m at least twenty percent confident of that.”

“No love, I’m at least fifteen feet away. I’m beginning to feel a bit woozy now. Your mum’s unconscious I think. I’m not thinking clearly. I can see strawberries in the air and a giant badger is approaching me holding out a packet of Embassy Regal and a Bic lighter. Time for a fag I reckon...”

-KABOOM-

Some years later and a tearful daughter walks along the path clutching a bunch of lilies looking intently until she finds the right one. She stops and reads what it says:

Here lies Jayne Hilda Jones nee Wilford (b 28 July 1926; d 28 July 2012) who filled hearts with joy and happiness. Most beloved wife of Peter James Henry Jones (b 6 October 1925; d 31 July 2012). My broken heart beats fast to see you true; When once I said the words to you 'I do'; But off you went above the clouds so high; and now I join my Jay above the sky.

#love #h #happiness #shortstory #short #story #lilies #funny #writeblr #writers #write #writers on tumblr #writing #my writing

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surr-eality · 6 years

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Prompt: Write a story taking place over 24 hours, ending on hour 17.

I’ve never posted my creative writing here before. Usually I’m a stickler to scifi realism (think Black Mirror) but this week for workshop, I managed to write a story about real life I actually quite love. It also broke my heart.

This is “The First Dance.”

The First Dance by A.O.

When he opens his eyes to the foul, bloodstained cotton of the gurney he wails. He’d rather be dead. His neck – held fast in the clammy grip of some cushioned vice – crinkles and sparks as the bed trundles through a whush of sliding doors. The pain will last forever.

He thinks about her cheek, soft and white, melting into a forest green pillow. It’s dark. He thinks about her breathing; he thinks about the moon, how it must blow light softly into her face as she sleeps.

He remembers the crack in her voice. 4:02 am, the earliest phone call he’d received from her. Shaking she was, breathing quick and high on thoughts. She’d been up since 3:30. She’d rolled over, knowing Toby was asleep, and reached out for no reason to feel Toby’s stubbly beard. She just had to feel it, she said. She wiggled beneath his arm, breathed into his ear. Yet he didn’t move, that Toby. He never did. He was the worst person to sleep with. So a chill, like ice, crystallized in her brow and slid down the bridge of her nose to her chest and between her – between her shoulders. That’s what she said. She lay there quietly, afraid to move, until 4:02 when she slid from her sheets and rung him up.

The ringtone. Piano, glistening. She’d recorded it for him, back when she composed music and he’d sit around and listen, out of sight in the corridor when she thought no one was downstairs. They lived in a co-op, they met in the co-op, they met years ago, they met lifetimes ago. All of it he knew and felt again when he heard the muffled piano playing facedown on the floor. He threw his arm over the sofa and groped the floorboards for his phone. He’d stopped watching Netflix hours ago but the characters refused to stop talking.

So, he picked up the line. I don’t know if I’m ready. Well, sure you’re ready, he’d said. You’ve been talking about this for, what, two years? I taste-tested seven different types of lemon meringue when you and I both know I hate lemon meringue. I did that for you. Don’t let it go to waste.

She laughed, and he registered a crackle of plastic over the line. He imagined her sitting at some kitchen table, not the one she painted back in college but one he’d never seen, drawing long white ribbons of silk from a bag and crying to him over the phone. He imagined those same fingers drawing invisible notes over sheafs of old songbooks the one time they found an antiques store with a music collection. She felt and listened with her hands. She took her time to think. She had two years to decide. Right?

Right?

He talked her into sleeping again. She had a long day ahead of her, after all.

He lay on the couch until 8:15 when he had to piss. He thought about pissing himself; wouldn’t that be funny, just like old times. Then he got up, pissed in a proper toilet, brushed his teeth. He prodded the pinkish flab on his stomach with sodden disgust. He let himself get like this. He was miserable. His dick hung loose and empty, like an old sock spit out behind the dryer and forgotten. He blow-dryed his hair, gelled it, spit in his hand and gelled it some more. He googled “how to tie a tie” but his fat fingers couldn’t hit the right buttons on his screen, so he threw the phone against the wall and screamed “FUCK YOU” and sat down in his rolling chair with no pants on. He glared out the window and finally left at 9:26.

She’d fought for an outdoor ceremony but lost. I have to do what he wants, was the mantra. Always the mantra. Her words echoed through the pews and the rafters dripping with felt banners proclaiming “Joy to the World”. The stained-glass windows were green and blue and purple – cool colors. It made the church feel dark. He sat down and thought about how uncomfortable it felt on his ass, his back. He remembered once she asked him if he was atheist and he replied no; he was “spiritual but not religious” because it sounded cool at the time and she snorted. Alright.

The ceremony began late. The flower girl threw a tantrum behind the standing screen, in that little room where the priest usually hid - the priest or pastor, whatever. Did he know the groom, said the baby powdered grandma to his left and he said no, I’m a friend of the bride’s. My dear, she whispered, crinkling her nose, you must be on the wrong side of the church. Before he could move the doors blew open and Toby was striding down the aisle. A million people walked in and then she came and everyone forgot how to breathe - she looked just that way. He was the last to sit.

From 11:15 to 5:00 he had nothing to do. He yelped a place called Daffy’s Diner that served three-and-a-half star blackberry pie so he sat there, trying to flirt back with the fat waitress. He imagined fucking the waitress in the bathroom, but the instant he thought about slamming her thighs onto the metal-rimmed sink he thought about making love to her, the one time she got a little too drunk and they stood alone in Shea’s hallway under the fairy lights, feet shuffling on a sticky floor and people wheezing and screaming and singing in rooms all around them. And that night Toby was just another stupid frat boy so they grabbed each other and spun round and round and round with their lips and hands intertwined until they were on the lawn, in the bushes, and he was grinding her into the dark luscious dirt as she moaned oh god, please, I’ve wanted you so bad, oh god, give it to me. And the next day when he woke up to an empty bed it was just that, empty, and she even left some waffles in the toaster. Last night was great! she wrote on his forearm with Sharpie, somewhere no one could see.

The fat waitress sidled up to him again. Another slice of pie, sweetie? It was 5:16 P.M. The diner was empty. But he realized, by the clumsy scrawl of color on her lids, she must be at least forty. He got up and left.

He finally spoke to her at the reception. She’d won the battle over the venue. The rose garden had Corinthian columns and stately marble statues and nothing modern; modern wasn’t her style and she only wanted to get married with her bare toes in the earth. That was something he could’ve given her at least. He stood on a balcony sort of thing and fingered a glass, a flute maybe, full of orange-flavored liqueur that dashed fractals of light onto the stone. She found him alone with roses in her hair. Did you say hi to Arthur and Katy? How about Sam? And even when he hesitated – he’d spoken barely a meaningful word that day, he felt – she could pull him right back into the present, right back into life.

You know, she said. Well, she said it and froze. He looked at her, and suddenly he saw her somewhere else. A leather bench, three years younger, frozen over the keys. He whispered her name, and she looked up - looked right at him – and nodded once. She played for a crowd of five hundred, but he thought she played just for him: how breathlessly she played, how movingly; how she sweated, how she swayed and grimaced and called out in agony through the most delicate waltz on earth. She received a standing ovation.

Toby was raising a toast. His voice, strong and sure, carried over the balmy wind. Toby loved her, and she loved him back. Just enough.

6:11. He laid a hand over hers. I’ll never say a word, he said. Everyone gets cold feet. It was just a fleeting moment. There’s no such thing as a fleeting moment, she responded. I’m scared, I – I love him but I’m scared–

Hey. He grabbed her hands. Stop thinking. You’ll forget about this tomorrow. Enjoy the night.

Enjoy your life.

He thinks of the emergency room bills, how heavy the debt will whack him over the head. He groans. Why couldn’t the traffic barrier have been the side of a bridge? No more taxes.

He raises an arm above his head for no reason. A nurse pushing the gurney turns around. Sir, we have total faith in you. 3:30 A.M., he reads on a passing clock. He imagines Toby asleep in the villa, shirtless. He must look good shirtless. He imagines the man not moving, not even when his new wife turns over in the dark and gives his shoulder a kiss.

The gurney has stopped moving. He closes his eyes and thinks of the first dance. How she held Toby, silent, swaying like the rushes by the river. Her heels shuffled on the parquet floor; she hated heels. She also hated the disco ball, and the DJ. He would’ve fired the DJ. He would’ve called all her friends in the philharmonic, the ones who played violin and cello and maybe even the harp; he would’ve dragged her piano up a mountain if it meant she could dance to it the way she did.

Her eyes were open as she danced, just barely, her smooth white check nestled in the honeyed crook of Toby’s perfect, solid neck. She spun a little, slowly, until he saw her face from the back from the room. If she raised her eyes she would’ve seen him, standing at the darkest table, breathless. He was crying.

#creative writing #short story #flash fiction #writing prompt #modern romance #unrequited love #oops spoiler ?#writer #short fiction #writing workshop #english minor #wedding #mine

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