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rogue-durin-16 · 3 years

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LIFE-SAVING SHARPIE

Summary: Despite being a muggle, Y/n's mother was an expert in divination. She tried to teach Y/n, who saw it as a mere muggle game. But, oh, what a powerful weapon a muggle game can become in the hands of the right witch.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Genre: angst (w/ a good ending)

Tags:

Fred Weasley: @whiskeyn-rain @lumos-solemn

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog

Warnings: injuries, death(ish)

A/N: I'm not saying I'm incapable of writing an angsty ending for a Fred Weasley story, but I'd rather not do that, so here comes a stupid story that occurred to me this morning, enjoy <3

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

"Y/l/n!" I sighed. "Is it true?"

"Your mom is into divination?" George question made me throw my head back in desperation as both twins made their way through the Great Hall to meet me.

I knew that day would be a bumpy one the moment we entered in the Divination classroom. The fact that a muggleborn aced a new subject since class one was strange.

I knew I would have to give some explanation to my friends after. Ron was particularly shocked by the fact that my muggle mother had taught me —against my will, may I say— lots of Divination-related things. I knew Ron, being Ron, would surely tell every soul that would listen about his discovery, but I had hoped for him to wait until the third period at least.

"Secrets spread like wildfire here." I said.

"Are you secretly a soothsayer?"

"Yes, Fred. You see, I have the Sight." I ironically stated, and, seeing this as a perfect opportunity to get closer to the boy I fancied, I added "Want me to read your palm?"

They shared an amused look, fully aware that I was joking. Even in the Wizarding World, divination wasn't something to believe in.

There were supposed to be people able to see the future, such as professor Trelawney, but no student had seen her predict a thing, so she wasn't the best example.

George was the first one to sit down. "Predict my future, oh, you who were gifted with the Sight." I snorted as he laid his palm before my eyes.

I picked his hand on mines, "Hmm..." Fred hovering over my form from behind wasn't ideal for me to concentrate. "Okay so..." I felt one of his hands toying with the clasp of my necklace, brushing my nape. "Will you stop touching my necklace and sit down?" I demanded.

"Yeah Fred, sit down." George reprimanded his brother. "She's trying to see my future." I heard Fred chuntering before he plopped down on my other side, leaning on a tad too close for my liking. "Alright, fortuneteller, is there a love line?"

Of course he would ask about that. "Let's see..." I traced said line, unable to remember to the T what my mom had tried to teach me. "So, the heart line is arched... Which means..."

"That you can't tell a thing?" I slapped Fred's arm.

"Which means he's balanced." I corrected him. "You're able to realize when you need to take care of yourself, and when you should let a someone in." George seemed invested. "You'll have just one serious partner, but they'll be the right one."

"Well, that doesn't sound half bad, huh?" He looked at me with a content smile.

"My turn." Fred spoke, smacking his brother's hand away and replacing it with his left one. "The line of life or whatever." He scooted a bit closer and I felt my heartbeat pick up. "What's my fate?"

"Are you left-handed, Fred?" I questioned with an eyebrow raised, already knowing the answer. "I need your dominant hand." Oh well, that came out wrong.

"Straightforward, are we?" George snorted at his brother's remark as he exchanged hands, turning to straddle the bench to be more comfortable. "Alright, what do you see?" He had leaned on to the point where he only needed to tilt his head down a couple of inches to rest it on my shoulder.

"A hand." I deadpanned, which earned a playful push from him. "Okay, okay— I see..." A puzzled frown took over my gaze. "Wait—" I turned to George. "gimme your hand."

"What?" Fred questioned, shifting his position ever so slightly.

"Uhm..." The frown grew bigger, and I had to remind myself what I was doing was a joke. "You... don't have a lifeline?" I dubiously informed. "I mean— it sorta... Starts? but then it fades away." I widened my eyes and froze, remembering what that meant.

I saw Fred tilting his head slightly. "Is it so bad that you won't tell me what it means?" He asked jokingly in order to lighten my distraught mood.

"It— well, it means that you'll die at a young age." My eyes met his and, despite the amused smile that always danced on his lips, fear slipped out of his orbs now, too.

"Wait what?" George propped himself on his forearms to see his brother's palm. "Can't be. Check mine?"

"I just did, you git." George wasn't even smiling. Maybe he did believe it. "Yours is fine."

The three of us stayed in silence for an instant. Even if none of us believed in divination, the fact that Fred had no lifeline was rather unsettling.

"It's fine." I cleared my throat, turning to my bag and leaving Fred's hand over the table on the process. "Apart from seeing the future, I can fix lifelines." They looked at each other when they saw me grab a sharpie. "Don't move." I demanded, holding down Fred's right hand before tracing a black line where the lifeline was supposed to be. "There. A long, healthy life."

When I looked back at the twins' faces, I saw them ready to laugh. Distress had already left them, and that helped my own evaporate.

"Merlin, Y/n!" Fred dramatically exclaimed. "You've just saved my life!"

"She sure did." George agreed, patting my back.

"Now go and tell Ron to shut up." I didn't want to imagine what would happen if people started to believe I could actually predict their future; the twins were sceptic and even they had somehow fallen for it.

I was so focused on George getting up that I didn't even notice Fred's hand flipping and wrapping around mine.

A soft kiss was placed on my cheek and I felt my face heating up even before meeting Fred's proud grin. "Figured I'd give my savior something in repay." His eyes seemed to flicker to my lips for a second; it's just my imagination, I thought, unaware of Fred's thumb caressing the back of my hand until he removed it in order to stand up.

Four Years Later

FRED'S P. O. V.

One second I was laughing at Percy's joke, and the next one everything was black; not only visually, everything was pitch black in every fucking sense.

I heard nothing, I couldn't touch anything, my voice was gone.

My mind was completely blank, until a thought slipped in my brain: 'you'll die at a young age'.

My head was spiralling now. I was dead. That's what death felt like? Nothing?

Y/n's words kept going on and on, frying my brain. How ironic it was that the voice I would have forever in my mind belonged to the girl I had been in love with since I was fourteen, and the words were what we thought to be her silly prediction.

I had no idea how long it had been, but suddenly I felt it; a tear running down my cheek. A flaming hot tear, burning its way off my face. Then I felt something else, some sort of rope wrapping tight around my right hand and wrist, so tight that it made my pulse speed up.

My pulse.

It dawned on me that my heart was beating fast against my chest. It was beating.

I needed to breathe.

"FRED!" Someone forced my eyes open; It was Percy. I couldn't see him right away because the lights were blinding to my eyes, but I recognised his voice. "FRED SAY SOMETHING!"

"Y/n..." I couldn't hear my own voice, but I felt her name going through my vocal cords.

"HE'S ALIVE!" Ron cried. "you're alive-" my sight was blurry but I could pick out my younger brother's crown in front of me as he sobbed over my chest.

"We gotta get him out of here right now!!" Of course it was Hermione who got everyone moving. As both my brothers managed to pick me up, I felt my eyes closing once more. Not even the fear of not waking up again stopped me from passing out.

READER'S P. O. V.

I had volunteered as Healer to help Madam Pomfrey during the Battle, that's why it was me who received two Weasleys practically dragging a third one into the improvised infirmary.

I recognised him from his jacket. "Fred..." At first I thought it was his corpse, that's how bad he looked.

"Y/N!!" It was only when Fred seemed to tilt his head up due to Ron's cry that I reacted, rushing to help them. "Keep him alive!" I only nodded, taking Ron's place as he took off.

With one of his arms over my shoulders and the other over his brother's, we managed to carry him to one of the stretchers; his painful weak groans went directly into my ear as we moved him, triggering the tears I was holding to fall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

FRED'S P. O. V.

"—alive, somehow." Y/n's voice, though it sounded far away, let me know she was close. "No, don't wake him up."

"Listen, you gotta get him to St. Mungo." It seemed George the one talking, but his voice was too shaky to tell. "in an hour this is gonna get really ugly, I want him out."

"George, we're besieged." Her tone was hopeless.

"Look at him, You said it— It's a bloody miracle he's still breathing." my brother's voice shattered; all I wanted was to get up, hug him and say I was okay, but I felt my brain spinning once more. "Bill and I will escort you out of the castle so..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next time I opened my eyes, terror inundated me; everything was dark again. I gasped for air and propped myself up, instantly regretting it. A stabbing pain attacked every part of my body, triggering a shocked cry out of me.

"What are you doing?!" Y/n whisper-shouted, before placing both her hands over my chest to push me back to the bed again. "Are you mental?" Her fingertips moved out of the way a bandage that covered my eyes. "Oi, listen," when she noticed my shaky hands desperately trying to reach my face, she took them in hers. "You're safe."

I tried to say something —anything—, but my throat was sore, and the only thing that was able to leave it was her name.

"Shhh." She hushed me, letting one of her hands travel to my face. "You have to rest." I would have sworn she was crying, but I couldn't tell. "Everything'll get better." Her thumb stroking my cheek was the most soothing thing I had ever felt, so it wasn't difficult for me to close my eyes, this time willingly, though I was equally scared. "I'll stay by your side." The reassuring squeeze her hand gave me, made me aware that she had noticed my fear.

Before drifting off, I felt Y/n's lips placing a chaste kiss on my forehead, making my heart hammer against my chest.

I was still alive.

A Month Later

READER'S P. O. V.

It was Ron who sent me an owl the moment Fred finally got out of the hospital. He informed me that, instead of going to the Burrow to rest a few days—as planned—, ha had gone straight to the shop.

That's how I found myself the next morning inside Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, which was not-so-surprisingly full of people again.

Due to the huge amount of customers, it was relatively difficult for me to spot the twins.

Apparently, I turned out to be easy to spot.

"Y/n!" I turned in the stairs' direction to be met with a very enthusiastic George who, before I could even greet him, engulfed me in a hug.

"I see you can't catch a break." I observed, pulling away with a big smile on my face. That place really made the trick to bring joy to everyone.

"You can't imagine." He replied, his gaze wandering around before pulling my hand. "Oi, Fred! Look who dropped by!" He shouted over the hubbub, leading me to the till counter, behind which I saw the reason why I had come in the first place.

Just as Fred's eyes noticed me, he attempted to rush out of the till. I left George's side as soon as I realized that he, in fact, couldn't really rush out.

"Merlin's beard!" Despite he had just had to grip the counter in order not to fall, he tried again. "Take it easy, will you?" I scolded him, steadying him by his forearms and helping him step back to rest against the till. "Do you want to go back to the hospital?"

"If you're the one taking care of me, I wouldn't complain." The first time his eyes fell on my lips, I missed it because I was still securing him. The second time it was impossible to miss. "You know? Your sharpie saved my life."

I snorted at his nonsensical words. "You're delirious, Weasley." My hands finally left his forearms, just to be picked up on his. "Still suffering from the concussion?" I joked, trying to deviate my own attention from my fast heartbeat.

Another glance at my lips.

"I should get going." George spoke behind me.

"I was going to visit you tomorrow." Fred stated, his gaze now focused on my eyes.

"Sorry to break it to you, love," I pointed out, motioning at him with our hands still held. "But you can barely walk."

"Yeah, but I needed to see you." He looked somehow sheepish; I doubted I had ever seen him like that before. "I'm gonna be as clear and concise as possible—" He cleared his throat and forced himself to look at me. "I'm pretty much in love with you." I didn't know my eye could go as wide as they went. "Thing's I've known for a good couple of years now." He shrugged. "Telling you scared me, but then this happened." He gestured at himself. "And now not being able to tell you scares me even more." His eyes scanned me before looking around. "This wasn't the ideal place to tell you, but I didn't want to wait any longer."

I gulped, trying to process it as fast as possible.

"For Godric's sake, Y/n," he gently tugged my hand. "Say something, please." Fear started to take over him, even if he tried to keep it at bay. "It's alright if you don't feel the same, we can still be friends, I promise—"

"How do I kiss you without hurting you?" I questioned, already feeling the heat on my cheeks.

I could tell by his face that, out of everything I could have said, he was not expecting the answer I had given him. "Ever the caring one." He let go of my hands to cup my cheeks. "Just kiss me," he sounded so happy, it was contagious. "I'll deal with the pain later."

I listened to him and, holding onto his blazer, stood on my tiptoes and crashed my lips against his— only because I had been wanting to kiss him for too fucking long.

I got lost in the kiss and my brain completely dismissed that an entire wall had collapsed over the boy before me just a month ago; my hands went up to his neck, pulling him closer and, consequently, earning a painful groan from him.

"Shit! sorry." I was quick to let go, suddenly very aware of our surroundings, too.

He just shook his head and pulled my back to him, this time by my hips. "I said I'll deal with it later." He spoke against my lips before going in for a second kiss.

I was more gentle now, careful not to cause him too much pain.

To our dismay, we were interrupted.

"You said love confession!" George snapped us out of it; this time the groan Fred let out was from annoyance. "not snogging session in front of our customers! Get to work!"

He huffed, unwillingly separating from me. "If you stick around until lunch time, we can resume this."

I pretended to think about it. "I guess I can find something to do until then." My smile was as wide as his, and it grew wider when he pulled my into a hug, placing a kiss on the crown of my head. "I love you too, by the way."

His laugh reverberated on his chest. "Good to know."

"Freddie! Now!" This time it was me who groaned at George's demands.

"Help me out, love." Fred requested, pulling away from me so I could help him move behind the till counter. "See you in a couple of hours?" I nodded, pecking his cheeks and walking away from the shop.

It was when I started to walk down the Diagon Alley that it clicked.

His lifeline.

The sharpie.

"OH MY FUCK—"

#fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x slytherin!reader #fred weasley #fred weasley x hufflepuff!reader #fred x you #fred x slytherin reader #fred x y/n #fred lives au #fred weasly x reader #harry potter fanfiction #fred weasley fanfics #fred weasley fluff #harry potter #battle of hogwarts

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paper-n-ashes · 3 years

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The Late Shift - Part 2

Characters: Paul Sevier x Female Reader

Words: 2k

Warnings/Tags: Little inklings of sexual themes. Otherwise we’re still in PG territory. Oh and mutual pining from two idiots. My favourite kind.

Authors Note: One shot? I don’t know her. Honestly, I don’t have any excuse. I just felt the urge to continue on with this dumb fluffy story because it makes me feel a little warm and fuzzy inside and I needed that. Will we drive this car straight into smut town afterwards? Ah you’ll just have to see.

Catch up with Part 1 here

Paul always considered himself a smart guy. Perceptive, knowledgeable, with years of grueling education behind him to be where he is today.

His schooling, work, almost every minute of his waking moments was spent in the realm of artificial illustrations of correspondence. He could happily spend hours sifting through the words and numbers that made up all types of message transmission, might even admit he had a talent for decoding their significance and origin. Exchanges born from machinery were easy to analyse – they had set rules and gave little room for differing interpretation. He was comfortable in that world. Knew how things worked, what paths data and carefully devised information would take.

Human communication was infinitely harder to navigate. It was a skill he knew he was lacking in, compared to others at least. His words never came out the way he wanted, he struggled to say exactly what was wished to convey and agonised over the fact expression and tone could morph any remark into something with a whole different meaning.

Every day, he encountered people who used this as a tool - a weapon to obscure the truth and conceal hidden agendas. It was hard not to, working for the US government. In time, he’d become cynical. Wary of what people spoke aloud, assuming it was all said without much sincerity or reliability unless proven otherwise.

And then after another arduous day, there you were. Out of nowhere. Kind. Honest. Genuine. Within such an excruciatingly short interaction, you’d exuded all these traits so effortlessly. A breath of fresh air after being smothered by the smog the rest of his life contained.

Paul would easily admit his attraction to you was surprisingly swift. The rapturing smile you wore when you’d looked up from your notepad had him snared from the moment it appeared, an aura of natural vibrance and radiant energy shimmering out from your animated expression. What he’d expected to be a dry, tedious endeavour turned into a spark-filled scene, where an excited stranger made him feel both horrendously nervous and unusually at-ease. It had been a long time since someone made him feel like that.

It had also been a long time since he’d asked someone out on a date, for more than a few reasons. The more prolific Paul became in his job, the more unpredictable and unstable his life outside of it was. It took him across the country at a moments’ notice and consumed most hours of his day, meaning forging even short relationships was fairly difficult.

Plus… he just wasn’t good at it. Putting himself out there. He was shy, paralyzingly so. It’s not exactly something he could refute. His confidence was always born from experience and understanding, in knowing the reasons behind why things worked the way they did, along with being able to calculate what would happen next. No textbook could ever cover the entire spectrum of human personality, and there was no way to truly predict what a person might do or say.

So, without the security of knowledge behind him, uneasiness and apprehension took over in most of his social interactions, particularly with those he felt a magnetism to. It’s exactly how he thought he seemed during his time with you. Awkward and floundering. Not exactly the most charming attributes for a man to have. And yet, the longer he was in your presence, the more he sensed those foibles fade into the back of his mind.

Talking to you was easy. Easier than it had been with anyone during a first meeting. What hadn’t been easy was enduring the seconds your touch grazed over him in your delicate workings while taking each different measurement - his heart beating a little faster, his muscles becoming a little more tense. When you’d eventually let your stare reach his, he’d seen how your eyes moved to trace the lines of his mouth, and it set his insides on fire. He’d been frozen by the unique type of burn, his body locked in place while a rare impulse begged him to sink his lips onto yours. In the past, he struggled to kiss a woman even after several dates, unable to push past the fear and doubt to turn his desire into action. However, in that moment, he’d been all too eager. His hand had moved on its own accord, fingers slinking up your waist, about to pull you closer when interruption instantly shattered his resolve.

The urge was still there in the dialogue that followed, although the promise of seeing you tomorrow made it easier to walk away, safe in the knowledge he had another opportunity to ask you out when his confidence was properly steeled. For once, he could be smart about this. Use his natural intellect to plan and act accordingly, giving him the best odds of securing more time with you.

Oh, but that all went to shit when your text message popped up on his phone screen. Seeing those words, even if they were meant for someone else, made his excitement reach an unfathomable peak, and in turn made him recklessly send a response without taking a second to think about the consequences.

And now, Paul had never felt so stupid in his entire life.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, the phone in his palm lit up with your conversation on display, he felt his stomach spasm with anxiety. Were you going to reply? What would you say? What if his bluntness freaked you out? What if you weren’t even talking about him? Was this all something his mind conjured up?

As the minutes passed without any sign of a response, the initially minor sense of panic began to compound, weighing heavy on his chest, the chaos of his mind soon melting into one certainty - he’d totally fucked this up.

About to slump his forehead into the steering wheel in a display of despondency, Paul suddenly felt a flash of courage at remembering the view of your face peering up at him. He knew the image of it would haunt him if he didn’t do something. He had to fix this. Explain himself. But it needed to be in person. He wouldn’t let technology mess this up for him again.

With a purposeful breath, Paul exited his car and began to retrace his steps past the other shopfronts, silently rehearsing what he wanted to say to you. He hoped to surrender himself to a collectively embarrassing situation, laugh off the turn of events, having it all culminate in an offer of dinner once your shift had finished. He already had a place in mind, only a street away, a little dumpling house that was always open late. Perfect for a cosy, quiet date after a chance meeting.

When his eyes latched onto your figure through the glass window, he stopped his hand from reaching for the door handle. You were crouching down in front of a small boy, his mother behind him cradling a newborn baby, your hand gesturing towards an array of child size suits. Paul couldn’t help but watch as your warming smile beamed, guiding the boys hands to touch and feel over the material, your words evidently making him feel more at ease as his expression slowly relaxed out of its worried frown.

Creeping backwards to make sure you didn’t catch him in your periphery, Paul felt a wave of relief wash over his skin, having evidence that your lack of reply wasn’t due to any of the worst case scenarios he’d been fretting over. You were just busy, concentrated on your work, giving your time and expertise to others in the same way you’d given to him.

The realisation was enough for him slink away, still impatient for your next encounter but assured in it being set within the next day cycle. He just had to wait.

Although, waiting wasn’t exactly a talent of his either.

You were dying inside.

A friendly grin was plastered on your face as you conversed sweetly with the woman in front of you, making idle chit-chat while her son changed out of the suit you’d picked together, but the smile had never felt so insincere. Usually you loved when children came in to pick out ensembles for weddings and similarly formal events, but at the moment your mind was stuck on a small battery-powered rectangle sitting at your desk with a half-written message remaining under your lock-screen.

In the time before Paul’s response came through, you’d never felt more humiliated in your whole existence. Evaporating into thin air would have been a welcomed miracle. But when the returning text slid into focus, your whole mindset shifted.

He felt the same. He wanted you too.

You’d been in the middle of typing out a hasty invitation to come back and make true on his intentions when this overwhelmed mother with a fussy baby caught your attention. Her eldest son had done his best to iron out his only formal suit for the role of ring bearer in an aunt’s wedding this coming weekend, unfortunately resulting an a house full of smoke and a clump of burnt wool.

Personal matters withered into the background at the comprehension of her drained, exhausted demeanour, all your focus pointed back towards the job you’d been distracted from. Well, mostly.

You couldn’t avoid the thoughts and questions glinting in the back of your mind. Of what might have happened if this woman never appeared. What might be happening in an alternate timeline where you’d been able to send that waiting reply. Without intention, your wonderings turned into moving pictures – leading Paul into the back workshop, being roughly picked up onto the cutting table, his lips and yours finally connected in a heated clash, shedding all of his clothing until that heinous mustard shirt was crumpled on the floor-

The high pitched beep of the receipt machine snapped you back into reality, noting the relieved smile the mother wore while her son excitedly grabbed at the bags containing his dashing new suit.

“Thank you!” he hollered without needing to be prompted, waving his hand vigorously before skittering away to the door.

“You’re an absolute lifesaver,” the woman echoed, taking the receipt from your outstretched hand. “I’m really sorry for keeping you so late.”

“Oh don’t worry about it.” The time on the monitor screen just ticked over to 8:17pm, long after you would usually shut up shop and head home to your empty apartment. “I've got nowhere special to be.”

You each said your goodbyes, waiting until the precise moment her silhouette was out of sight before jumping to your phone. The same half written message was there, but now it felt impossible to finish. All traces of adrenaline had long since worn off, and the bravery that made you type out the risqué proposition was reduced to almost nothing. Your timid nature rushed back in full force, a thumb pressing hard on the little x button to erase all evidence of your out of character impulses.

Who were you kidding. You weren’t this person. Unashamed and brazen enough to dive into a fiery entanglement with a handsome stranger in the same evening you’d met. You wished you could be. There was never a time the concept was so enticing. But… it was a fantasy not meant for you to live out. They were destined for the outgoing, the cool and composed, the bold and sure-footed. You rarely felt like any of those things. And Paul, like most men, probably reserved their interest and attraction for those types of women. It was so silly of you to think any different. Getting your hopes up was foolish, and would only end in-

The tingle of the shopkeepers bell sounded, internally groaning as you slid your phone back onto the desk. “We’re closed,” you hawked, a coldness in your tone you couldn’t hide. Eyes snapping up to the intruder, a bolt of lightening shot through, barely able to stop the delight mixing into your blood.

“I just, uh, figured out something more that I needed,” Paul said softly, scratching the back of his neck, clearly nervous.

“You did?” you breathed. “W-what was it?”

His chest rose and fell with a calming exhale, making sure your stares were secured before giving his answer. “…You.”

Tagging some lovelies who might want to read. Feel free to let me know if you don’t want to tagged in future works!

@tlcwrites @roanniom @princessxkenobi @hopeamarsu @blowthatpieceofjunk @mariesackler @leatherboundriot @foxilayde @modernpaw @cornmousequeen @direnightshade @mylifeisactuallyamess @caillea @jynz-andtonic @paterson-blue @miraclesabound @prismaticpizza @millenialcatlady

#paul sevier #paul sevier x reader #paul sevier x female reader #adcu #adcu fanfiction

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cheezritsu · 3 years

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Elegy for the Living

Fushiguro x reader

One of the tenets you’ve created for yourself when you became a jujutsu sorcerer was that you would save everyone—criminals, bullies, junkies, the like. You were no god; judgement was never yours to give. And yet, Fushiguro Megumi is trying his damndest to break every single one of your beliefs, brick by hard, infuriating brick. It’s all fun and games, until it’s not.

Alternatively: enemies to lovers and back again, in five easy steps.

A/N: currently in the process of writing an Enemies to Lovers Fushiguro fic so here’s the first part:

It’s possibly only seconds after you’ve finished battle. Seconds, he thinks, because his chest is still heaving, because you haven’t moved an inch, not even to pick up the weapon that’s been left behind after the final blow. (His blow, which made lamented card float lamely into the grass. It sits there, the five of cups, his disapproving frown aimed at you.)

Your feet are still, as if nailed to where you stand. The clouds begin to drop rain over the two of you, the run off puddling around your grimy combat boots. That’s how long you stay staring at the dismembered figure; you can only assume it was once a person by the puzzle pieces of body parts left behind after the attack. A hostage, a possessed person, a cursed item. A human being. Or, what was one.

Megumi’s steely eyes hold no reverence, instead watching your movements as you mindlessly reach into your uniform pocket, pulling out a small carton. You shake the box once, and the slim stick reveals itself.

Megumi’s skin prickles. “Hey,” he says, stepping closer to you as you continue to numbly place a cigarette between your lips. “We need to get going. Ijichi’s coming with the car soon, we have to meet him back at the entrance.”

There’s a flicker of blue light that emits from your fingertips; cursed energy, ignited like a flame. Megumi sneers at the misuse, watching in disgust as you take the first few puffs. “Unbelievable,” he mumbles. You tear your eyes away for only half a second to give him a withering glare, and then they’re back where they started.

But they twitch. There’s anger that fuels the blue flames licking your fingertips, and you can’t help but wonder.

“Why’d you attack it with divine dogs before I could secure him?” You don’t even acknowledge his look of bewilderment. “If I’d been able to separate them—“

“You couldn’t have.” He snaps. The tightness in his jaw is visible; it makes the sharp line his face even more defined, while at the same time marring the his boyish handsomeness. Does being a hardass come naturally? Or does he force himself to be this way? You mull over the question as he berates you, catching his customary reply:

“You’re not even close to being strong enough to save everyone.”

Megumi’s truths are white noise, barely decipherable from the drizzling rain. Underneath the awning of this abandoned high school, you’re safe from the onslaught of rain, but the body is not. It sags as water soaks into the clothes—a seifuku, black with white stripes. Blood floods the grass, trickling in rivulets down the sidewalks, sloshing into the gutter. You breath in, as if you’re sighing, taking a long drag of smoke that makes your lungs burn and your eyes finally shed the tear that’s been welling in the corner. The body’s going to bloat in a few days if it keeps raining.

Megumi, not privy to your inner thoughts (and frankly, unsure you even have any,) grabs your left arm. “Are you even listening?”

“How come whenever demons attack it’s always in shitty weather? Ever noticed that?”

Perhaps it’s the way your fingers separate, all of them equally spaced out as your right hand reaches up to drag the cigarette from your lips, that makes Megaumi pause. As the cigarette slides between your digits, a trail of blood stains the pure white. You haven’t wiped your hands yet. You go cross eyed from looking down, examining where the blood on your hands stains the cigarette. Your eyes glaze over, as if throughly entranced.

Megumi tears his eyes away, lest he be caught up in the same hypnosis. “We don’t have time for your stupid questions.”

You scratch your forehead with your thumbnail, humming slightly. “That just means you don’t know either.”

Cold wind sweeps through the thin fabric of his uniform. He looks at you with a pinched frown. “No, it means I don’t care. Let’s go.”

He’s done asking you anything. He heel turns away, leaving you—to do what, exactly? Your unerring stare never leaves the quartered girl, her mouth open to the clouds, like the dammed souls of hell crying for their saviour.

(Did you think that savior would be you? The mocking voice sounds unsettlingly like Megumi.)

Or perhaps, more likely, in her final moments of living she screamed for the safety of her mother, like any little girl would. Like she would.

“Damn,” you sigh, finally squatting down to collect your card. Your knees create a symphony of cracks, and you groan like an old war veteran when you stand back up.

When you spot Megumi, he’s leaning against one of the poles under the awning, his attention turned to the road. He doesn’t see you light another cigarette, inhaling slower this time to ride the drug out.

He only slightly turns his head when your feet start idly sloshing the water where you stand. The pointed toe of your shoe draws words he can only guess before they wash away.

“What are you doing?” He asks, both to get you to stop and from a deep seated curiosity. “Writing,” you say briefly. The cigarette dangles precariously from your barely open lips, your hands splayed out beside you to keep balance.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I gathered that much.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“What are you writing?”

A quick bite of a response loads itself on your tongue, but you hold back. Instead, you divulge the truth to him, knowing it’ll make him angrier.

“Things that deserve to be forgotten. Pain,” deft strokes write the kanji, and Megumi sees it take shape. “Agony. Memories. Sorrow.”

You finally take the cigarette out, the stick already half burnt. His eyes narrow upon it, his blood boiling as you waste your dexterity on vent poems in the rain. Perhaps this is your most vexing quality; your almost childish insistence to succumb to whatever emotion moves you at the moment. You’re as fickle and fragile as the wind, pretending you’re made of stone.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” He suddenly asks, though not for the first time. The first time he asked was far less judgemental than it was now. “Why do you always make things worse?”

Worse for who, you have to ask. You cough, trying not to outwardly cackle in his face. The idea of bringing Megumi misery makes you nearly giddy. The bubble of excitement dies down the moment your eyes catch his expression: brows pinched, eyes flashing dangerously until they give a lidded glare, his mouth turned in an upward sneer. The look saves just for you, just when you’re alone.

“I don’t think anything could get worse than this,” you tilt your head towards him, pointedly blowing smoke. “Besides,” you tack on. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” You laugh again at his response, and his shoulders tense, expression slipping into a boyish anger. “It’s not about you, it’s about the fact that you exacerbate your bad emotions like you want every other demon in a five kilometer radius to find us.”

“Exacerbate,” you snort childishly. “Now that’s a five dollar word.”

His posture has straightened, shoulders defensively squared and facing you. “When are you going to admit you’re not made for this, huh?”

Your shoulders shake with another laugh, this one hollow and bitter. He stands in front of you, expectant, voice laced with an air of maturity he doesn’t have the right to posses. Not even if he was born decades before you, a millennia before you.

“Made for this,” you repeat slowly. “Like the gods themselves crafted you, Fushiguro Megumi, from the mud under my shoe to fight demons.” You relish in the hitch in breath you elicit from him, even if it is followed by the individual cracks of his knuckles. You meet his gaze, and your combined cursed energy signature fluctuates; those same demons in the five kilometer radius must be fainting in its wake.

It doesn’t deter either of you. You’re both as still and stubborn as bulls. It feels like having a stare down with your own reflection, and it is agonizing to know this truth. To know he is your mirror.

“You weren’t made for this either, Fushiguro. You made yourself. So you must forgive me for not suppressing any and all emotions, like you.”

The curl to his lip drags upward even further, like the snarl of a wolf catching its prey. “You can barely keep it together after a grade 2 mission, and you want to come at me?” There’s something cruel in his eyes when he says it, something that wants to dissect your flaws and put them in a glass cage to repeatedly gawk at. Your eyes drop to ground, unable to bear the lens he views you with.

“You’ve lived with sorcery and demons for so long, and you’ve never gotten used to it. So why do you keep pretending like you can do this when you can’t?”

You blow smoke towards your feet. It vanishes quickly, evaporating into thin air. You stare into it, as if your memories are scripted in fog, abs you can make them disappear just as easily.

Megumi scrutinises your face for every micro expression that flits across your features, and he’s disappointed when all he sees is confusion. Like you don’t know the answer either.

He clicks his tongue, training his eyes back to the road. You stay staring at your feet, unblinking, lest you close your eyes see her decomposing body behind your eyelids.

A sudden realization shocks you as you bring the cancer stick to your lips for the first time in minutes. You’re only a quarter of the way through, leaving it forgotten. But there’s a warmth in your veins and a steadiness to your hands, some non-nicotine induced high. You smile callously at Megumi, who stands stiff as a board, pretending not to glance at you from the corner of his eye.

Unfortunate, you think. Seems I’ve found a better drug.

You take a drag off the cigarette. It’s feels like nothing in comparison. You burn through half of it, so that when you open your mouth, smoke curls out like a simpering dragon; elegant, dangerous, intoxicating. Megumi gapes as you grin, and something in you burns.

“You’re fun to argue with.” You snuff the cigarette between your calloused fingertips, putting out the ash in the box careful not to litter. Megumi’s expression is so priceless, you laugh when you say “Let’s do this again sometime, yeah?”

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the-jade-cross · 3 years

Text

Burning Water - Chapter X

Chapter 10

Maya hated the times when she was unprepared. She had purposely tried to talk Lillia out of choosing what she would wear for Tyrion’s trial on the charges of his nephew's murder but then she realized that no one would be looking at her and agreed to wear the outfit of Lillia's choosing. The dress she wore was a deep dark Violet that came to the floor with a long flowing skirt with a thin Lacey belt around her middle which was entirely bare thanks to the top of the dress that only covered her bosom and part of her shoulders. On her wrists she wore a black leather cuffs which gave her an air of confidence. Of course, now as she stood listening to the ridiculous testimonies against Tyrion that Cersei had obviously bribed to exaggerate, she realized what a big mistake that had been. One of the judges was Oberyn Martell himself, the pain in the ass and the other... her recently arrived father. Not only that but Jaime had asked Maya to step up and testify on behalf of Tyrion since Lillia was too shy to do so and Nanteza didn't know the man at all. Of course she agreed when she saw the desperation in the man's eyes . She would have to get in front of everyone in the court in the accursed dress! She recalled hearing Oberyn question Cersei’s ridiculous accusations against her brother when suddenly Jaime's voice snapped her out of it.

“ may I call Mayaka Tyrell to the stand please to testify in favor of Tyrion Lannister?”

Murmurs filled the Hall for the majority of those present had no idea that the girl was even alive, her death having been presumed when she disappeared years ago. Maya walked confidently up to the podium and climbed the two steps before she stood before the whole court and the judges. Her eyes first looked upon her father who grinned proudly but she knew that the proudness in his eyes was only because of the power that she possessed and he could tell people that it was genetic which of course was not the truth. Lastly she looked to Oberyn who shifted in his seat before his dark eyes scanned her up and down. Maya tried to not shiver beneath his penetrating gaze.

“ lady Tyrell,” Tywin Lannister spoke, “would you care to tell us why Tyrion may not be guilty in your perspective?”

Maya tilted her head to the side and caught sight of a smug Cersei in the corner. Oh she was going to love this.

“ I am afraid not my Lord since telling everyone here if Tyrion is innocent would be just repeating what everyone is thinking at this very moment. That the only decent man in this room over the age of 16 is in fact the very man who is being tried by his own sister and father for the murder of the boy who is probably the cause of his own demise and knocked by the actions of his uncle.”

The court was immediately silent and Maya basked in the horrified stare that Cersei and Tywin gave her and the way Lillia and Nanteza were grinning uncontrollably in the corner of the Hall where they stood with Margo. new line open quote are you accusing my son of poisoning himself?” Cersei shrieked, leaping to her feet.

Maya calmly turned her eyes to the woman, “ if I recall you are out of order. But in answer to your question, I merely meant that your son stoked the flames of the fire that scorched him. If you asked everyone in this Hall about their feelings towards your son without bribing them I would wager more than half of them hate the previous King with a passion. Who is to say that one of those present poisoned dear son? For all we know it could have been his bodyguard... or even his mother.” Maya stated, turning a cold eye on the Lannister woman who was prepared to intervene again, “ for it is no secret but Joffrey was the least of your favorites among your children .”

“ you cannot presume to know what people are thinking,” Tywin observed, noticing the way his daughter was turning red with rage and was ready to start a whole new war period

Maya shook her head, “that maybe so or we could call Lillia Arryn up to the stand and have her read your heartbeat but that is a waste of time since even without my testimony everyone present knows that Tyrion Lannister is incapable of murdering anyone even if they are as well as Joffrey was.”

Alivia shrieked but Mace Tyrell spoke first, “ so you are calling Tyrion Lannister a coward?”

Maya chuckled period of course her father would be the one to try and twist her words, “ far from it. I am saying that Tyrion has enough heart to not be a murderer. Which is more than I can say about every other man that I know. He is the only one brave enough to do the one thing that everyone else is too selfish to do.”

“and what is that?” tie when asked, getting irritated with the girls confidence.

Maya smiled, “ he asked me to marry him ... For reasons other than getting me in bed or using my powers for evil.”

The silence that had encompassed those present only disappeared and everyone was talking at once. Jaime and Cersei looked at their little brother in shock, Tywin and Mace looked like they had swallowed their tongues and Oberyn was furious, gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles went white.

“he... he asked you to marry him despite his marriage to Sansa Stark?” Tywin asked.

Maya smiled calmly, “ he asked it of me two years ago. I had been living anonymously in Kings landing and he was one of the few who knew my real identity. He proposed marriage as a companionship contract.”

“and by your single status I take it that you refused?” Tywin questioned.

Mya nodded, “indeed, for someone like Tyrion Lannister only deserves the best which is far from what I am. Though we have remained close friends since.”

Oberyn's theory seemed to dissolve and he found himself smiling gently at the girl. The way her shoulders were naturally straight, back firm and the calm look on her face only seemed to add her natural beauty. In her rather seductive dress she wore and the way her red hair billowed to her hips, she looked like a Queen up on that podium ... his Queen.

“lady Maya.” Tywin tested, “don't you find it clear that you happen to be friends with the man who murdered the boy that was married to your sister? What if you hired Tyrion to murder your brother-in-law.”

Minus smiled. “curious observation period but there are a few things wrong with that. First off, I couldn't hire a man who is more wealthy than I could ever be. Secondly if I did want to kill Joffrey, which I have wanted to since he beat Sansa stark like a slave, but I would have used something other than poison and I would have done it myself. And Thirdly, don't you find it rather clear that you are determined to condemn Tyrion who is the first suspect? If Tyrion did poison Joffrey why did he make it so obvious that he was a suspect? Tyrion is too clever for that. He would have made sure that he was absent during the murder, not being the one holding the goblet of poison. Only an idiot would place the target upon his back.”

Cersei leapt to her feet and stormed over to Maya , “I think it is time for you to shut that mouth of yours, bitch.”

Just as the woman approached Maya, the Tyrell girl raised her hand and Cersei stumbled back as if someone had punched her in the gut and it was like water evaporated from the Lannister and formed two figures that were undeniably Cersei and... Joffrey... The watery voice of Cersei was telling Joffrey to leave the front line of the battle of Blackwater and suddenly... Joffrey readily agreed just as Cersei shrieked and slapped the two watery figures, making them disappear.

All eyes glued upon Maya who looked on as if nothing had happened, having a staring contest with Oberyn who was practically undressing her with his eyes. finally Tywin Lannister left to his feet and called for recess.

******

Maya submerged her hands into the water of the fountain and sighed in satisfaction as her previously dehydrated state washed away. She hummed as she crouched on her knees so that she could submerge her arms up to her elbows. She was contemplating stepping into the fountain as a whole when she heard voices to her left and realized that the hedges were the only thing separating her from the owners of the voices... the owners being Cersei Lannister and Oberyn Martell ! The girl bit down on her lip in order to not be given away thanks to her inability to be silent.

She couldn't make out exactly what they were talking about but knowing Cersei Lannister, it had to do with the trial by combat that would be held on the Morrow. Being the total idiot that he was, Prince Oberyn jumped at the chance to champion Tyrion against Cersei’s selected champion, the Mountain. She knew that Oberyn had not stuck his neck into the guillotine because he held some care for Tyrion. Although Tyrion was the one Lannister that he tolerated, the reason behind his chivalrous act was because of the rape and murder of his sister Elia Martell. Maya recalled listening to Evelyn tell the story of Elia Martell being jilted and practically tossed aside by her husband, Rhaegar Targaryen. This was mostly because of his obsession with Lyanna stark. Evelyn had not said it so plainly and in so many words but there was something about the way she told the story that made it sound like Evelyn hated her own aunt whom she had never met.

It was like there was more to the story that Evelyn was not letting on to.

“ I knew you were a curious person lady Tyrell but I did not think that you eavesdropped on other people’s conversations.” the all too familiar voice of Oberyn Martell commented from behind.

Maya turned sharply, having not heard his approach and she dried her arms off on the sky-blue Lacy dress that she wore, probably the most modest thing that she had worn since she moved to Kings Landing .

I was not dropping any eaves. I came here to hydrate myself and I heard voices across the hedge. I was unable to discover exactly what you were talking about with Cersei Lannister if that is what you were worried about.” she snapped back defiantly.

Oberyn looked very smart in his yellow robes, his chest partially on display and his hands clasped behind his back as he grinned at the girl, “but you know I was speaking with Cersei Lannister.”

Maya shrugged, “ it is rather hard to not notice her grinding voice. Besides, the past few days she has been making my life a living hell so it is only natural that she was the woman that you were talking to.”

Over and raised an eyebrow in amusement, “a living hell ? Pray tell my lady, were you jealous of my excursion with her?”

Maya scoffed but the Prince did not fail to notice the way her cheeks pinked in a blush , “hardly. She is due to wear the man that my friend is in love with who also happens to be my idiot of a brother.”

Oberyn's eyes widened when he grasped the hidden message behind maya's words. “Ah, now I think I understand. You are perturbed with Cersei because she is making your friend's life miserable and you will be stuck with the Lannister as a sister-in-law.”

Maya smirked as she sat down on the side of the fountain, “ exactly. You are learning to catch on a little quicker.”

Open shrugged as he took a seat at the small table near the fountain, “and I do not suppose any ounce of this loathing is due to jealousy?”

The girl shot the Prince a scowl and over and raised his hands in surrender. As the man pulled out pen and paper, Maya realized that she had stumbled upon the Prince’s quiet area and she moved to leave when the man's voice stopped her.

“do not go. Your presence is soothing and I could use some company while trying to write this poem.” he mumbled.

The girl furrowed her brow for a moment before she sat down opposite Oberyn and folded her hands in her lap.

“may I ask you a question?” she asked.

The Prince did not glance up from his writing but he nodded all the same.

“ I understand your desire to make the Mountain pay for what he did to your sister, but why choose combat? You know you cannot kill him in a trial by combat. It is a fight until someone yields.” the girl observed .

The Prince’s pen stalled and he finally spoke, “I don't care. I intend to make him suffer even if I cannot kill him. It is the least I can do for my sister.”

Maya sighed heavily , “ then do both yourself and me a favor... come to the fight in the morning sober and with a clear head.”

The girl rose to her feet and brushed off her skirt and began to leave when Oberyn's broken hearted voice cut through her like a dagger.

“what do you care if I am sober or not? At least the Mountain will suffer. Is that not enough for you or should I hand you his head on a silver platter?”

The girl turned on him and her face radiated pure fury in such a way that made Oberyn's face go pale , “I am not the one struggling to write a poem to my daughter whom I named after my dead sister because I am too frightened to move on from the past! I care if you are sober or not because it will dictate how the fight will go on the Morrow and if you lose then you defending your sisters honor will go to hell! Why are you even waging war on the Mountain when you should be waging war on the snobbish, self-centered family of Rhaegar Targaryen for if he actually cared for his wife instead of betting the next prettiest thing then Elia may still be alive! The Mountain did Elia favor after he raped her! I know that error in pain Elia experienced after she was held down by that monster but at least he killed her rather than letting her live with the anguish and misery he gave her! I didn't get that mercy! I had to keep on living damn it all!”

Oberyn's face went red with fury when he realized what the girl had meant... she had been raped... he leapt to his feet, about ready to apologize and demand the name of the man who had committed such a crime but Maya spun on her heel and was long gone with a flurry of skirts before he could even untangle himself from his chair , her scent lingering behind her.

Oberyn sunk down to his seat and rubbed his forehead when suddenly he realized something . She had guessed who the poem was for... Correctly guessed...

#got #game of thrones #oberyn #oberyn Martell x you #oberyn Martell x oc #oberyn martell #oberyn Martell x reader #martell

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caveling · 6 years

Text

Chapter 1: Pupils

Moss had fallen in love with her people's funeral ceremony at a young age, shortly after one of her grandfathers had passed away. She marched somberly with her parents and a few close relatives down the narrow tunnel to the deepest part of the caverns where the air was stifling and cold. It was her first time being that deep in the cave, and being a small child she wasn't sure what was really going on. But her family marched on quietly until the tunnel opened up to a wide room with an unusual mixture of scents.

Wood smoke and incense, an overpowering combination, was the first thing she noticed as they all spread out into the space before them. It was a warm, thick fragrance that drifted around them and clung to everything it touched. Traces of bark, sap, and flowers that she didn't even recognize wove themselves into her hair and brushed against her skin.

The strength of it was overwhelming, but after a moment she realized that the smoke was barely stronger than the other, less pleasant odor in the room.

She had learned in school that Death’s River ran alongside Brambor Cave, deep underground, crossing into Brambor at a handful of points before it flowed out into the ocean. The funeral chamber was the last point of access to the river before the estuary, and the flow down here was gentle and steady enough that sometimes seawater would wash back upstream, bringing all manner of creatures with it that would feed on the remains of the dead as they were slowly carried out into the sea. She took a deep breath, and for the first time smelled and tasted the briny odor of seawater on the cold air. That was the moment she realized why her family was gathered here. Someone had died and was about to be dropped into the river.

Finally, the scent of medicine and illness surfaced, having been hidden under everything else.

A shiver danced over her skin, and she searched the room, trying to sift through the soft, sorrowful murmurs of the adults around her, hoping for a hint of what was to happen next, and when. Someone mentioned her grandfather's name, another began to sob, and Moss's heart ached in sympathy, but there was nothing she could do. The melancholy atmosphere was too much for an innocent child like herself to bear, and she only wanted to go home. She tugged on her mother's shawl, ready to ask if she could leave, when a new voice sounded out over the crowd.

They seemed to have come from nowhere, and as they passed by Moss she realized that it was because the scent of the funeral chamber was woven so tightly into their clothes and skin that they seemed to be a part of the room itself. They introduced themself as Flint, the funeral director, and asked for everyone's attention. Moss fidgeted with her sleeves, listening only partly to the long sermon that followed. Flint dragged on for nearly half an hour, speaking of peaceful waters and how the accomplishments one made in life were guaranteed to echo on after one was gone.

There was a break in ceremony that followed, as those around her began to speak of memories of her late grandfather. They recalled what kind of person he was, and what he had done throughout his life. Some could barely speak, their voices tired from crying. Moss had nothing of her own to share, having only met the man once, she didn't really know much about him. So she kept quiet, nuzzling into her mother's side as the conversation around them gradually fell silent.

Once everyone had run out of things to say, Flint began to tap out a slow, gentle rhythm on a metal drum. Two people shuffled forward to move the body, picking him up with two lengths of rope and carrying him over to the cliff, where they lowered his body gently into the river. As he drifted away, the atmosphere around them began to lift. Moss could hardly believe it, that the sorrow that had been so tangible at the start of the hour was slowly evaporating until she could barely feel it.

After everything was over, and her family filed back up the tunnel toward their home, she began to wonder how Flint could blend into the scenery, and so easily change the emotional atmosphere of a group of people who were grieving so heavily. She wondered if there had to be some sort of magic in the chamber, or in the ceremony itself.

A few days later, she snuck back down to the funeral chamber and explored the room fully, fiddling with everything from Flint's metal drum to the tarps that were kept to wrap the deceased. With out the incense burning, and the ceaseless shuffling of a sad group of people, the chamber seemed much calmer. She could finally hear the flow of the river passing by, and the soft scuttling of the sea creatures that were moving along the walls above the water.

Finally, she sat down on the cliff, dangling her legs over the edge, and started speaking to the sea creatures. She asked them if they noticed her grandfather drifting by a few days ago, and whether or not he had already made it to the ocean. She wondered how he was doing there. Neither the urchins nor the crabs could answer her back, but that wasn't going to stop a child with an active imagination from having a conversation with all of them. She pretended that they told her stories of him, building houses on the ocean floor and dancing among the eels. The idea that he was enjoying himself, and spending time with every other dead caveling in the ocean, finally put her mind at ease about the whole thing. Eventually, she got tired of talking to herself and made her way back home, where her parents were sound asleep. She joined them, vowing that she would return to the funeral chamber once again soon, to talk some more.

For a few weeks after that she returned again and again, usually after waking from a bad dream, or early in the morning before her parents were up. She enjoyed passing her time there, making up stories about all the people who now lived in the ocean.

One unfortunate morning she had fallen asleep by the cliff's edge, and was woken by a shocked Flint screeching in fear when they realized they weren't alone. Flint immediately took Moss to her parents, and the three of them gave her a stern lecture about playing near deep water. She thought it entirely unfair that she was in trouble when she hadn't even been playing, but she understood well enough that their main fear was her falling into the water with no one there to help her.

So, a few days later, she made her way back down to the chamber when she was certain Flint would be there too. She told them she missed her friends, and begged them to let her sit in while they worked. Flint was... hesitant to have a child around while they prepared the chamber for a ceremony. But they assured her that if she could convince her parents to let her apprentice under them as a mortician, they would let her hang around as much as she liked. With supervision.

Moss ran back to her parents eagerly and pleaded with them for the apprenticeship. They were clearly surprised enough that Moss was so interested in studying for a career at age eight to begin with, saying nothing of the fact that she was so eager to study under the mortician. They eventually came to an agreement, that if she became Flint's apprentice and didn't like it, she would be free to back out. If she did back out though, it was clearly a sign that she wasn't ready for work, and it would be a few years before they'd allow her any other sort of apprenticeship.

That was good enough for her. She went back to Flint to tell them the good news.

It was a surprise to them that her parents had agreed, and an even bigger surprise that they finally had an apprentice. They shrugged and handed her a broom. Delegation didn't come naturally to them, nor did teaching, but one way or another, they'd figure things out over time.

Moss was fine with whatever work Flint assigned to her, from sweeping to preparing batches of incense. The few hours she would now spend daily down near the river were peaceful, and she was at ease. It was embarrassing to speak out loud to her marine friends in front of her new teacher, so instead she would hum for them the songs that Flint taught her.

Over time, her interest expanded from the chamber itself to everything that happened within. She learned to help Flint during ceremony, grew strong enough to lower the bodies of the deceased into the river without dropping them. She memorized dozens of calming songs, and learned how to speak clearly during a sermon. It turned out to be a job she was well suited for, and after several years by Flint's side, it was hard to imagine herself doing anything else in life.

But early one morning, she woke up on the stone floor of the funeral chamber, with Flint's hands pressed to her aching scalp. Her clothes were soaked in the slick puddle that surrounded her body, and by the smell of it she guessed it was her own blood spilled out around her. Flint rubbed one palm over her forehead, softly pleading with her to stay alive. A soft, golden light glowed on the skin of their palm. She had no idea they were imbued with healing magic, but there it was, apparently being used on her.

She groaned and turned herself over, eliciting a surprised cry of joy from Flint. She tried to push herself up onto her knees, but her palm slid on the wet stone and she found herself face down on the floor, in more pain than she was in just a moment ago. Flint told her to move slowly, that they weren't sure how well their imbuement worked in the first place, and that if Moss was awake they could run for help. There were a few other imbued healers in Brambor, each with more experience than them.

"No, don't leave me down here," she pleaded. There was a cold feeling in her chest. There was a new sensation crawling over her, one that she didn't have words for yet.

She was being watched.

#caveling #pupils #a story of a troglobyte #death mention #blood mention #woop woop!#if you saw the other part one pls ignore it i was going to do five prologues but instead ended up with this

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imaginationlane · 6 years

Text

The Assistant [Part 5 of ? // Bill Skarsgard x Reader Imagine]

Warnings: Adult Language / Themes

Author’s Notes: Alright guys, we’re getting into the nitty-gritty now. The heat is getting cranked up and we’re gonna dive deeper into this thing. Major things are getting started, and you’re really not going to want to miss this chapter. I’ll admit this chapter is pretty long, but also very necessary. Also the second half of this chapter, we switch over to Sweden where Billie-boy has landed and guess who’s waiting to pick him up... *Sips tea*

P.S. You’ll need to go translate a few Swedish phrases for this chapter, so just go translate it through Google Translator - after all that’s what I used to even put them into this story tbh.

Need to catch up on previous chapters? Click here.

If you have a Wattpad account, please be sure to go give it a vote or a comment on this chapter as I need to build up the story up over there too – in order for it to catch some exposure. Thanks! <3

[As always, please ignore any typos, errors and so forth as I generally catch any that I miss – after publication. Therefore I’ll fix them as time progresses.]

Musical Inspiration: Tell Me You Love Me by: Demi Lovato

Summary:

A night out on the town for a few drinks, was all I had signed up for. But in reality… I got way more than I had ever bargained for when my boss and close personal friend, Bill Skarsgard, asked me to join him during a wrap party that the crew was hosting that night. In hindsight, I should have seen this coming. After all, we were both having issues in our own respective relationships and for some reason, we had found it easier to just confide in each other – rather than in our own significant others. Yet in the end, do the reasons ever truly matter when you begin an affair with your friend who also happens to be your boss? I often ask myself just how selfish could we be; he and I? The answer is: we’re completely selfish and neither of us really cares if this secret burns us alive – because it’s within each other, that we have finally found the things we had been looking for the whole time…

New York City, New York --

Breathless and tired from dragging three huge pieces of luggage behind me, I had finally made it to the front door of my condo. I figured that Bill was probably boarding his flight to Sweden at the moment, and a muffled dinging noise erupting from my purse had let me know that I had received a new text message.

Despite having to resist the urge to grab my cell phone out of my bag first, I snatched up my keys and unlocked my door in order to get my bags inside and settle down on my couch. I was completely worn out from the activities of the last few days, and from all the traveling I had done today. Unfortunately for me, I had almost forgotten about how fickle this old lock on my door could be. It liked to stick, particularly in the rising heat of summer and the dead cold of winter. I groaned as I searched my brain to remember the trick to unlocking this stubborn old door. The past three months, I was fortunate enough to not have to fiddle with it -- now I was back home again and of course, this lock on my door was trying to welcome me back home in its own way.

Finally, the lock slid into place and I was allowed entry.

“Home at last,” I mumbled to no one in particular.

At first glance, I almost didn’t recognize my own home. There were objects strewn about the room; almost as if a tornado had torn through the place.

“What the fu--” the whisper soon died upon my lips while the puzzle pieces of what happened, started to click into place.

That son of a bitch!

My entire condo was trashed; and not just trashed -- no, it was demolished.

It figures that John would be this foolish; this petty... This childish. And it was exactly the reason I felt justified in breaking up with him. Any of my previously lingering feelings of guilt for sleeping with Bill prior to our breakup, began to evaporate with each passing second that I surveyed my living room. Of course he went off and did this; I shouldn’t be surprised really. I denied him what he wanted, and in return he decided to leave me this one last parting shot. I couldn’t help but to shake my head at such utter nonsense, while I pulled my bags inside and gingerly closed my front door behind me. A moment later, my phone started to going off once again -- reminding me that I had ignored a text message.

“Shit!” I quietly cursed myself for my forgetfulness, as I began to rummage through my purse once again. Once I finally clasped it within my grip, I pulled it out only to realize the text message was from Bill.

Two more weeks, beautiful. Fuck I miss you. I’ll text/call when I can.

I couldn’t help the smile that inched its way across my face, nor did I even care to stop it. In that moment I realized just how much more I was growing to care for this man. Even while I stood here in my wrecked condominium, that my ex messed up on his way out of my life -- I still managed to smile and find solace, simply because of him. When it boiled down to it, John had stopped making me this happy a long time ago; in fact by the end of our relationship -- I found myself feeling over stressed, exhausted and overwhelmed. With Bill though, it was different; I began to feel free, exhilarated and more importantly -- appreciated.

I miss you too, handsome. Enjoy your time with your family and friends, and in two weeks, I’m all yours again. ;) Have a safe flight.

I pressed send before I could talk myself out of it. The only thing I could do was just hope that he received it prior to the plane departing. Releasing a sigh I hadn’t realized I had been holding in, I shut my phone off and took one last look around my living room.

“Time to clean up this mess,” I groaned, annoyed at the fact that once again I was stuck cleaning up one last mess from John; and with that -- I made my way towards the kitchen and retrieved a couple of trash bags from underneath the sink.

A few hours later, I finally had my house back into decent shape and I grabbed a bottle of wine along with my favorite wine glass -- relaxing into my couch in order to catch my breath. In all honesty, I was worn out and tired; if I could just finish this glass of wine and fall asleep for the next ten thousand years, I probably wouldn’t complain. My favorite music was playing softly throughout the living room, thanks to wonderful surround system that my mother had gifted me for my birthday last year; and I felt myself sinking further into the cushions as I allowed myself a moment to relax.

But of course, my phone clearly didn’t get the memo because it started ringing -- causing me to let out a pathetic whine while I set down my wine glass, and made my way over towards my kitchen counter. A small peak at the caller ID caused me to frown for a second before answering it...

“Hey dad, what’s up?”

“Ahh you’re back home, great! Listen sweetie, I know you have the next couple of weeks off but I’ll need you to come in and see me later this afternoon. I need a rundown on how Toronto went and I wanted to bring up something I need your feedback on.”

My father was as professional as ever, and therefore it was almost a requirement in our family that everyone adapt the same mentality. People who hit the snooze button, didn’t often find the success that they were looking for -- according to him at least; so of course trying to re-schedule would be out of the question.

“Of course daddy. I’ll be there within the hour,” I sighed into my phone, getting ready to gather up my handbag and head out the door.

“Thank you Y/N. I hate calling you in before you’ve had a chance to relax, but it can’t wait.”

“It’s no problem, it’ll be good to see you again. Tell momma I’ll be over tomorrow night for dinner -- okay?”

“Sure thing. See you soon.”

As soon as I hit the “end call” button on my phone, I had already grabbed my keys and started to make my way out the door. Whatever it was my father needed, it must have been urgent.

It didn’t take me long to arrive to The Frankford Talent Institute, after hailing down a nearby cab. Upon walking through the double glass doors of the lavishly tall skyscraper, Stacy the main receptionist gave me a toothy grin as she greeted me.

“Hey Y/N, glad to see you’re back from Toronto! How was it?” Her bubbly personality was infectious, and even though I was tired -- I still put on a smile for her.

“It was awesome, I can’t wait to do it again in 2018. I’ll show you some photos when I come back to the office next week.”

“Looking forward to it! Your dad is waiting in his office upstairs, so I’ll buzz his secretary and let her know you’re here.”

At that, I simply nodded my head and moved in the direction towards the elevators. Our office was enormous; and my parents were proud to have finally landed this building back in the early 2000′s. While we spent a majority of our time managing our talent, we also hosted training classes for people who were looking to break into the entertainment business. The general public were welcome to pay a modest fee and sit in on any number of training classes; whether that was for acting, modeling and even singing. From there, our highly trained specialty coaches would spot potentially talented people from each Introduction Class, and make them an offer to do more experienced and personalized training at a later date. For those who made it through our training programs, and passed an audition with our talent acquisition team, we happily offered to sign them to our agency -- and to start helping them find work in order to get their name out there.

Through it all, my family managed to find and sign some of the biggest names in entertainment. Bill, luckily for me, was about to become the next big star on our talent list -- thanks to this new role in the IT franchise. Turns out, the night we had met and I managed to introduce him to my father, they hit it off quite well. It was the first time, in a long time, that I had seen my father so thoroughly impressed by someone. From there, Bill ended up making the switch to our agency less than a month later and the rest was history. My father switched me out from assisting Olivia, and made me transition over to handling all of Bill’s affairs within the agency and personally. Luckily for me, even though Bill was my boss -- he treated me as if I were a friend, and rarely acted as a boss normally would. In the end, I found myself in a place where I grew to love my work. Together, we were a winning combination on the professional aspect of things and in that sense, I enjoyed how much of a team we had grown into.

Once I had arrived to the 75th floor of the building, I started to make my way over towards my father’s office. His personal secretary, Tiffany, was waiting to greet me with a warm smile on her face and a bottle of water in her hands. Tiffany Smith was a plain but ambitious woman; and rumor had it that my mother personally hired her in order to discourage more attractive women from working so closely to my father. The rumor had always made me laugh when I was younger, but after the last few days I spent with Bill -- I was suddenly reminded of it once more.

“It’s good to see you Y/N. Follow me please,” she said while she lead me toward his office at the end of the hall.

After she knocked lightly to alert him to our presence, she opened his door and stepped aside in order to let me through.

“Sir, your daughter Y/N is here to see you.”

“Thanks Tiffany, go ahead and take your break. We’ll probably be in here discussing some business for a little bit.”

Tiffany gently nodded her head, as she closed the door behind me and my father walked over to lock me within his comforting embrace.

“Hey sweetie, thank you for coming on such short notice. I imagine that you’re quite tired so I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.” He chuckled, as I hugged him back.

“Thanks dad. So what is it that’s so important? I figured I wouldn’t be required to come in to make my report until next week,” I responded back, while I made my way over towards the chair in front of his immaculate mahogany desk.

That desk is still as imposing and intimidating as I remember...

“Well, I’ll still need your report next week -- but I wanted the preliminary, off the record report from you directly. So how did our boy do in Toronto?”

I took a deep breath as I tried to collect my thoughts. I couldn’t help the flashes of memories that sped past me at the speed of light, of the last few nights he and I had spent together.

Whatever you do Y/N, play it fucking cool. Avoid any mention of his last days on location...

“He arrived slightly nervous, but ready. He was studious and very professional, however Bill and Andy hit it off magnificently -- like we knew they would since they had met a few times in LA prior to filming. They make a great team together. Barbara, as you know that’s Andy’s sister, was highly impressed by him; as were most of the cast and crew members to be fair. By the end of filming, they had managed to form their own little family of sorts and it was quite sweet actually. Bill on the other hand, is pretty tired from all of the physical attributes of filming so he’s going to be at home in Sweden for the next couple of weeks. After that, we’ll be jetting off to LA for a few weeks so he can begin working with Andy on the voice over work for the film.” I finished explaining, while I opened my bottle water and took a tiny sip.

“Good it sounds like everything went accordingly; that’s excellent news! He was kept on schedule, correct?”

I balked at such a question even being thrown my way...

This is me and Bill we’re talking about here, right? Of course he knows we’re sticklers for punctuality. Bill was probably worse about it than I was, to be fair.

“Of course dad. You know how meticulous I am with his scheduling; and Bill felt the same way. Half the time he was trying to rush me out the door, thirty minutes before his driver would even arrive to take him to set. It was quite annoying actually,” I had mumbled that last part, hoping he wouldn’t fully hear it. My father on the other hand, let out a humble laugh as he nodded his head -- approving of my answers.

”Great! I knew it was a good idea to put you two together. I’m very surprised at how well he’s coming along within the industry since we’ve signed him. He was doing decent on his own, but he’s coming along a lot better since we managed to bring him on. Keep him going in the right direction, Y/N. He listens to you and respects your opinions; so watching the two of you working together to raise his profile -- has been quite a sight to see. I imagine that by next year, the two of you are finally going to see how much of that work has paid off -- so just be patient for a little while longer.”

A slight smirk graced my lips, as I sat there feeling proud to have his approval.

“Thanks dad,” I returned affectionately, while I started to stand up. “Will there be anything else?”

“Actually there is, and I wanted to run this by you before the announcement is made in the next couple of months.”

There was something in his voice that caused me to pause for a moment, and sit back down within my seat. A questionable look passed over my face and I was curious about what he was about to say next.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

My dad took a deep breath, and looked out his office window for a moment.

“As you know, Mike Morrison is the current Senior Talent Relations Executive, and he’s about to leave the company next year. He wants to spend more time with his family and his father who is dealing with an illness. This means that a new opportunity is about to open up, and whoever lands it -- could fast track their way up within the company. Mike himself, will be hand-picking candidates and you should know Y/N... Your name has come up as a potential candidate.”

Shock must have been clearly written all across my forehead, as I felt my jaw fall open at such a revelation.

“Wait, Mike wants me to apply for his position?”

“Yes, and he’s not the only one. I too, think you would be excellent in that position as do several others; including three board members,” he acknowledged to me privately.

Yet when it came to what I thought about all of this information, I just sat there feeling immobilized and startled by the news that people were looking towards me as a potential replacement. Mike Morrison was a legend within this company; and no one would be able to come close to his standards -- not even me. He not only kept our talent happy, he also kept the agents and executives happy as well. Plus, he was one of our annual judges for people who auditioned to be signed by our company. His role within our organization was massive, so whoever took over it, would have to be the cream of the crop or Mike wouldn’t dare sign off on it. He would want the person who took over, to make him proud and to keep the company going in a forward pressing direction; and to be honest, I wasn’t too sure I was ready to take on that kind of inescapably big responsibility just yet.

“Wow, um... Thank you for letting me know about this. To be quite honest with you, I’m not too sure that I’m someone that should even be in mind for this role; after all we have a lot of deserving people who have been with the company longer than I have,” I shared genuinely, hoping that my father would understand some of my obvious hesitation about this.

“Non-sense. One day, I fully expect you will take over for me as the CEO of this company. I know you’ve always wanted to build your own greatness, but I think you can do that from within these walls Y/N. You have the ability to take this company to astronomical heights. You’re already proving that to us within your role as an assistant. You pushed Olivia to the point she signed on as a Victoria’s Secret model, and now you’re doing it again by working with Bill. You’re more important than you realize. It’s okay to own that!” He announced eagerly; conviction laced within his voice as he refocused his attention back onto me.

“To be fair, those two landed their own gigs all on their own talent and merits. I may have been acting in a supporting role, but their achievements are all their own; and what about my work with Bill? Would I have to find a replacement for him? I don’t suspect you’ll have me working with him anymore, if I were to apply and this were to go through.”

My father, smiled warmly as he shook his head.

“You would no longer be his assistant, besides -- I thought that’s what you wanted? To work your way out of that position! While you wouldn’t be his assistant, you would still work closely with him and his agent to maintain that his needs are being met and to fix any issues that arise for them. It would be like this for all of our talent, actually. Plus you wouldn’t have to travel as often if you didn’t want to; and you would get a major pay raise, 401 K benefits, company stock options along with your own office. Our talent executives would report directly to you, and most importantly of all -- you would help to hand pick the new generation of entertainers from the ones who auditioned or submitted their reels/portfolios to us.” Suddenly, my father paused in the middle of his pitch in order to make his way around his desk, and stand directly in front of me.

“Sweetie, this role would be to prepare you for the future. While your dear old dad isn’t going to retire tomorrow -- I do want you to take this chance to get prepared. God knows your other siblings aren’t too keen on the idea of heading up this company one day, when it’s time for this old man to retire. But I do not want our family business going outside of our family either. Your grandfather founded this company, and you would be the third generation family member to take it over. Your mother and I grew it into the empire it is today. It’ll be up to you to take it to new heights and expand it from here once I leave.” He explained, as he patted me on the shoulder in a comforting manner, before walking back around towards his chair behind his daunting desk.

I released a breath I didn’t know I had been holding; if anything -- this little talk had simply confirmed my suspicions: My parents fully expected me to stay, regardless of how I felt about the situation.

There goes the idea of me building my own life... My siblings get that opportunity, but clearly I don’t.

The thought of it made me slightly resentful, to be honest.

“What about my aspirations? Do you not remember me telling you that I wanted to build my own career, life and success outside of my family’s established name and business?” I questioned hesitantly, as he took his seat.

“This is your life. You were always my pick to continue the legacy Y/N. There is absolutely nothing wrong or shameful about you stepping into the family business. Nothing.” His answer was resolute and unyielding, and I knew what that meant... There would be no arguing about this, the decision was already made on his end. I just need to come to grips with it on mine.

“Daddy you know I’m not ashamed of our business, if anything you know how proud I am of you and momma. However, I’ll think about it. I promise. Just do me a favor and remember that this is my life, and if I want to be happy, I’m allowed to make my own choices.”

Finally, my father relaxed against his chair -- happy with my answer.

“That’s all I’m asking you to do darling, just give it some thought. Hell, talk it over with John and even Bill -- I know that they mean a great deal to you! Get their feedback on it,” he suggested excitedly.

Oh shit. John didn’t tell him yet. That’s probably a good thing though...

“Yeah dad, about that... John and I broke up a few days ago.”

He scoffed as he shook his head, and looked me in the eye.

“I’m just now hearing about this? Why?”

Silently, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t happy with him; to be honest I was quite miserable actually. We fought, over stupid bullshit, all the time. He and I were getting unhealthy towards each other, so I ended it. I’m sorry, I know you liked him but he was making me upset on a daily basis and I refuse to live like that.”

My father peered into my eyes, as he released a sigh of his own.

“I only liked the fact that he was so driven to succeed; other than that, I thought you could do better baby girl. I’m just happy you’re finally in a place where you can see that now,” he quietly admitted.

I sat there, taken aback by his admission.

Well I certainly wasn’t expecting that so easily.

John and my father seemed to have gotten along perfectly over the past couple of years; clearly I had been wrong in assuming that my dad liked him. Apparently he just wanted to keep the peace with me, which was a big difference to be honest.

“Why didn’t you tell me that? I thought you adored him! It’s one of the reasons I held onto him for so long -- because I thought I would disappoint you!”

He stood up once again, and came around toward the front of his desk to clasp my hands tightly within his own.

“Y/N, please don’t ever stay with someone -- just to make me or your mother happy. In the end, it’s not us living your life... It’s you. If he doesn’t make you happy, then he doesn’t make you happy.”

I found highly ironic that he could see this when it came to my personal life, yet when it came to my professional life -- of course my dad thought he knew best.

“Thank you for understanding.”

Gently, he placed a kiss upon my forehead and moved over to allow me to stand up.

“I’m glad that Toronto was a good experience for you. Like I said, talk to Bill about the idea. You may be surprised to see how supportive he may be. Bill cares about you a great deal; and it’s not surprising given just how close you two have become over the past few years. He’s a good friend to you Y/N. While he may be reluctant to let you go, I know he’ll be happy with the idea of you getting a chance to move up as well.”

“Thanks daddy. I’ll see you and momma tomorrow evening.”

“Ahh yes! Of course. Your mother says she can’t wait to see you and she’s going to make your favorite dish in order to welcome you home,” he laughed, while he enveloped me into a tight hug.

“Alright, I’ll be over tomorrow then. You’re sending a car or should I catch a cab?”

“I’ll send a car to pick you up by 4:30. Enjoy the rest of your time off and catch up on your sleep -- you look tired as hell.”

Oh if you only knew...

“Will do. Bye dad.”

And with that, I made my way out of his office and back home. I had a lot to think about over the next few days; but most importantly -- I needed to figure out what my future held and I was suddenly worried about how Bill may take the news of this new opportunity...

Stockholm, Sweden --

A beautiful raven haired, pale skinned petite woman wondered around near the baggage claim; biting her nails and waiting for someone very important to her -- to finally arrive. Natalia Holm was almost certain that she was about to wear a hole through the cheap grey carpet, due to her continuous back and forth pacing, but she couldn’t help herself. She would finally be reunited with Bill, who was due to come strolling through the airport terminal at any moment, and she was nervous about seeing him again for the first time in over three and a half months. Something was off though, and she could feel it deep within the pit of her stomach. Bill hadn’t been acting the same over the past couple of weeks -- and it had only gotten worse over the past few days.

“Natalia snälla sluta,” her mother Monica called out, trying to get her daughter to cease her incessant worrying.

“ Mamma, lyssna, jag kan inte rå för det.”

At this point, her mother had had enough with Natalia’s constant public displays of anxiety.

“Han är här snart, vad är du så orolig för? Är allt okej?” Her mother’s questions acted as if a bucket of pure ice water had been splashed over her face; waking her up to fact that she was being outwardly obvious with her concern.

“Sorry mom,” Natalia sighed, as she sat down in one of the hard plastic chairs nearby and continued to wait. People passed by her in a blur; there was non-stop chatter of people happily being reunited with their loved ones, and others just grabbing their luggage off the conveyor belt while going on about their business. Yet for Natalia, it was different. She felt as if she were losing control within the situation she now found herself in, and it wasn’t a welcomed feeling. That’s why she had privately hired someone to look in on a few things for her, hoping that she was just going crazy and that it may put her mind at ease.

When she thought of Bill, she saw a future with him; one that she would eventually be happy in. Her mother had also warned her that because he was quite the catch, that it was getting towards that time to start locking him down. But lately it felt as if he were pulling away from her, and she wasn’t too sure about why, nor was she even sure that she was too keen to find out. For a while, Natalia had basically dictate the course of their relationship, but before he left for filming -- Bill had become increasingly more hands on and started setting new boundaries. She had a feeling that it may have to do with was lingering feelings he had towards a certain woman, but she couldn’t be completely sure about that either. Either way it went though, she knew one thing: when he told her that he wanted to hold off on the idea of house hunting recently, something had shifted within their relationship; and she had a distinct feeling that it wouldn’t end in her favor unless she came up with a solution -- and fast.

It was low sounding alert noise that erupted from her iPhone that shook her out of her momentary ravine. A text message from a private contact had arrived, and Natalia found herself sitting on the edge of her seat with baited breath. She had been waiting for news for the past week from this person, and she was finally getting something.

Check your email, there’s information you’ll want to see. Call me once you’ve had a chance to review it.

Perplexed, Natalia got ready to pull up her email app before her mother stopped her.

”He’s here,” she hurriedly whispered towards her daughter, as Natalia looked up towards the escalator that was bringing Bill closer towards her.

With the email forgotten, she shut off her iPhone and stood up beaming her uncontrollable happiness at finally seeing him once again; while making her way over towards him. Even though she could tell that he was tired, he still looked effortlessly amazing and she shifted her way towards the bottom of the movable staircase. Bill however, was distracted by something on his phone. Whatever it was, must have been some type of good news because he had a goofy smile firmly planted upon his face as he typed out a response.

His smile though, faded the second he looked up from his phone and saw Natalia waiting for him.

It was a peculiar moment, one that Natalia didn’t miss for a second. Bill had been changing in his reaction towards her lately, and this only confirmed her already out of control anxiety.

As she mentally shook off the feeling, Natalia replaced the smile back onto her face as she took another step near the escalator after he descended.

“Välkommen hem min kärlek,” she greeted him, holding her arms open for his embrace.

Bill gave her a small smile as he returned the gesture in kind and returned her hug.

“Hey Natalia,” he greeted her softly, as she held him tightly and smelled the familiar scent of his cologne. Without warning, she stood on her tippy toes, as she placed a chaste kiss upon his cheek.

“I’ve missed you,” she told him tenderly, hoping that he would appreciate that she was waiting for him.

“I know; but also we need to tal-” However Bill was cut off, by Natalia’s mother making her way towards the couple.

“Bill, min son!”

Ever the astute and pleasant partner, Bill placed a smile on his face as he returned her warm welcome.

“Monica, jag har saknat dig,” he responded as he hugged Natalia’s mother tightly.

“I’ve missed you too son. Listen, my husband has prepared a dinner back at our house for all of us. So let’s get your bags and get you back to the country house!”

“That’s perfect; a home cooked meal sounds wonderful right about now. Let me get my bags, and I’ll meet you at the exit?” He suggested lightly, hoping to get a few moments to himself.

“No problem, I’ll be outside waiting in the car. Natalia will show you where I’m parked. It’s so good to have you back home again,” she exclaimed excitedly as she squeezed his arm, and finally left from the airport.

Bill couldn’t help the pang of guilt that shot straight through his chest at her kind gesture.

Turning his attention back towards Natalia, he didn’t even have a chance to say anything to her before she pulled him down for a surprising kiss.

Normally, Bill wasn’t one for public displays of affection -- but his own guilt had started to catch up with him and therefore he found himself giving into her affectionate nature.

”I love whenever you come back home; I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered lightly, while her arms locked around his shoulders.

Reluctantly, Bill found himself wrapping his arms around her midsection; almost as if he were reminding himself that he still hadn’t talked with her yet. The truth was, he had no clue on how he would even bring the idea of a potential break up with her and he felt the onslaught of guilt beginning to consume him because of it. She had no idea that his feelings had changed yet, or that he wanted someone else because of it. Nor did she know that he had wanted Y/N for a while now... Closing his eyes tightly, he realized he would have to go about this carefully. In the end, someone was going to get hurt -- no matter what happened; this would ultimately come down to him to how he handled things from here on out.

“I’ve missed you too Nat,” he sighed tenderly into her hair, while he surrender himself into her embrace.

A few moments later, they released each other and he stepped to the side of her in order to gather his bags from the conveyor belt. Once they had departed the airport, they walked hand in hand towards her mother’s Volvo. His guilt didn’t subside one bit, as he felt her snuggle into his side in the backseat and fall asleep on his shoulder while they rode peacefully towards her parents home in the country side.

“Home sweet home; thanks for allowing my parents to welcome you home at their house. They were thrilled to see you again baby,” Natalia said lovingly, as she helped Bill get the last of his luggage into her two bedroom apartment.

”It’s fine. I like your parents, they’re good people.”

He turned his attention towards the hallway and tugged one of his suitcases behind him. While he was settling back in, Natalia observed him from the doorway of their bedroom with a coy look firmly planted upon her face.

”Don’t worry about putting away the laundry, I’ll take care of it later for you. Right now, I just want to hold you.”

Surprisingly, Bill had let her wrap her arms around his shoulders and pull him down for a breathtaking kiss. Under normal circumstances, this would have been nice -- and he was suddenly reminded of a time where this would have been a welcomed expression of desire from her. Now however, things had changed for him. Even though Natalia had no idea of his shift in feelings, feelings that had already been there for someone else entirely -- he still hadn’t figured out a way to break the news to her just yet. It didn’t help that things were complicated between them at the moment, it wasn’t just their relationship -- but something else was hanging over his head as well.

Carefully, he pried himself out of her embrace, before he found himself looking down into her eyes and putting on his best poker face.

”Not tonight babe; I’m super tired right now. We’ll spend time together tomorrow, I promise,” he paused before taking a deep breath and shifting his gaze away. “We have a lot to talk about anyway.”

Natalia on the other hand, felt that shiver of fear settle deep within the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong; and while she knew that -- she ultimately decided to table the idea of confronting him on it at the moment. It hadn’t helped matters that they had been fighting right before he had arrived back home.

”I understand, I’ll let you get caught up on unpacking then.”

A moment later, she had turned and left the room -- closing the door behind her and finally leaving him alone with his all consuming thoughts.

An hour later, Bill had emerged from their bedroom to find Natalia playing on her laptop in her living room, with a glass of wine in her hands.

“Hey Nat, my little brother is coming by to pick me up. He’s refusing to take no for an answer and wants to have a couple of drinks in order to catch up. I’ll be back in a little bit, okay?”

Her expression was unreadable as she nodded her head, and watched him walk out the door without even uttering the words that he loved her or goodbye. Once she returned her attention back towards her laptop, she remembered the text message that she had received at the airport earlier in the evening. As if on queue, that familiarized feeling of worry had started to settle in once again.

She finally gave up trying to fight off the nagging feeling of uncertainty that was gnawing away at her, and logged into her email account.

Moments later, she found herself wishing that she could have been better prepared for what she was about to discover; but the truth was -- nothing could have prepared her for what she saw next...

Anger boiled within her blood, as her eyes misted over with unshed tears.

This explained everything.

Her best friend had warned her against hiring a private investigator to tail Bill while he was in Toronto. She had warned her that nothing good could come from snooping on her own boyfriend; and that if she was so determined to find something bad -- that she couldn’t complain about when she finally managed to get it. But that knowledge alone, didn’t make the pain any less real; and it certainly didn’t make the cold harsh slap of reality -- sting any less.

Emotions and thoughts swirled rapidly in her head and heart, because right in front of her, were the images that she couldn’t deny and they were taken earlier today: Bill kissing his assistant, Y/N, while they stood at the front door of the Toronto vacation house.

Natalia’s hand shot out, in almost lighting speed, and swiped a glass vase full of colorful summertime flowers and a few picture frames off her of desk. Her rage, caused her to give out an anguished cry of pure agony as she slammed the lid of her laptop down, stood up from her desk and paced around her living room.

“That fucking bitch; I knew she was a liar!”

Bill had told her she was crazy for saying that she was worried about him spending so much time with Y/N; but now it seemed she was right to feel that way all along. And as for Bill? He was more than just a liar, he was a cheating asshole who had made a complete fool out of her.

Of course he had been acting distant; it all made sense now.

Amidst her passionate fury, she snatched her cell phone off of her desk and dialed up that same cell phone number that had texted her earlier in the day.

“Ace, it’s Natalia. I got your email, what can you tell me?”

Ace released a sigh as he fumbled around for something in the background.

“Your boyfriend and his assistant, went out to a night club together a few nights ago. Prior to that, they were pretty amiable towards each other. But that night, things seemed different. They left the club a few hours later in a rush, and went back to the vacation house. I tried to get as close as I could, but I couldn’t see inside. However, the noises I heard... Well they explain the pictures I shot earlier this morning, before they left the house for good. I’m sorry Natalia, it seems something has recently happened between them, but I can’t be completely sure of what other than what I captured on film.”

Tears slipped down Natalia’s cheeks as she absorbed the information like a sponge to water.

“So this seems to have started a few days ago?”

“Yes ma’am, it does.”

Her hand tightened into a fist as she stared up at the ceiling of her apartment, trying to reign in her fiery temper.

“Alright, I need something else from you too. Find out who her boyfriend is, and get me his contact information. Her name is Y/F/N Y/L/N. She works for The Frankford Talent Institute in New York. Find him, bring me his information and I’ll double your fee.”

Ace confirmed her request and then hung up the phone.

As if the weight of the world came crashing down around her, Natalia collapsed on the floor and began to sob uncontrollably. Moments later though, her cries started to die down while she began to collect herself off of the floor. One thing was for certain -- she couldn’t let Bill know that she knew just yet. If anything, it was imperative that she act as normal as possible.

Neither of their families had any idea yet, that the two of them had been engaged since before Bill left for Toronto -- and she had foolishly kept it quiet at his request.

Now, this was a fight to secure her relationship. She wasn’t about to watch some half wit American bitch, swoop in and take everything she had worked so hard for.

Before it would all be said and done, Y/N and Bill both would rue the day they made a fool out of her. If anything... Natalia was going to ensure it.

I told you guys that shit was going get real lol.

You may feel sorry for Natalia right now, but I haven’t even begun to get into that relationship -- so be prepared, that’s all I’m going to say.

As always thank you for reading!

Tagging:

@kikilikes, @readsalot73, @diianawonka, @goswedish, @rougxlips @ffixation, @shadowpriestess6, @vladsgirl, @mrsbillskarsgard, @billgardskars, @adoresfandoms, @mightbelindsey, @we-are-like-a-timebomb, @fandomimcurrentlyobsessedabout, @negan5589, @decayingdeathh, @unicorn-glitter-princess, @voidpaintings, @the-fandom-phantom-fanfics, @mishdennise, @stylex, @thatonepuremoment, @voidpaintings, @peardream72, @nyleveeee, @rutuliukasg @mmcd1990

#bill skarsgard imagine #bill skarsgard #bill skarsgard fan fiction #bill skarsgard x reader #bill skarsgård imagine #the assistant series

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royal-writer · 6 years

Text

Memories 2

ooOF the more I write these the more I realize I am a Terrible Mother... But like 99% of these things are stuff I’ve already written/played into Ess’ lore when I was designing her the first month or so so??? it’s not like it’s really news...

Essätha leaned over the edge of the counter with a playful grin. She offered a wink with her light chestnut eyes; extending a hand across the distance of the bar. The very tips of her fingers brushed the side of the lady’s hand while a curious hum echoed in her throat.

“What time do you get off?” she sang quietly.

The barmaid turned a searching gaze upon her. She had rather pleasant eyes; a curious dark green and lips slightly pursed. Very kissable. A lovely dark skintone that nearly matched the color of her hair with pointed ears sticking out.

“In less than an hour, sweetheart,” the barmaid coolly responded. She didn’t bother to remove her hand from Essie’s touch.

She whistled softly, speaking with a purr, “Were you planning on rushing straight home?”

The young lass lowered her gaze. She looked Essätha over with a slow smile creeping over her features.

“I think I can spare a wee bit of time…”

Just the response she was hoping for.

Pulling back her hand, Essätha leaned away from the bar top. The maiden slowly pulled her hand back to grab something under the bar, and stepped away. Her eyes, however, continued to remain locked on Essie’s as she swayed her hips with each step.

Essie passed her a dangerously flirty smile. Fangs peeked out from her lips as she ran her tongue across her lower lip.

Blushing, the barmaid turned her gaze away shyly.

With a smug little grin, Essie plopped her elbow up on the bar. She placed her chin upon her hand and watched with growing delight. At least her evening was going to prove eventful.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Oh, gross! You didn’t really kiss him, did you?”

“Uh, yeah, I did. He didn’t even know how to do it; he slobbered on me like a dog.”

“Oh, that’s disgusting,” Essätha laughed, clutching her chest. “Poor you!”

A sour complexion, the tiefling crossed her arms. She rolled her eyes; the disturbing jet-black coloring reflecting little to no lot.

“It kept him from reporting to the guard that I stole his damn family antiques and sold it.”

Still giggling, Essie covered her mouth with her hand. What a dummy! Exchanging a simple kiss for an heirloom. She wouldn’t give up what little she had that reminded her of her mom for all the money in the world.

“What did he say he was going to tell his family about the missing relic?” Ess’ finally managed to snicker.

“Psst, don’t know, don’t care,” the dark red lady stated with a wave of her hand. “It’s not my problem.”

“Oooh Solace, you heartless witch.”

“Coming from the local snake witch? I’ve heard worse.”

The two burst into a fit of giggles.

“Is that where you got this new outfit from?” Essätha asked with awe, gesturing to the soft, pink, frilly blouse and new slacks. She had a brand new choker and earrings, and if she wasn’t mistaken, that hue of makeup wasn’t one she’d had before.

“Noooo,” Solace drew out with smugness. “I got this out of that bitch Clara’s Winfelds wardrobe. She recently got a delivery of a shitload of new clothes from another region. I figured she wouldn’t miss some of her old stuff.”

“And you got me nothing? You sly bitch.”

“You wouldn’t fit in any of it anyway!” Solace stated, placing an offended hand to her chest. “You’re thinner than a twig.”

Essie crossed her arms. “I’m not as lucky sneaking food, you know.”

“I’ll grab some grub if you can get us some a place to safely settle for the night and scrounge up a new bedroll for me? Mine was confiscated a few days ago. Got caught in the abandoned warehouse in the shopping district.”

“Oh, that’ll be easy.”

“I’m sure it will be for a snake. Less conspicuous than a 6-foot serpent around the stalls.”

A red hue burned in Essätha’s cheeks as she puffed them out. Reaching out, she shoved at her confident with a loud hiss.

“You sssuck.”

Solace gave a proud raise of her eyebrows. She attempted a hiss; the sound gruntled nonsense.

“Your yuan-ti is still terrible,” Essie joked, giving a sad smile.

“Why- what did I say?”

“Out of all that, the only word that was actually a word was ‘bite’.”

“Well-” Solace attempted to mock the same hissing sound as before- “me then.”

“Now you’re just saying bullshit again,” the yuan-ti remarked with amusement.

“Well fuck you and your hissing language, you large noodle.”

Howling laughter escaped them both. A few people in the nearest area cried out to ‘keep it down’, but they were too busy, sprawled over each other, lost in laughter to care. Tears in their eyes, hands clutching their aching chests.

A single raven, irritated by the noise as well, flew by with an irritated cry.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stars exploded in front of Essätha’s eyes. She gasped, fingers clawed desperately for freedom at the hands around her throat.

Her head came lurching painfully forward, only to come crashing back down.

Blood was running from the back of her head to her wet hair.

She couldn’t breath. The body on her chest was too heavy; the hands around her neck firm. The thumbs pressed into her esophagus roughly, blocking the remains of her airflow.

A convulsion ran through her. Tears in her eyes, she grabbed for anything, anything at all.

“I’ll finally be rid of your nuisances,” the man laughed; a horrifying, mad sound. “Your crimes won’t taunt me further. I’ll finally be free of you. Finally.”

Her fingers trembled, snatching at his face. Her fingernails dug into his cheek weakly, but he only throttled her further.

“Quit touching me you disgusting vermin.”

Panic roared into Essätha’s ears. Or maybe that was just the lack of oxygen getting to her. She tried looking around, hoping someone would hear this. Praying someone would help.

The setting sun’s rays barely trickled into the collapsing building’s boarded windows. No one outside was going to hear her. She was going to die her.

Wheezing painfully, she tried slapping his face, to no avail.

This was it. This was where she ran herself into the end of the road. Her felonies had built up not in the court of law, but it raged a fire in captain of the guard. He couldn’t put up with another day of chasing her. It no longer mattered to him that the justice system saw her petty offenses as just another slap on the wrist, or another beating, nights in jail.

She wasn’t worth the time or thought to the courts. A nuisance, but not a mastermind felon.

Another convulsion ran through her and she felt her body growing limp.

Her arm dropped, hitting something sharp and hard.

Eyes rolling up, she gripped her fingers as tightly as she could against the rough surface.

A piece of stone from the decaying building’s walls.

Flinging her arm with what strength remained within her, the piece of cobblestone hit the guardman directly in the temple of his head.

He fell off of her with a startled cry of pain.

Air suddenly filled Essätha’s lungs in a rush. She gagged. It hurt to breathe now. Damn near unbearable. Her chest shook and heaved as she released a shaky, half-whispered sob. Tears collected in the corners of her eyes slipped past and dropped to the floor whilst she rolled to her side.

The captain lay on his side. A hand to his bloody temple; a pained grimace.

Fear drove her to action.

If she didn’t attack first, he was going to come for her again.

She crawled on top of him as he slapped and shoved at her. Cursing with bloody hands smearing across her clothes and face.

The heavy stone in her hand came down with a furious, broken cry.

Blood splattered on the floor in ever direction.

Essätha found her rhythm; bringing the rock down again and again. Her hoarse, painful weeping making her already raw and aching body throb with more pain.

She finally dropped the stone. Looking down at the mangled, shattered skull lacking a face. Pieces of his brain flecked the floor and as she looked down slowly with horror, the realization struck her. Blood and brain matter; flayed pieces of skin and bone fragments were stuck to her face, in her hair, on her clothes.

She’d only just barely leaned away from him when she vomited on the floor. It stung her throat even worse.

What had she done?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Her own blood and vomit as well as the captain’s still covered her from head to toe in dappled stains of brown. It left dirt sticking to her frame, and curious bugs flying around her filthy form.

She darted free from cover, making a beeline for the treeline.

Brush rustled and came back to smack her in the fact. Essätha spat and hissed unpleasantly in a croaked, harsh whisper. Her voice was barely with her. It felt like she’d swallowed shattered glass.

With her own stomping and movement, she hadn’t even heard the man until they’d nearly collided.

“You!” he barked furiously.

Jumping back, Essie brought up her hands defensively; her wrists moving, arms drawing an image in her mind without thinking. Barely uttered words escaped her as the man reached for her.

This time, he jumped back, alarmed at the fireworks of lights that disoriented his retinas.

She brought up her knee between his legs. Lucky for her, this was only a scout without chainmail but merely a leather holster.

He whimpered and fell down.

She fled further into the trees. No point in waiting for him to recover.

Another man came running from a different direction. Essätha gave a quiet murmur and curled her hand; wisps of smoke moving along her digits in tendrils

He froze instantly as a phantom-like mage hand appeared before him. It jabbed at his eyes and he cursed, throwing his sword out wildly as he charged forward.

The blade came up, drawing a line against Essie’s shoulder that bubbled up with blood as it kissed her skin.

Side-stepping, her hand twisted; a black-ish violet shadow coiling around her hand and up her arm. The mage-hand suddenly flickered. It evaporated mostly only to reform; a thicker, more defined ghastly shape of a skeletal hand.

It strangled the man in a mimicked motion of Essie’s tightly gripped hand.

He shook with alarm, trying to grab the hand but finding it impossible to do. The whites; or more like reds from being previously poked, eyes turned to look at her as the chill touch drained him of life.

He moved closer and Essie squeezed her hand into a tighter fist, flinching.

His eyes rolled back into his head as he fell, dead. Blisters and decayed skin wrapped around his neck.

Oh gods, she hadn’t meant to. She just wanted him to stop, all she wanted was for them to stop and leave her alone!

With fangs sinking into her lip to prevent herself from crying, Essätha took to the woods. Crashing wildly through the growth and shrubs. Pushing her way further and further away from Miamooragyte, the only place she’d ever known.

Sharp, agonizing pain hit her shoulder and she wailed faintly, turning her head to see the arrow embedded in her.

Where had it come from? Her heart was beating like thunder in her chest as she darted her gaze around for signs of the attacker.

A cry of alarm, followed by a thud.

From the shadows, a familiar figure began to approach her swiftly, hands raised.

“Sssolace?” Essätha rasped.

“Ess’!” the tiefling cried out with shock, dashing to her.

The arms that wrapped around her intensely were arguably, the most painful and blissful she’d ever felt.

“Oh by Shar’s name Ess’, are you alright?” Solace asked, pulling away to look her over. “I’d heard the guards were looking for you. They were saying that you’d killed Lionel. Is it true?”

Numbly, Essätha only gave a nod of her head.

“Oh Essie,” the tiefling breathed, her eyes watering. “Are you okay?”

Slowly, Essätha shook her head. Her lips wobbled, and a tired whimper escaped her. Her chest rose and fell quickly as she tried to resist the urge to cry.

“It’s okay, Ess’,” her ally soothed, bringing her in for a hug as she held her head. “It’s okay, Ess’, it’s okay.”

Tears trickled slowly down her face. It didn’t matter if she said she didn’t mean to. It didn’t matter what she said at all. No one was going to listen to her; a yuan-ti, a monster. No one wanted to hear what she had to say. Some had been tolerant enough to let her live, but now…

She exhaled in a rush as the arrow was suddenly pulled from her shoulder.

“That looks like it’s pretty deep,” the tiefling murmured. She stepped back, looking her over for a moment before giving an ‘aha’.

A packback dropped from her shoulders. She dug through it briefly before pulling out a large green cape with golden trim hand-sewn in a whimsical pattern along the edges.

“Just hold still,” Solace warned, stepping forward.

Biting her lip, Essätha look away as her acquaintance began wrapping the length of the cape along her like a sling, tightening it around the wound and knotting it off.

“There,” that should help for a while, until you can get some help.”

Essie looked back to the tiefling’s abyssal dark eyes.

“I… can’t stay,” she croaked in a whisper.

Sadness entered Solace’s gaze.

“I know, Ess’. I’ll try leading them off you. You go, okay?”

As she continued, Solace took hold of her hands, “Get as far away from here as you can. Go find your place in the world.”

“But… you?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine!” Solace assured her with a laugh. “I never liked this hellhole anyway. I’ll be leaving too… Maybe we’ll run into each other again some day.”

A sniffle escaped the yuan-ti. Her aching chest felt even heavier now.

“Now don’t go getting soggy eyes,” Solace choked, tearing up herself now. “It’ll be fine.”

Essätha took a step forward. Her forehead rested against the tiefling’s shoulder as she dipped her head.

Solace wrapped her arms around her softly. Essie went instinctively to return the gesture with further tears running down her splotchy face.

“I’ll miss… you,” Essie hardly managed to speak.

“You too, Ess’. You’ve been the only family I’ve had,” Solace stated, rubbing her back before yanking herself back, eyes shining with tears.

“Now get out of here.”

Releasing each other, Essätha turned. She hesitated, looking back over her shoulder.

Solace gave a gesture with her hand. “Go; I got this. Go find an adventure that leads you to somewhere, maybe someone, special.”

In a single lifeless display, Essie gave a sharp nod of her head. It hurt to do so. Stupid idea.

Her boots thudded against the hard earth as she took off. Behind her, shouting and cursing began to fade into her ears but it was too far to identify.

She broke into an opening, staring up to see a few of the larger, more grand buildings of Miamooragyte standing like pillars reaching to the sky.

Sadness, anger, hurt. She glared, conflicted.

Another cry in the woods, this time closer.

Spooked, she darted back into the wilds. The very last sight she’d glimpse to her hometown fading behind her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Can I buy you a drink?”

She looked up through half-lidded, seductive eyes. Twirling her finger around the rim of her currently empty glass, Essätha raised an eyebrow up to the gentleman.

“You sure can,” she purred, looking him up and down.

Embarrassed, he rubbed the back of his head as he said, “S-Sorry I- I thought you’d been staring at me from across the bar-”

“Oh, I was.”

His face turned beet red.

Reaching across to the stool next to her, Essie patted the empty seat.

“Care to share your time with that drink?” she offered, an enticing aura of charm oozing from her.

Jaw dropping down, the lad instantly dropped to his ass on the indicated stool. He was practically drooling just staring at her.

In the back of her mind, the words played over and over again from a time and place she still tried to out-run.

No one truly wanted her. No one truly could want what she was; who she was. A person could easily be fooled by a gorgeous smile and confidence; softened eyes and teasing glances. But no one would ever care enough to get beyond the facade layer. No one wanted to know more than what they wanted to see.

And she was fine with that.

… Right?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Ye’ yuan-ti bitch! Ye’ plac a curse on these lands if ye’ stay ‘ere!”

The man spat on her as she lay in the mud, cringing away from him.

Her hand flexed, but she resisted the urge to fight back. For now.

“Filthy little cultist, all ye’ lot is! Stay away from ‘ere; I don’t allow ye’ type in me tavern or near me girls or ‘maids or servants, ye’ hear! Now get out here, before I decide to mount ye’ head as a warning on top of my bar.”

Horrified, Essätha scrambled backwards before the man’s boot could strike her. She found her footing and scrambled up, darting down the nearest road.

“Don’t ye’ ever show ye’ face ‘round here again!” The man roared after her, spitting mad and face red.

He didn’t need to worry. She had no intentions on returning there again.

This was no place for her.

No place would ever be for her very long.

#eci artz #Essie rw #mild trigger-y stuff mostly in gore department

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blueinkeddoodle · 6 years

Text

Efrain Harris: Mountain Hike

When they say the simplest hello can change life, I never pegged the hello he first threw at me twelve years ago can actually change my life.

Efrain Harris tailed behind his mother as both of them knocked on the door of my new house. His mother and mine have been friends long before fathers came into the picture. So, when she made her way as the first person in the neighborhood to come knocking on our door with blueberry pie in hand two days before the semester began was never a question. He said his hello once and before we knew forever or such term existed, we were the best of friends, impossibly separated.

Efrain became the guy whom I spent my entire childhood with, followed suit into teenage era and now as we barely passed the broken twenty; he still is the guy I spend my early adulthood with. He is the guy whom I spent lots and many more lots of first to come. For example, first mountain hike we ever did.

"You, idiot!" I snapped at his walking figure in urgent.

How can I not when it was two in the morning as we hiked Mount Ijen in complete darkness, bones freezing from the harsh cold temperature and he just had the nerve to fucking leave me alone? Because I was as slow as snail he said. Slow, my ass. "How many times do I have to remind you that not every single one of us have the all-access to the gym for their cardio rep every single morning?"

The sound of his laughter booming through the open space, each burning seconds getting louder. It seemed like he managed to get back where I stopped. The blinding light of the small torch he held spotlighted on me. "See? This is the exact reason why you can never skip your cardio session, love. Trust me when I bombarded your phone at the crack of dawn. It's only for the best of you." He said in very serious tone, but eyes betraying from the glint of mischief.

"Just don't with the pet name." I snarled, snatching the water bottle he was holding.

Just before I got the chance to sit my ass down, both his strong arms pulled me up. How on earth did he do that so easily? Wasn't he the slightest tired? "You'll get dirt on your pants. Besides, it'll take more time to reset as we start again. The trail will get worse but your body will need longer time to manage as much distance as we had just did." I exhaled quite tiredly. He may be an asshole most of the times, but trust him when he threw an advice.

"You really need to tell me if it's getting too hard, or if the burn on your limbs are too much to take. You hear me?" He said after a few seconds passed but I still needed a couple more minutes to even out my breath. I nodded, handing his water back as I got ready to start another walk. "You're... good to go?" He asked, one brow raised in pure curiosity.

"Yeah, let's just get this shit done." A small smirk appeared as I answered him so, a very smirk that announced his pride in me, the kind that said that's my girl. His hand held mine, fingers linking to each other, filling each empty space as if was the spaces made only for him.

A brotherly smile happened next. Something that shouldn't have felt this electrifying, like the burn after fireworks exploding on the bottom of your stomach, causing million of butterflies to create chaotic pitter patter from the clapping of its wings. Efrain is just my lifetime best friend, right? This shouldn't feel like it.

But then again, neither should a simple touch on the palm of my hand cause a havoc in my mind, like the question do you love me he threw carelessly at movie night after he stole your favorite Ben and Jerry's. The answer should be yes, I do in all the glory of best friends who had stuck all their lives together, nothing more.

The hiking trail never got any easier. If the first half was hell, the second half was even worse of hell and demon itself. The harder it got, the louder my whine got. But the fact that he did not complain even for the slightest bit actually warmed my heart.

The first ten minutes, swear to God I thought it had been thirty minutes, went by without my crack of voice. The trail was the hardest at this point. And even the sound of my panting breath was too much to take, let alone the burn I felt on my thighs. "Now that you got too quiet, you're still breathing right?" He cracked a joke.

It was supposed to be a joke, at least I thought it was. But the concern lacing on his eyes said otherwise. His right hand flew to my face fast, cupping my cheek only to see the color almost drained completely. "I'm fine. It's hard to even out my breathing while walking and talking at the same time." I said, shrugging his hand off just as the side of my face warmed up in crimson. It was just warmth from the tip of his hands, right?

He chuckled, "It will be just another round of that hairpin section and we'll get there." He encouraged me, a beautiful megawatt smile shone on the contrary of dark three-in-the-morning sky behind him.

It took us about another half an hour until we reached the place we desired. "I hope this blue fucking fire thing is worth it. I'm not doing two hours worth of walking just to inhale this much amount of sulfur." His laughter rang throughout the crowded crater.

"And here we welcome back the goddess of speech." He remarked, eyes crinkling to crescent from laughing. The same melodic laughter that caught my breath on my throat, heart stopped for millisecond before drumming out far too fast as if it was to burst out of my chest. I swore to God he would've heard that. "Come on, let's get a picture of you. Give me your best smile." He pulled the hand he was holding earlier so that I was standing in front of him a few feet away, where he thought the blue fire would be seen behind me in the photograph. He finally let my hand go for the first time that early morning. "There goes my favorite smile." He commented under his breath, hushed tone, I thought I wasn't supposed to hear that. As I heard multiple shutter sound, my smile got brighter at the thought of what I assumed to be mishearing.

The hour slowly passed by as we took some more pictures of us two. Crack of dawn opened up to not-seen sun rays from down where we were. But the sky went two tone lighter as the greyish mist and green crater made our landscape. It was indeed a beautiful background.

I was munching on my favorite bar of cookies and cream topped chocolate when suddenly he turned all serious in front of me. "I know this is bad timing. You probably still ran out of breath and you must hate me for ruining that favorite winter coat of yours," he said, motioning to the dark grey jacket I was wearing.

"Efrain, in case your hardly-used brain can't load the information I had so many times told you about, but the term people use for this piece of clothing is jacket. It's not winter coat." I deadpanned. "But you're right, I totally despise you for ruining my jacket. This now smells like shit." I cringed my nose in disgust.

"Fine, but you still need to hear me out. You're probably gonna hate me but, be mine?"

"What?"

He groaned out from frustration. This was the first time I had seen someone who confessed his feelings to the girl he loved, yet managed to not looking nervous. God, didn’t I deserve something sweeter? “See this why I hate you so much. You see, we’ve been with each other since we can remember and even if forever is too long to reach out, I’d rather have my own forever to spend with you. And I didn’t just say this because we’ve been friends for so long. But I did it because every time I look into your eyes, I see my future. There has never been a time I imagined my future and you weren’t a part of it.

"You’ve been with me from the time I had my best girlfriend to the worst one. And even the best one still can’t outshine the worst times I had with you. So help me out of this misery and just be mine already.”

I think it hasn’t hit me hardly that time when he confessed. For I didn’t feel the drumming of my heart ricocheting as if it was about to jump out of my chest. I didn’t feel the excitement or fireworks exploding around me. I just felt… warm.

It was the exact feeling when you soak into the bathtub of warm water and the smell of your favorite bathing oil had evaporated after a rough day. Or the feeling when you open your favorite coffee shop and your cup of ginger ale has been waiting. It was like coming to your childhood house on thanksgiving and smelling the turkey roast three houses away. It was like walking into a house and suddenly you’re home.

An unknown smile widened on my face, wide enough to reach from one ear to another. “You know it’s always been a yes, right?”

He pumped his fist in the air. Just as his soft, pink full lips landed on my forehead, there was another set of camera shutter sound. His smile was radiant, like always. The same one that I always see yet never failed to make the thumping on my heart goes crazy. “How’s that thing work?”

“Remotely controlled by my phone. I clicked that.”

Both eyebrows furrowed, even forehead contorted in confusion. “How?”

He rolled his eyes, “Seriously, love?” He asked in disbelief. “By infrared connection, of course. Did you really just ask that question? God, the girl who cracked his own Spotify account. I thought you’d be more tech savvy than that.”

“Shut up. You love me anyway.”

Another radiant, megawatt smile graced his lips. “Technically, I always do love you but right at this moment I just really hate to admit that.”

I would actually not believe if someone had told me the simplest hello can change a life, but right now, I just do. As innocent and as no harm can do as fourth-grader Efrain Harris said hello, I would never thought that he would also be the one to come to love.

Because the truth is, I never know when love really comes to me and I think no one does. For some, they claimed love knocks on their door early in the morning of terrible morning breath and bedhead but I don’t carefully listen to the sound of door knocks. Hell, I don’t even wake up in the morning if someone had been knocking. Because for me, love comes bringing its own key in the hue hour of midnight saying, “Love, you’re home?” As he made his way into my apartment.

I still had yet to decide if love feels like the fluttering of million butterflies on the lower part of my stomach when he smiles or the exploding fireworks as we kissed or the burning sensation that left as our hands touched. Because another time he smiles, I just feel warm or that time when he kissed me that didn’t leave me speechless just a tad bit tingling sensation for another kiss or the other time he held mine and just the itchy greed to never let it go.

But one thing I always knew, I am just glad that it turned out to be him in the end. I always know I love him, in the common sense of two people who spent their lives basically together, but I never knew it would escalated to love like this. But now that it is him, I think I just love how this turns out, for he has seen the worst of me and still manages to believe that the sun shines from my eyes, for these hands he holds and never once he has a doubt to never let them go.

Ending Note (Efrain Harris: Way Back Down)

If you thought the way up to the top of the mountain was hard, well the way back down wasn't any easier. It was around seven when we came down and as I marveled at the scenery around me (a beautiful one at that), I repeatedly asked myself 'would I have done this if it wasn't for the utter darkness around me'. Because seriously, I think I would've given up for I had seen the trail.

His hands casually wrapped around my shoulders that I had to cross my arms in front of my chest so that we still hands in hands. "When did you realize that you like me?" I asked.

"Seriously, like you? Love, I think the word like was an understatement. I never really realized when, because to be honest, I always have loved you and I do. I always knew it'd be you one way or another. Each breakup just put me in perspective that those girls will never be you. I kept comparing them with you, you're the standard. I just kinda realized that I cannot with someone else that's not you."

"Ah, so those series of drop dead gorgeous girls were just distraction? Or the wiser way to say were just transitions media?"

"If you said they're drop dead gorgeous, then how do you define yourself? Because I don't use the word perfect to define the creations of God."

"Stop being so cheesy, you idiot. It's impressive how you manage to only hear the part I described your exes instead of the question I was asking." I complained, to which just another megawatt smile of him was an answer. "So, you just kinda work up your courage from there? To confess? To ask me?"

"Courage? I never had to work the courage for that. I knew you'd take me. You look at me in a very different light than you looked at your exes. I knew you were in love with them, but then I always knew you love me way better."

"God, you're the cockiest guy I've ever found in my life, you know?"

"I know. And you're my favorite girl, the girl of my dream, you know that right?"

I scoffed. "You're so cheesy."

"But you love me." And dear God, yes, I do.

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graphicallyill · 7 years

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Honey and Wine and Unspeakable Atrocities

Part 1: Black Tar and Burgundy Sheets

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11455362

This first one is set immediately after Nicias returns from Ahnmik the first time. It's kind of a fix-it, kind of just filling in the gaps. You can read here if you like, but my AO3 link is at the top

My breath caught in my throat as I pushed back the burgundy curtains to enter the dark, warm guest room. Brightly colored silks adorned the walls and chaise, soft woven rugs across the floor, and a plush bed, covered in luxurious pillows, decorated the inside. These rooms, found throughout the palace in Wyvern's Court, were often used for serpiente guests, usually of the Dancer's Guild. It was exactly the environment they would make for themselves in the Wyvern's Nest, and before at Sha'Mehay. However, the current resident was not a dancer, or a merchant, or even a friend.

Nearly the entire Cobriana line in one room, all for one visitor. Lying all but dead to the world on the burgundy bed was a young woman, maybe five or so years older than I. She had lighter skin than the avians I grew up around, but darker than the falcons who had delivered her. Her hair looked almost identical to my own taut black curls long and splayed out around her head like a halo. The only difference there was the shimmering red highlights dyed by magic. It looked like a fire scorching across smoke. She had been called Hai.

Every bit of her was Cobriana, except for a few things here and there, and one big thing. Her wings lay broken and battered behind her back, stained and dripping with an endless black tar that seemed to vanish a few moments after it dripped in huge clumps against the ground and bed. The tar kept bubbling to the surface of her angry, fiery wounds. I imagined she must be in incredible agony, awake or not.

Diente Zane and Tuuli Thea Danica, my parents and the only people whose advice I wanted most in the world, stood stoically in a far corner of the room. A united front, as always, perfect mixture of both worlds. Mother looked wonderingly at the form on the bed. Among the serpiente, she always made a conscious attempt to display her emotions freely. My Aunt Irene leaned lazily against Zane, anxiously running her fingers through her long, black hair. The melos tied around her waist, along with the revealing emerald green dress she wore, told me she'd run straight from Wyvern's Nest. I wondered idly if Salem was following close behind.

I crossed the room to stand next to my parents, opposite Kel and the falcon who called herself Darien. As I got closer, I examined Hai's face. She had the features of the gods and goddesses, demi or otherwise, associated with stories I'd heard the serpiente tell. I'd come to associate those features with falcons, with Nicias and Kel. My own face was more angular, more avian. My cobra parentage rounded my face more than my mother's, but Hai's looked like it had come straight from paintings or mosaics depicting Kiesha's days. I watched, as if an optical illusion, as her face changed emotion with ever angle- from serene, to angry, sadness, frozen in fear, and, amusingly, a smirk. I shuddered.

Magic unnerved me.

“Anjay and I were lovers,” Darien began her explanation. Irene snorted loudly, interrupting. Darien turned her head crisply towards her.

“Yes, I gathered that much,” she retorted. I resisted a chuckle- despite the obvious falcon wings, folded behind her broken and burned, Hai was as Cobriana as I was. My uncle, Anjay, was the only cobra to ever be a guest on the White Island of Ahnmik. It wasn't hard to figure it out.

Darien continued. “I was going to send word to him, but he was killed before I was able.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted slightly. Anjay had been killed by my mother's brother, Xavier, afer he'd killed my mother's original alistair, for revenge after an avian killed my aunt, Sisal, and her unborn child, after someone killed someone on their side after some killed someone else after so much revenge and bloodshed stretching back a thousand years so that it was untraceable. My family had a rule about not blaming each other, or using strong words. There was too much at stake, and by now we loved each other too much to approach those topics like that. It always felt so odd when others did so callously.

I hardly noticed that Darien had continued talking the whole time. “Shortly after Hai's birth, the Empress branded me a traitor, and I was locked away until Nicias freed me. Quemak, mongrel children, are forbidden to be conceived.”

Mongrel children. I swallowed hard at the description of not just my cousin lying out on the bed, but myself. I wondered how much she and I felt in common, being of two different worlds, yet also of none. It was an ache that no one else could ever understand. At least, I had thought.

My mother stepped forward, extending a hand to the falcon. “Thank you for bringing us to her, of course she is welcome here,” she said warmly, and Darien gave her her hand, smiling wryly.

“Is she?”

It was no secret that falcons made everyone in Wyvern's Court nervous. They were of the same origins as the serpiente, but allied with the avians in the war for years. Since our peace, they had been nothing but nuisance and pain. And regarded us as little more than insects. Still, two members of our Wyvern's of Honor were born falcons, and their son was my best friend. None of us were a inherently mistrustful people.

“Of course,” my father answered, his face a stone mask. It was a trick he'd learned from years mingling among the avian court. They expected everyone to wear one, physically or emotionally. He was far from a master at concealing his feelings, but adept nonetheless. I, however, had twenty years of being his daughter to practice in reading him.

His eyes were trained on Hai's face, unmoving, unyielding. Studying him, I could guess everything he was feeling. He was looking back in time, the last imprint his older brother had left on this world. His last gift, in a way. He undoubtedly felt a strong desire to protect his brother's only daughter. At the same time, he was looking at the previous Arami's eldest child. The only possible threat to his daughter's rule. A potential pretender to the throne- Anjay was beloved by the people. But he was also beloved by my father, and his child would be too.

Salem burst into the room at that instant, pushing curtains aside and practically running over to his mother's side. I noted his long hair tied up in what must have been a time consuming process, his golden yellow melos around his waist, and side-slit pants, I wondered what possible dance he could have been practicing.

He took his mother's hands in his own, asking questions with his eyes only. Irene gestured to the bed, and Salem turned to look.

“Son, meet your eldest cousin, Hai.”

Salem, without missing a beat, took a large step over to the bed, staring quizzically at Hai's Cobriana hair and jaw, coupled with her falcon wings and nose. He glanced up at Darien, still wearing her demi-form wings, for a moment, before back down to our cousin. With his back turned towards me, I couldn't see his face. I wondered if he thought the same thoughts that plagued my father.

As if having read my mind, Darien repeated the same statement she and Nicias had made earlier. “Unfortunately, she's unlikely to ever awaken. Nicias and I have tried everything possible, and she refuses to be pried from her place.” She met eyes with my father, her silver eyes turning violet. “I only hope that here, in this land of freedom and peace and serpents and birds, she has sweeter dreams.”

I shuddered again.

Salem, ever the friendly dancer, smiled diplomatically at Darien. “Of course! She's family, and she belong with the Cobriana.” He stated it like undisputed fact, and I knew we all agreed with him. Salem moved closer to the bed, taking a downy blanket and spreading it across Hai's body. For a moment, she looked serene again.

Salem shouted in pain, jumping back and grasping his arm guardedly. He looked back at Hai, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He let his arm go, and I watched as a slash formed across his bicep, blood beading and beginning to flow slowly down. Irene gasped in horror.

Darien crossed the distance to stand between Salem and Hai. She seemed almost more protective of Salem than her own daughter.

“I am so sorry, I had no clue she would lash out with her magic,” she explained. Before Salem had a moment to protest, Darien grabbed his arm and closed her eyes. When she opened them, they gleamed purple again. She removed her hands from his arm, and not only was the cut completely healed, but the blood seemingly evaporated. Salem rubbed absentmindedly at his arm and glanced back at Hai, whose face was now warped in anger.

“I think the surroundings here are still unfamiliar to her. She has never been around a cobra before, much less every last one left. I'm sorry,” she bowed her head in defeat. A moment later, she turned to Kel, smiling again. “I do have an idea, if you would help me?”

Kel tensed, but nodded. I wondered exactly how well they had known each other, if Darien was the only thing Kel remembered from her previous life.

Darien scooped up Hai effortlessly in her arms, wrapping her in the Cobriana black blanket.

“Royal blood calms her. Would it bother you if I let her stay near Nicias, at least for now?” she asked. I couldn't help but notice the way she bat her eyelashes at Kel.

Kel visibly hesitated around the phrase “royal blood” being used to refer to her son, but agreed nonetheless. She bowed to my parents, dismissing herself to follow Darien as she simply left. I could hear soft, but curt, conversation as they disappeared down the hall.

For a moment, we all stood in pained silence. There had been a lot in such a short amount of time, and we were unsure how to react. Within half an hour, we had found out that we had a missing family member, of parentage that was so foreign it felt like myth, and watched her be carried away. My head was still spinning, struggling to catch up. It felt unreal. Salem was the first to speak up, with a raised voice.

“What are we doing?” he asked incredulously, gesturing towards the empty doorway. “Oliza, that's our cousin. She's every bit Cobriana as you and me! We should be insisting she be at home here, in the palace!”

Me more than you, I resisted responding. It killed me that someone who might understand the feeling of not belonging I had was in the city, but that I might never get to speak with her. My small family somehow felt smaller the second she was taken away.

“Salem, I want her here too, but I don't know anything about what she needs, and her mother thinks it would be better for her elsewhere. I know next to nothing of falcon magic,” I admitted, my throat tight. Nicias was my only real experience with falcons, though my parents had told me of Kel and Andreios'

I think part of why Salem wanted her there so bad was a loneliness he didn't want to admit. Maybe not in the same way I felt, he still had cobra family like my father and his mother, but still lonely. Cobras were incredibly social people. And Salem could be such a hothead.

“Oliza's right. And there's nothing saying she won't be comfortable here, eventually. But for now, we know nothing about how to make her feel at home,” Irene added, reaching out to take her son into her arms. After a warm hug, I reached out to take his hand.

“Come. Let us see if we can't try to find her and Kel. Maybe we can visit her wherever she's staying for now,” I said, pulling him slightly in the direction of the curtains. He obliged, following me close behind. I heard my father and aunt begin talking in hushed whispers as the drapes fell behind us.

I know it kind of sucked but I decided it made the most sense, chronologically, to be from Oliza's POV and she had the least to feel about Anjay. I think Zane will narrate the next one. I have most of Zane and Irene's conversation after this, I just need to iron out some details. So stay tuned for that.

#kiesha'ra #amelia atwater rhodes #Oliza shardae cobriana #Hai Cobriana #honey and wine and unspeakable atrocities #hawaua

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[MF] The Big Round Beveled Plastic Table

A woman cleans the table.

This does not mean that a man cannot clean the table, or that only a woman can clean the table, or that only a woman should clean the table. This also does not mean that any non-binary gender person is incapable of cleaning the table. This only means that at present, a woman is cleaning the table.

She scrubs the side of the table, the big round beveled plastic table that sits around the center of the room. She turns her head to the side, parallel to the motion of the table, and scrubs. She lifts her left leg up an inch or two off the ground for support. Her red-bowed sandals cling to the tips of her toes.

The fact that she is wearing red-bowed sandals does not preclude her from wearing sneakers, a type of footwear most typically associated with individuals who accomplish, or do things. In Western culture, this role is most typically associated with heterosexual men. Therefore, in Western culture, there may be an implied belief that women (heterosexual or not) need not wear sneakers because they will accomplish, or do, nothing. The author of this story does not wish to propagate this stereotype of women as dainty, red-bowed-sandal wearing figures who do not accomplish, or do things, but the fact is, is that this is a real woman and she really does wear red-bowed sandals. This is not fiction.

She presses her pointer finger down against the table so she can get into all of the ridges along the rough gray surface of the table. She alternates the finger, pointer and middle, and then the hand. Her mother taught her this.

This does not mean that her biological father would have been unable to teach her these housekeeping skills, or that only her biological mother could teach her these housekeeping skills. There are many men (not all of whom are necessarily biological fathers) who know many things about housekeeping, and would be happy to teach their daughters (biological or not) about it, and that would not make them any less of a ‘man’ in the contemporary Western sense of the word. The author does not know what would be said about them in other parts of the world.

She will be paid $17.43 this week for her work.

A male performing the same job would likely have been paid more money for this same work were this work done in a tall office building on Park Avenue, but this work was not done in a tall office building on Park Avenue. This work was done on the third floor building of a psychiatric hospital in a very small New England town, the south side. Here, men and women are paid the same measly amount of money to clean the same big round beveled plastic table. And that amount happens to be a measly $17.43.

She will use that money to buy a honeybun from the vending machine downstairs. If they have it, she will buy a Jamaican beef patty from Scotts’. The rest of the money she will save for a dress.

This woman’s burning desire to purchase a dress was not fabricated by the author to subject women to Western definitions of traditional habiliment for heterosexual women. This woman, who is a real person, is really saving her money for a dress. She likes wearing dresses. Perhaps a different woman in a different story might save her money for jeans, boots, and some cigarettes, but this is not that story. This is the story about a red-bowed-sandal wearing woman who likes to wear dresses. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

She holds her sanitizing wipe up to the florescent lights overhead to see how much more cleaning she can do with this one wipe. Her tongue traces the bottom edge of her lip to help her measure.

“Little more,” she thinks, “little more.”

English is not her first language. But still, her English is good.

“Well,” she says, “well.”

In an effort to protect her privacy, the author of this story is choosing not to reveal the nationality of this woman. Though much could be said about that matter (both her nationality and its subsequent omission from this story), the author would also like to take some time to breathe to get on with the narrative. It as a compelling one, the author assures. And factual.

She wears the small sized purple nitrile gloves even though she could wear the medium. She likes the pressure on her wrists from the bottom bands of the gloves. It makes her feel like someone is holding her hands. Laying the wipe back down on the table, she tries to think of the last person who did hold her hand. She thinks it was her son.

After she is done cleaning the plastic table in the center of the room, she will clean the wooden tables in the adjacent rooms. They are old and strong and carved with names and dates along the tops. She will lift the green plastic chairs and tuck them neat under the tables so that there are four chairs to each table. Then she will clean the numbers on the phones.

One, two, three, four.

She scrubs by an old white man sitting at the table in his walker, squinting up at the lights above. He is old and short with long gray hair that snakes down his narrow old face. The ends of his hairs are tinged that yellowed stale color of old cigarette stains. He thinks he looks like Paul Newman.

“Iz my eyes,” he always says, “my eyes,” pointing up to his cold blue pearls.

His hands are thin and brittle like dried leaves, but he is always using them. His small crooked back leans forward whenever he speaks, and he sticks his hairy hooked finger out into the air to make his points. He is always making points.

“Ere’ woman in ’ear sucks big black nigger dick.”

These are his points.

While some readers may mistake this old white man as a representation of all old white men, this is not the author’s intention. This man, who is a real old white man, only happens to be misogynistic, racist, homophobic, and a pretty good card player when he keeps his mouth shut. The fact that he may be carrying these traits learned from not-too-distant-generations past is not unbeknownst to the author, but it is not the author’s main point. Again, this is the story about a red-bowed-sandal wearing woman who loves dresses and cleans tables. There just so happens to be an old, white, misogynistic, racist, homophobic, and pretty good card player when he keeps his mouth shut, man in her way.

“Excuse me,” says the woman as she scrubs closer towards him, “I need to clean de table.”

The old white man does not move. His hooked finger sticks out in the air, pointed up at the lights above. His other arm rests flat on the table. Crumbs of non-symbolic saltine crackers lie on the table in front of him. Dirt, the woman thinks, dirt. She needs to clean this table.

“Sir?” the woman asks again.

The old white man raises his chin and pulls his head back to look at her. His eyes slide open like two wide slots sunk into the back of his head.

“Wanna make a’coupla bucks?”

Though it may appear that this old white man is offering this woman money for sex, or intercourse, the author assures the reader that this is not the case. This old white man is offering this woman money because she is known as the ‘mother’ (read: female caretaker in traditional Western households) of this psychiatric unit due to her proclivity for cleanliness and organization. The name ‘mother’ is given to her due in part to the fact that the image of women as housekeepers in Western culture has not completely evaporated from dinner room conversation, and it has certainly not evaporated from the third floor of this psychiatric hospital in this very small New England town, the south side. However, this woman does like to clean, not because she likes to reaffirm these stereotypes, but because it helps her take her mind off the fact that she will most likely never see her children again. It is all very sad and all very true, but this is why she cleans. Unfortunately, this has led some individuals, like this old white man, to mistake her compulsion to clean as a desire to be generally subservient to men. But this is not the case. Though there have been times when she has made a few more dollars from this old white man by folding his laundry, she has done it out of boredom, or nervosa, but not out of submission. Or at least, she likes to tell herself that. But then again, this line could also just mean that this old white man wants to give her money for sex, or intercourse. What does this author know?

The corners of his cheeks spread out into a wry smile revealing the bent left half of his top front teeth. He is a smiler.

“Jus’ playin’ wit’chu, you know dat, righ’?”

The woman does not know this.

She ignores the old white man. She folds her hands up into a half-moon shape and scoops the crumbs off of the table and into her hand. His thick warm breath crawls down the back of her neck.

“MY MISERABLE FUCKING ASS BROTHER SET ME UP FOR THIS FUCKING SHIT. HE SET ME UP FOR THIS. HE’S SUCH A GODDAMN WHITE SNOT. THEY’RE ALL A BUNCH OF GODDAMN WHITE SNOT RICH PEOPLE, AND THESE FUCKING COLLEGE DORKS. THESE FUCKING COLLEGE DORKS! YOU COULD CHOOSE YOUR FAMILY BUT YOU CAN’T CHOOSE YOUR FRIENDS, RIGHT?”

A young man storms out of the hall with clenched teeth and open palms, slapping himself across the face. He’s thrown his salad and plastic cup of red juice out into the room. Some leaves of lettuce have landed onto the table, others on the floor.

This sudden introduction of a young man may seem jarring, but it is done to create atmosphere. This is, after all, the third floor of a psychiatric hospital in a very small New England town, the south side. Around this big round beveled plastic table, other things are happening. Droopy, brown, pale-nippled breasts are being pressed up against the windows; grown men are masturbating on the floors, clamoring for erections; women are standing in the still dark night with their backs pressed up against the walls, listening to the scuffling of bare feet down those scuffed-up floors, straining to make sense of the tuh-tah, tuh-tah, tuh-tah, and still some are eating particles of dust and metal found along the green plastic railings of those long empty halls. They lick their fingers wet and run them across the inside rails to pick up those wholesome granular treats of rock and dust. They do this in secret.

“God’amn gay boy,” snaps the old white man.

Though not essential to the narrative about this woman cleaning the table, it may be interesting to note that at night, when this old white man showers in that cold gusted room, he likes to lather his crotch with a small washcloth covered in thick pink soap as he mutters and shouts to himself about “slimy black nigger dicks.” After struggling to get his socks on around his thick yellow toenails, a creamy white lotion is rubbed onto his shoulders, appropriately applied on in rhythmic circular movements by a muscular male nurse—at his request.

Crumbs in hand, the woman looks over the mess of juice and lettuce around the table. More work, she thinks, more work. She shakes her head and walks the crumbs over to the trash. She knows the old white man will watch her. She knows he will watch her as she walks away from the table. She knows he will watch her bend over to pick up the leaves of lettuce and she knows that he will watch her stick her hand under her blouse to fix her bra strap as she comes up because the bra size she has on does not fit her too well. But still, she does it, symbolically.

She pushes open the flap on the garbage can and drops the crumbs in. She bends down in the doorway and picks up the leaves of lettuce on the ground. Then she reaches under her blouse and fixes her bra strap.

She sees the old white man watching her, eyes glazed, with the tip of his tongue turned up over the edge of his mouth. He reminds her of her ex-husband, that puto.

“You don’t have to do that, mama,” calls a big young woman from the back.

The author’s use of the word ‘big’ in this young woman’s description is not meant to be a comment on this woman’s life choices or her visual aesthetics. It is merely a statement of the fact that she is big, because she is clinically obese. Whenever the elevator is broken on this third floor unit of this psychiatric hospital in this very small New England town, the south side, and this big young woman has broken four of her five favorite coloring markers into tiny little pieces and swallowed them whole, cap and all, for the third time in one week, the fire department is called in to transfer this woman from stretcher to ground floor in an impressive display of physics and ingenuity that calls the eyes and ears of all in the building to ogle and oogle as she is hoisted down those steps, screaming back up the stairwell for anyone watching her to ‘mind they own damn business.’ The reader of this story may choose to find this woman beautiful or ugly. The author will not impose strict definitions of beauty upon this narrative.

She sits with her body sucked in to the plastic cushioned chair stationed under the day hall windows beneath the warm orange slats of midday light. She keeps her hair pulled back in a pink headband to match her pink shirt and pink socks.

This means that despite her broad shoulders, thick forearms and faint mustache, she desperately wants to look like a traditional Western girl. Let her be.

“I like it,” says the woman.

She grabs both ends of the wipe, one with each hand, and wrings out the solvent onto the table. Drops bead out into a shallow wide pool.

She runs the wipe over it and spreads it out across the table. Red juice mixes in with the clear acrid solvent, soaking up into the pores on her wipe. A faded splotch of red.

“Wish I could be like you, mama,” says the big young woman.

Mama pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and looks at her. Sweat stands on her brow.

“You can,” says Mama.

“No I can’t,” says the big young woman. “Leg’s hurt.”

She pulls up on her sweats, exposing the stretched skin on her leg. Her veins run pressed up tight against the surface. Blue and purple rivers under the bright white lights.

“Swollen,” she says. “See?”

“Big,” says Mama, holding her glasses between her thumb and forefinger.

“Knock on the door for me, mama?” she asks. “Been waitin’ three hours.”

Mama straightens out the bottom seams of her blouse and looks over to the table, the old white man shuddering mouth-wracked at the lights above.

“Please,” says the big young woman.

She folds the wipe over in half and rests it down flat on the edge of the table. Then she goes over to the door.

She knocks once, then twice. No answer. She stands up on the tips of her toes and looks inside. The window is foggy and glossed over.

“Nobody there,” she says.

“Lazy.”

“First we help ourselves, then we help others.”

“Who tol’ you that?” asks the big young woman.

“My mudda.”

She walks back over to the table and picks up the wipe. She unfolds it.

“And I ain’t fuckin’ that black nigger bitch either,” says the old white man, “I ain’t fuckin’ ‘er.”

Spit from his lips lands out onto the table, onto the part of the table that Mama just cleaned. She looks down at the spit and back up at the old man. She clenches a fist around her wipe.

When Mama gets angry, she lays out in the middle of the hall with her arms stretched out to the sides, her palms face-up, and her feet crossed over by the ankles in a wholly self-aware, Christ-like pose. This symptom is known in medical communities by an unhyphenated string of some twenty-odd letters, but it is more commonly known on the third floor of this psychiatric hospital in this very small New England town, the south side, as a “lay in.” As in, when one staff member leans his head over and asks, “Is she doin’ it again?” and the other one says, “Yea, she layin’.” When she does wake up from these bouts, she bites. It is a symptom that cannot help but sound like the antics of some rabid cartoon character that drools from the mouth and stammers with his foot, but unfortunately, it is true. She runs up the halls and sinks her lone top tooth into the flesh of those she believes have persecuted her. Her current treatments of electroconvulsive therapy (recently changed from the much more graphic sounding though nevertheless accurately named electroshock therapy) and cognitive behavioral therapy, are doctors’ best efforts to help this woman combat these bouts. Standing now across the table from this old white man however, she is beginning to question the efficacy of these treatments.

“Ahmygawdyousofunnnnniiiiiieeeeeeeee!” yells a thin long-necked man sitting by the phone with his legs crossed neat over the arm of his chair.

Though much has been said about grown men crossing their legs in Western culture, little has been written. The author of this story would like to keep things that way.

The thin long-necked man uncrosses his legs and swings them over the side of his chair. He moves in short staggered bursts, like raindrop tendrils down clean glass panes. He walks over to the table, next to the old white man, and lifts his palm up in the air. The old white man watches.

“GeneralSylvesterBernadineHutchinsonofNewYorkHutchinsonbridgggeeeeeeeeeees!”

He slams his palm down flat on the table and starts rubbing it against the top. He angles his head down and presses his ear close to the surface, holding eyes with the old white man as he rubs his palm faster and faster against the table, burning flakes of dried skin off his palm. And still, the table does not move.

Although it may appear that this man’s actions have some sort of literary or symbolic meaning, the author assures the reader that it does not. Frequently, patient actions are performed with such conviction and authority on the third floor of this psychiatric hospital in this very small New England town, the south side, that they seem to breathe with purpose and significance. It can often leave one with the sensation that the patients speak in a language removed from the complexities of syntax and grammar, and instead speak a language distilled to its essence. Heard in break rooms and kitchens all across the hospital is the far too unsettling axiom, “We the monkeys.”

He pulls his head up from the table and holds his palm high as if ready to strike again. Fear floods the old white man’s cheeks.

“Move, move, move!” says Mama rushing towards them both, shaking the wipe out at them like an old broom. “Get out.”

The thin long-necked man staggers back over to the chair peeling out a high-pitched laugh. Mama unfolds her wipe and lays it down flat on the table, ready to clean.

“My own son,” she says, looking down at the flakes of dried dead skin on the table, “’eva since he was a baby, he didn’t make no mess like this.”

As she starts to work her wrist into the table, the old white man lays his hand on her shoulder.

“Mama,” he says.

She doesn’t answer.

“I’m sorry.”

The edges of his mouth slouch down to the sides and his shoulders cave in. These are the signs of an innocent man.

“I’m sick,” he says.

“Who’s well?”

He leans back in his walker rolling the thought between his lips like some kind of sun-beat farmer.

“I use’ta be good,” he says. “Like you.”

Mama works the wipe across the edge of the table, the tips of her fingers hugging the bottom side. She feels something.

“We use to hide unda the table,” Mama says.

She looks under the table and finds a piece of dried old gum with loose strands of hair stuck out from the sides of it. She picks it off the bottom with the edge of her nail, calm and even.

“My big sista, my little sista, and me.”

Her words drift past the old white man like a thick sour haze.

“Naw’ look at me,” he says, gesturing to his leg, stuttering beneath him like a dog in dream. “Cain’t stop the damn thing.”

A fat sigh runs out from under the young woman’s chair as she runs her tongue along the bottom edge of her lip, words unsaid.

Mama comes back over to the table, moving her hips as she does, dancing to the quiet rhythm of her thoughts. Left and right, left and right.

She grabs the last clean wipe, laid out carefully along the edge of the table and unfolds it. The old white man stops her with an outstretched arm.

“Here,” he says, fumbling into his pockets, “tek it.”

He pulls out a crumpled up dollar bill and tries to shove it into Mama’s hand, but she keeps her palm closed tight.

“Tek it,” he says.

She studies his face, his eyes, his nose, quivering between his cheeks.

“No.”

She pushes his hand back and the dollar bill falls.

“Whoor.”

The big young woman perks her head up from the back and lets her tongue roll out. She yells at him first and then he yells back.

Soon, the thin long-necked man peels out another rising laugh and the shrill of their voices spread out through the air like static, collecting a sharp metallic din as their words echo off the steel-grated windows, before bouncing back into Mama’s round ears, taut and tense.

“Move,” Mama tries again.

And still, the old white man does not move. He sits stuck at the edge of the table, yelling up at the lights above.

“Move,” she says.

No answer.

She takes the wipe and throws it down onto the table. She twists her feet and moves her arms. Her elbows stick out into the air like two soaring kites. Left and right, left and right. She dances.

Her knees bend out and she drops her waist down as far as she can go. She bites down on her bottom lip and lets her lone front tooth stick out from above. She throws her head back and laughs and smiles. Her feet are light and nimble.

She moves across the edge of the table, remembering steps learned in open fields beneath cool night. Left and right, left and right.

The old white man sees her now, dancing, dancing. He reaches out and tries to grab her, but she is dancing, dancing.

“Com’ere,” he says.

The old white man presses his palm down flat on the table and pushes himself up. His leg stutters out beneath him, but he stands.

He is not much taller than Mama. His hunched back stands over him like the dried old shell. He takes one step forward towards Mama, dancing, dancing. His eyes fixed to the swaying of her hips. Left and right, left and right.

He sticks his arm out to try to grab her, but his leg gives out beneath him and he falls.

There are not enough ways to say this.

His hip hits the ground first before his arms spring out in front of him. He grabs on to the table’s leg for support as his own streaks wild across the floor.

The big young woman claps her hands together in a big display of celebration, and then the alarm bell sounds.

A voice booms out over the loudspeaker and the doors open. The old white man screams.

They come walking out into the day hall with boxes of gloves, strapping them on against their wrists. They stand tall around the old white man like trees in a forest.

“Anybody want some gum?” one of them asks.

The old white man purples.

“Whoor,” he sputters out, tightening his fingers around the legs of the table.

“You got the legs?”

They nod their heads and pick him up. Two on the arms, two on the legs. The old white man tries to hold on to the table, but they pull him free.

“Whoor.”

Mama watches as they carry him down the hall with his shirt pulled up to his pits—his pants down by his knees.

His neck twists and turns as he writhes beneath their grips. Veins surface.

They toss him into the blue room and there he lies.

“He looks like a goose,” they point and say, “eeeeeeeehhhhawwwww, eeehhhhhawwwww, eeeehhhhawwwwww.”

These are the sounds of an animal’s call, etc., etc.

The door closes and the old white man lies.

Mama turns back towards the table and lays the wipe out onto it. She runs her hand across rough gray surface, scrubbing and scrubbing. She leans in to the table and lifts her left leg up an inch or two off the ground for support. Her red-bowed sandals cling to the tips of her toes.

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#Blogger #Story

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authorpanda-blog · 6 years

Text

The Artist’s Muse: Chapter Nine

“Bastard… Just for that… You went so far as to make that fake copy of my mother…” InuYasha growled as he held his hand over his injured eye, blood streaming from between his fingers. “I will not forgive you!!” He yelled as he leapt forward, slashing at Sesshoumaru. Sesshoumaru jumped back, dodging the attack. “I am in a hurry. If you get in my way, you will have to die.” Sesshoumaru cracked his knuckles before striking.

However, the attack did not reach its intended target. The Mu-onna had jumped in front of InuYasha at the last second, receiving the attack head on. The demoness fell to the side as she started to disperse. “The Mu-onna… She protected InuYasha…” Aiko mumbled in a thankful tone. “The Mu-onna is a demon created of a mother’s tender feelings toward her children, so protecting a child would also be in the Mu-onna’s nature.” Myouga stated as he looked at the fading demoness. “My…. Boy…” The demoness trailed off weakly before her head was crushed under Sesshoumaru’s foot.

“Worthless thing.” Sesshoumaru scoffed as he watched her vanish. “Why you…” Aiko glared as he drew his katana, only to be stopped by Myouga. “Do not oppose him or I will be killed as well!” He said frantically, making Aiko roll his eyes and sheathe his katana. “He hurt InuYasha and you fear for your own life instead of his. Get off my shoulder.” Aiko flicked the flea away before crossing his arms, glaring at Sesshoumaru as he stepped closer to InuYasha.

Jaken crawled towards where Kagome had dropped the human head staff, chuckling in triumph when he grabbed hold of it. “Lord Sesshoumaru, I have retrieved the human head staff!’ The imp stated with a triumphant grin. “Lose it again, and I will kill you.” Sesshoumaru stated coldly before placing the pearl on the ground and taking the staff from Jaken. “I had grown tired of waiting for this” He continued as he brought the end of the staff down onto the pearl. The head of the old man began to laugh as black light began to swirl, creating the entrance to the tomb. Jaken and Sesshoumaru disappeared into the black light.

“Lord InuYasha, quickly. You must go in after them before the portal closes.” Myouga jumped onto InuYasha’s shoulder. “Sesshoumaru is going to monopolize your father’s treasure…” The flea trailed off as InuYasha furrowed his brows. “I have no interest in that.” InuYasha stated in a monotone voice. “Such a waste…” Myouga sighed in disappointment. “Shut up, will you!? I did not say I was not going. Sesshoumaru, you bastard...” InuYasha growled as he gripped part of the Mu-onna’s tattered kimono. “I will kill you!” Kagome, Aiko! It is dangerous, you two stay here and…” He trailed off as he looked behind them to see the two gone. Aiko had already gone through the portal. Aiko reached through and grabbed the confused boy by the kimono top and tugged him through.

The three of them fell through the sky and landed on a skeletal bird. In front of them was the giant skeleton of InuYasha’s father in his beast form. One of the fangs was cut, half of it missing. “So, this is your father.” Aiko stated in amazement, reminding himself to paint this scene later. InuYasha simply nodded, staring straight ahead of them with a determined look in his eyes. “InuYasha’s father was a great demon who lived for many years. What you see is his true form, free of all spells. There is a treasured sword kept within your father’s remains. Lord Sesshoumaru is after that and intends to snatch it away.” Myouga informed them from his spot where he was clinging to InuYasha’s rosary. Inside the tomb, Sesshoumaru approached a sword that was held within a pedestal.

“I have finally arrived here, to the treasured sword kept within father’s corpse. A sword that can destroy a hundred demons in one swing… The fang sword, Tetsusaiga.” Sesshoumaru stated as he gripped the hilt of Tetsusaiga. “I heard the sword is forged from your father’s fang… That is to say, the one who holds it in his hand will inherit your father’s spiritual power.” Jaken informed his lord as he started to pull out the sword. As he pulled, the sword started to emit lightning-like sparks and burned his hand. “Why will it not come out?” Jaken asked his lord, looking up at him. “There is a Kekkai on it.” Sesshoumaru stated as he hooked at his singed hand.

“Sesshoumaru! We are not finished yet!” InuYasha yelled as he landed in front of the demon, using his Iron Reaver Soul Stealer attack. Sesshoumaru dodged, landing on the pedestal by the sword. ‘What is up, InuYasha? Did you come just to dig your own grave? Or could it be that you came for a chance at father’s fang sword, Tetsusaiga?” Sesshoumaru asked coolly, glaring at his little brother. “Draw it out, Lord InuYasha.” Myouga said as he leapt onto his shoulder before turning to Sesshoumaru. “It must be that you could not draw Tetsusaiga, could you!?” He yelled at the pure-blooded demon. “Are you suggesting InuYasha can?” Sesshoumaru glared at the flea.

“Of course. The fact that the tomb was entrusted to lord InuYasha is proof enough. Now, quickly Lord InuYasha.” Myouga urged his master. “I am not interested in some worn-out old sword... Sesshoumaru! You damn bastard… How dare you keep screwing with me like that!” InuYasha snarled as he slashed at Sesshoumaru with his claws. “Where are you aiming?” Sesshoumaru teased the half-breed as he dodged the attack, causing InuYasha to crash into the ground. “Heh. Your fighting style is as childish as ever. Sesshoumaru chuckled.

“You can not win unarmed, Lord InuYasha. The sword…” Myouga was cut off by InuYasha telling him to shut up. Aiko and Kagome slowly climbed down the ribcage of the once great demon, being careful not to slip. “Just grab the damn sword!” Aiko yelled at InuYasha, glaring slightly. “Sesshoumaru could not pull it out, right? If you are able to pull it out, he would be disgraced!” He finished as he landed safely on the ground, Kagome staying on the second rib to remain safe.

“I get it… It would be really annoying for him, huh.” InuYasha stated as he stared at the sword. “I bet you can not do it.” Sesshoumaru crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Heh. This is your payback. I want to see you weep, bastard!” InuYasha growled as he gripped the hilt of the sword. The sword did not shock him as it did Sesshoumaru. “As I thought. The Tetsusaiga is destined to be in the hands of Lord InuYasha!!” Myouga says as he clings to one of the beads on the rosary. InuYasha gave a growl as he pulled on the sword, causing Aiko to shiver slightly with a pale shade of pink dusting his cheeks.

When the sword did not budge, InuYasha grabbed Myouga and held him between two fingers. “I can not pull it out, can I!?” InuYasha emphasized each word by squeezing the flea. “I-I do not get it!” The flea demon squeaked out. “The farce is over. It seems Tetsusaiga was not meant for you after all, bastard. Now be evaporated by my poison claws.” Sesshoumaru commented on InuYasha’s failure, lashing out with his Toxic flower Claw attack. The attack hit the bone behind InuYasha, melting a hole into the rib.

Sesshoumaru followed InuYasha as he leaped away, easily keeping up with the half breed. As Jaken went to assist his Lord, Kagome leaped down and landed on him. As those two tousled, Aiko acted on a whim and made his way over to the sword. Once he gripped the sword, he noticed that Sesshoumaru had InuYasha pinned and moved forward. “InuYasha!” Aiko moved to stop them, accidentally pulling the sword free.

The two froze, staring at the human boy in shock. “Sorry…. It sort of just slipped out…” Aiko laughed nervously as he held up the katana-like sword. “I-Impossible! InuYasha’s case is irrelevant as even Lord Sesshoumaru could not pull the Tetsusaiga out… How could that stupid human boy…” Jaken stuttered from under Kagome’s foot. While Sesshoumaru was looking at Aiko, InuYasha attempted to attack. Sesshoumaru dodged and appeared in front of the human boy, who stood his ground while glaring at the demon. “Lord InuYasha, it seems he has stopped paying attention to you. How lucky you are…” Myouga froze mid-sentence at seeing the glare he was receiving from his lord.

“You… Who are you? Why were you able to draw Tetsusaiga?” Sesshoumaru interrogated the boy whose head was held high. “Simple. I figured that since the sword burned your hand, it would not let a demon wield it. And due to InuYasha being half he would be able to wield it but not pull it from the stone due to the fact he had demon blood coursing through his veins. Only a human would have been able to pull the sword, but they would not be able to wield it. Such must have been done by your father before his death.” Aiko calmly stated as he studied the sword.

“You better not lay a single finger on him, Sesshoumaru! He has nothing to do with this!” InuYasha yelled as he approached the two. “I disagree. Especially since he is your companion.” Sesshoumaru stated as he stretched his claws before attacking. “Be annihilated by my Toxic Flower Claws...” He finished as the area around Aiko melted and fell atop of him, burying him under toxic sludge.

InuYasha knelt next to the sludge and stuck his hand in, only to pull it back out as the sludge burned him. InuYasha clenched his fist as anger coursed through him. “I will melt you as well.” Sesshoumaru stated as he prepared to strike again, however InuYasha was faster this time. InuYasha hit Sesshoumaru’s armor, causing it to break off. “What is wrong, InuYasha? It was just a human boy.” Sesshoumaru taunted before staring in shock as the toxic sludge started to move.

Aiko sat up with a gasp, relief flooding his veins. He stood and ignored InuYasha and Sesshoumaru’s shocked stares. Approaching the half demon, he smirked and held out the sword. “Make him pay.” Aiko said simply as he walked over to Kagome, who hugged him tightly with teary eyes.

“No need to hesitate, Lord InuYasha. You should test Tetsusaiga’s blade on Lord Sesshoumaru’s body!” Myouga stated in a giddy tone. “How daring of you to say that.” Sesshoumaru growled as the whites of his eyes started to turn red. “We shall see if a half breed bastard like you can master the Tetsusaiga. This Sesshoumaru would see that with his own eyes…” He finished as his face began to change. His nose and mouth grew, forming a muzzle as his arms and legs changed to giant paws. Sesshoumaru and revealed his true form; a giant dog demon.

InuYasha stepped in front of Aiko and Kagome, protecting them. He leapt at the demon, sword raised above his head. “I will cover this sword with your blood!” InuYasha yelled and brought the sword down atop Sesshoumaru’s forehead. The sword simply bounced off. “Myouga, what is the meaning of this? It can not even bruise him, let alone behead him!” InuYasha asked as he dodged Sesshoumaru’s jaws. Sesshoumaru’s toxic claws burned right through two of the ribs. “This sword is a memento of your father. You must believe in the sword’s spiritual power, you must never abandon it!” Myouga responded before leaping away from the battle. “Kick his ass, InuYasha!! It looks like that last hit did some damage!” Aiko yelled to the halfling who turned and approached him.

“Now look here, that strike did absolutely nothing.” InuYasha growled at him, making the boys smile slowly begin to fade. “But… That is your sword, right? I believe in it and in you…” Aiko trailed off, putting on another smile to hide the fact that he was upset. “Are you not just a little too optimistic? I am tough, so I will be okay. But you two will probably get killed at this rate.” InuYasha growled again in frustration. “So then… It really is no good, after all…?” Aiko trailed off once more, letting his smile fall and tears fill his eyes.

“Shit. Do not cry.” InuYasha cupped the side of Aiko’s face and brushed away some of the tears that had begun to fall. “What should I do then, laugh!?” Aiko snapped as tears continued to fall. “Would you stop crying, I am saying I will protect you!” InuYasha yelled, shocking Aiko with his words. As InuYasha turned, Aiko hugged him tightly from behind. “Please be careful… I can not lose you now…” Aiko whispered softly.

InuYasha nodded and calmly walked forward once Aiko released him. As he faced Sesshoumaru and raised Tetsusaiga, the sword began to pulse. A light surrounded the sword as InuYasha attacked, transform the sword to reveal its true form. InuYasha sliced up Sesshoumaru’s arm before cutting it off. Sesshoumaru hunched down before charging, only to be sliced across the chest by Tetsusaiga. InuYasha stared out of the large hole in his father’s corpse.

Sesshoumaru had fled.

Master List

#i do not own inuyasha #InuYasha #Kagome #Sango #Miroku #Shippo #Sesshoumaru #Fanfiction #OC Male #Gay #Yaoi #Anime

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swipestream · 6 years

Text

An Excerpt from AN EQUATION OF ALMOST INFINITE COMPLEXITY

When the devil moves in next door to Cooper Smith Cooper’s house, Cooper doesn’t know what to make of him at first. But when the unexpectedly neighborly Scratch helps the unemployed actuary find a job at a local insurance company with the help of some inside information into the activities of Death, Cooper decides the old devil might not be so bad after all.

The only problem, Cooper thinks, is how to conceal from his fellow actuaries his newfound ability to perfectly predict the time and place of people’s deaths. And then, there is also the small matter of the screams of his recently deceased neighbor coming from Scratch’s basement furnace to consider. AN EQUATION OF ALMOST INFINITE COMPLEXITY is a sardonically funny debut novel from J. Mulrooney.

* * * * *

Dean was brilliant, handsome, exotic, and accomplished. He had come from the Wharton school of business to do a doctorate in mathematics, something that was continually interrupted by consulting engagements during which some Fortune 500 company would fly him to an office in Texas or Washington DC or Seattle or Silicon Valley and pay him $75,000 for two months while he figured out some problem that, apparently, no one else could figure out for them. When he was not studying or working, he was a good enough trumpet player to substitute in the opera company orchestra (an aunt was on the board) and sometimes played professionally in theater pit orchestras. He was also the love of Thisbe’s short life.

They had surprised each other. He was not interested in art or aesthetics or greatness, he did not seek the love of women. He was only driven to succeed in all he did. She was not interested in a new boyfriend or business or the second-tier musicians who hung about the edges of professional theater. In some ways, the attraction each held for the other was inexplicable. Yet for two years, they carried on a scorching love affair, Thisbe completely under the domination of this egoist. Dean’s friends and relations said, “A music student? He could do better.” But when they met her, they saw that she was alert and intelligent and lovely and admitted that there was nothing not to like if she was Dean’s choice. “She’s young,” they would say, “but so quick. And so charming.” For their part, Thisbe’s friends—musicians, students, bohemians—were fascinated and appalled by Dean. “Is he nothing but a success machine?” they would ask. Then they would meet him. He would turn his handsome sad-eyed intensity on them and listen carefully to everything they said, returning well-considered and interested replies, and they too found nothing to dislike.

With Dean, Thisbe felt she had found the other half of her own soul, someone who could complete her. Her life before him evaporated like a dream forgotten on waking. She had been living with Julius at the time, and she left all her things in his apartment and never went back for them. Even the friends who had warned her of Julius’s mediocrity and infidelity were surprised at how perfectly Thisbe forgot him. “He’s a nice guy,” they would say in defense of Julius, but someone used the word “irrelevant,” and that stuck too.

While everyone likes their friends to be lucky in love, Thisbe and Dean were too much. Their togetherness, their intensity, their indestructible delight in one another was hard to take. “When they invite me, I feel like they don’t really care if I say yes or no,” said Meghan Evans, and everyone knew what she meant. Abby Bruler, younger but sharper, said the same thing more precisely: “It’s as if no one else is in the world but them.” They were destined for marriage, or, if that was too old-fashioned for such an heroic couple, at least for some lifetime arrangement.

But as the first year waned and second waxed, there was a change. Where before the two had been inseparable, each seemingly made more gloriously themselves by the other, signs of a more ordinary love appeared. This was noted with approval. Thisbe and Dean might bicker; or Dean might decide not to cut his business trip short. He would spend an extra night in Seattle to avoid taking a redeye. Instead of two weeks in Bora Bora for Christmas, they stayed home so that Dean could work on his thesis. Thisbe’s friends began receiving phone calls from her again, sometimes even when Dean was in town. “It’s more realistic,” said Meghan Evans.

Because Thisbe’s friends believed that, after an initial peak, the love affair was subsiding into something more solid and steady. They had, they told each other, seen it before. The lovers lose the first overwhelming fascination and their relationship dwindles into something more regular. There was a certain satisfaction in this since no one likes to have their middling infatuations exposed to the unforgiving glare of real love. But in predicting for Thisbe and Dean the stability of an average love, they were all wrong. Over the next months, everything crumbled away. Dean became distant and aloof with Thisbe. He refused to come out when her friends were going to be present. If he did run into her friends, he was openly contemptuous, calling chubby well-meaning Meghan Evans a “fat pinko parasite” and stylish Abby Bruler a “gold watch socialist” who “wouldn’t know a workingman if he raped her.”

Thisbe’s initial promise as a performance major evaporated, in part because the obsessive focus required for musical glory had transferred to Dean. There should have been no shame in this. As Julius had pointed out years before, practicing six or eight or ten hours a day, as violin majors are apt to do, smacks of an unbalanced mind. But as her friends realized, this was a disappointment to Thisbe, who had hoped for greater things and who, such a short time before, had shown promise of achieving them. It was therefore with a particular shivery thrill that they discovered that Dean, arguably the cause of her disappointment, mocked her in her decline. She fell out of the performance program and graduated with the commonplace cum laude in music education. At a party celebrating the end of Thisbe’s four years, Dean referred to her revised major as “the refuge of the talentless.”

Dean’s comments caused a sensation among her friends, who were delighted to think ill of the man who had aroused their suspicion all along. Their gossip, stifled by the perfect love in their midst, now burned up the phone lines. Dean was a control freak. Dean was an egoist. Dean was bipolar. Dean had deep psychological problems that manifested themselves in a desperate will to succeed and an initial charm, which later turned into bitter resentment against regular people for the normal, well-adjusted lives they led and he never could. Dean was a jerk, a goof, a nut, a screwball.

The breakdown came on a stormy night in June, when Thisbe waited two hours for Dean in a restaurant, leaving numerous messages on his cellular telephone. She gave it up and went home in the rain to shower and weep in front of an old movie on television. Dean called.

“Oh my God, I was so worried. Please don’t ever do that again. Don’t let me not know where you are like that…”

He cut her off. “Please don’t call this number again. My cell phone is for work.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that you hadn’t called and I was so worried…”

“I don’t know what you were worried about. I didn’t come because I don’t want to see you anymore. I would appreciate it if you would stop bothering me.”

She could not speak, for despite the difficulties of the previous months, she had not yet admitted that she was to lose him. His words stunned her. She felt a growing panic, but fought against it. She realized that he would hang up if she did not say something, so she quickly said, “Dean, wait.” She was surprised at her tone, which was commonplace and controlled.

She succeeded, because he did not hang up. He said, “Yes, what is it?” He was impatient.

“Are you having a bad day? I don’t want to put any pressure on you, you know that.” Without thinking, she had adopted the tone of a mother speaking to a peevish child. She was pleased, realizing as she spoke that any other tack—emotional appeals, anger, sarcasm—would have ended the conversation immediately. “I just want what’s best.”

“Hm,” he said in a way he had, thoughtful and amused. She felt her words had made an impression. “You may want what’s best, and then again you may not,” he said. She realized that he was mocking her: she wanted what was best, meaning him. “The fact is that I don’t want you. I would appreciate it if you would stop phoning. In fact, I would appreciate it if you left me alone completely.”

“Dean–” and now she could not stop the emotion pouring into her voice. Though the night before she had told Abby Bruler all about Dean’s recent inattentiveness and even cruelties, she realized that she did not care, that she loved him and wanted him no matter how he behaved. “Oh Dean, I–”

Again the brutal interruption. “Please stop this emotional nonsense. That sort of thing never helps. I have no time for you now.”

“Dean!”

“Nothing about you is of any interest to me. Please respect my wishes and leave me alone. Goodbye.”

“Dean!” she fairly shrieked.

He hung up.

When Meghan Evans heard about Dean’s final break with Thisbe, she said, “That man sold his soul to the devil a long time ago.” As we shall see, gentle reader, she was absolutely right.

An Excerpt from AN EQUATION OF ALMOST INFINITE COMPLEXITY published first on http://ift.tt/2zdiasi

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