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#this is just unbearably bleak

watchmakermori · 2 years

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I know we all like to joke about how fucked up jacqueline wilson's books are, but my sister jodie is just in another league of insane. I don't know what she was even trying to do with that book. you just spend the entire story watching jodie have a worse and worse time. her mum constantly nagging her, a creepy gardener advancing on her, then she starts getting bullied, then she gets humiliated and even loses favour with the little kids, and all the while her little sister is thriving and doing so much better than her. and this all cumulates in her going up into a tower room to do a prank and fucking falling to her death. and that's it. she mcfreaking dies because she got smashed into a trillion pieces and the book just ends

truly what the fuck am I supposed to take from this?? what point is this book trying to make?? 'sometimes things are horrible and they never get better, actually'?? 'treasure the people you love because one day they might die in a freak accident'?? maybe it's trying to be a tragedy, but I feel like tragedies still have a point to them, like there's something to learn from the way things turned out. my sister jodie has none of that. this book fucked me over as a kid but I can't even sit down and reread it as an adult because it's just that fucking morbid.

#jacqueline wilson #my sister jodie #you know that post about how some grimdark fiction focused on doing something TO the audience rather than WITH the audience?#that's what my sister jodie feels like #it's just trying to make you as miserable as possible but there's no real point to it #it's so weird #jacqueline wilson has a lot of downer endings but it's usually more on the bittersweet side #this is just unbearably bleak #opal plumstead was kinda like this too tbh but it's still not as fucked up as my sister jodie

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lvrdrafts · 11 months

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Unspoken Apologies

Summary: You are in the hospital and you confess to Bucky the pain you felt during the relationship, but Bucky doesn't deny his true feelings toward you

A/N: I GOT 100 FOLLOWERS OMG TY GUYS SO MUCH!!

Part 1 Part 2

Y/N lay in a sterile hospital room, her body weakened by the torture she had gone through. The doctors had delivered the devastating news that the torture you went through had caused severe damage internally. They had said she wouldn't make it. It was a bleak reality that Y/N was struggling to accept, but there was one person who refused to give up hope - Bucky Barnes.

Bucky paced back and forth outside the room, his heart heavy with worry. He had never seen Y/N so fragile, so vulnerable. The thought of losing her was unbearable. He blamed himself for not being there sooner, for not being there when she needed him the most.

A soft knock on the door interrupted Bucky's restless pacing. Y/N's weak voice called out, "Come in, Bucky."

He entered cautiously, his eyes brimming with concern. Seeing her lying in the hospital bed, her breathing slower and her body more pale, tore at his soul. Bucky had always admired Y/N's strength and resilience, and now it seemed to be slipping away.

Y/N managed a weak smile. "It's so funny, isn't it?" she said softly, her voice filled with a mix of sadness and amusement. "All of this started because I overheard you in the bar, calling me clingy. I tried avoiding you and I wanted you to say 'Hey I miss your clinginess' " you pause holding back tears "but you never did".

Bucky's heart sank as he remembered that conversation. It had been a misunderstanding. He was just stressed and found you as an excuse for his problems. He wanted to apologize, to tell Y/N how wrong he had been, but his words caught in his throat.

"Y/N," he began, his voice choked with emotion. But before he could say anything else, she continued.

"I've always felt like I burdened you, like I was too much for you to handle, and this situation proved my point" Y/N confessed, tears welling up in her eyes. "I guess I just wanted to hear it from you. Am I really a burden to you, Bucky?"

Bucky's silence spoke volumes, and Y/N's heart shattered into a million pieces. The truth was revealed without words, and it was more painful than she could have ever imagined.

Tears streamed down Y/N's face as she clutched her chest, struggling to breathe. Bucky rushed to her side, taking her hand in his, but it was too late. The doctors rushed in, their urgent voices fading into the background as Y/N slipped away.

Bucky knelt beside the lifeless body of the person he loved, overwhelmed with grief and regret. He had allowed his fear and pride to cloud his judgment, to push Y/N away when all she needed was his reassurance.

In that heartbreaking moment, Bucky made a promise to himself. He would carry the weight of his mistakes and regrets for the rest of his life. He would never forget the sound of Y/N's voice, filled with hurt and longing, nor the look of desperation in her eyes as she questioned her own worth.

As Bucky emerged from Y/N's hospital room, his face etched with anguish, he found himself face-to-face with Sam Wilson, who had been anxiously waiting outside.

Sam's eyes widened at the sight of Bucky's devastated expression. "Bucky, what happened?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

Bucky's voice trembled as he tried to find the right words. "It's... it's my fault, Sam," he finally managed to say, his voice filled with regret. "Y/N... she overheard a conversation we had, and I never got the chance to make things right, to tell her how sorry I was. And now... now she's gone."

Sam's expression softened as he realized the weight of Bucky's remorse. "What did she hear, Bucky?" he pressed gently, knowing that the answer would reveal the depth of the pain caused.

Bucky's voice cracked as he spoke. "She heard me call her clingy, Sam," he admitted, his voice filled with self-condemnation. "I was stressed, and I took it out on her. I pushed her away when all she needed was my support. I didn't realize how much those words would haunt her, how they would make her doubt her worth. And now... she's paid the price."

Sam's gaze turned cold, his disappointment evident. "She died thinking I hated her," he said, his voice filled with frustration. "She was the only person with me after-"Bucky pauses realizing he's all alone again, as if fate wanted him to be alone. "after Steve left me. She was like an angel who was there and and now she is gone because I was a fucking idiot" Bucky says kicking a trash can to the other side of the hallway.

Bucky's shoulders slumped, his eyes welling up with tears. "I failed her, and now she's gone. I've lost her..."

@marygoddessofmischief @specialsnowflake-gabbi @openup-yourmind @madi-is-kinda-lame @maddieislost @666yourmomdotcom @kentokaze @floralwslokicjand10 @vicmc624 @theroyalmanatee @kandis-mom @elite4cekalyma @sargentbarxes @milanaasblog

#bucky x reader #bucky x reader angst #bucky barnes x reader angst #james barnes x reader #james barnes x reader angst

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peachesofteal · 10 months

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Which Witch

Painting by Joseph Tomanek Thank you to the lovely anons who's beautiful brains helped create this story. Part 1 - Part 2 here John "Soap" MacTavish/witch!reader 13k words - AO3 You do not need to read Mermaids to enjoy this fic, but it exists in the same world and for the full experience, I do recommend it. Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Mature and dark themes. Fae!AU. Brief blink of smut. Blood Magic. Fae Magic. Violence. Killing. Human Sacrifice. Angst. Tenderness. Protective Johnny. "I'm not beat up by this yet, you can't tell me to regret, Been in the dark since the day we met, Fire, help me to forget." - F + TM

Johnny presses the heel of his boot into the cheek of the being on the ground, his eyes glazed with a vacancy he has seen more times than he cares to count, or remember, the bleakness of his irises meaning only one thing: the end of their life.

“Was it worth it to ye?” he spits, and the male shudders beneath his sole, twisting pathetically, a half attempt at getting away. Blood sputters and pools, lamely leaking from his body, drenching the air in an earth rich scent.

It does not matter, there is not where for him to go, nowhere for him to flee. He will be lost to the 141, just as almost every other being is this castle has.

The echo of his brother’s power, Gaz’s light magic, rips through the room and shudders down Johnny’s spine as he appears in the hall, his boots leaving red marks on the marble floor, remnants of lives spent squelching with each step.

“Where’s Ghost?” Kyle’s voice booms across the distance, and Johnny jerks his head northward, to where Simon is ransacking the library like a madman.

He is a madman, Johnny thinks, shaking his head, didn’t even stay to see the job through before he went tearing through those books.

He cannot fault him, his brother is a being possessed, tortured by his own heart, a heart that beats for a creature that does not even know he exists. He is miserable, and brutish, and half the time almost unbearable to be around, and Johnny really, really hopes it all comes to an end soon.

The being beneath Johnny’s heel gurgles, rubied ichor slipping down his face towards the floor before he spits and glares upwards at Gaz and himself.

“Mercenaries.” He snarls, and Johnny can feel him trying to pull a sliver of power, a desperate and feeble attempt that fails before he chokes again. “That’s all ya are. Mercenaries with no code, no honor.” Gaz rolls his eyes in a dramatic motion, rotating his neck before a dagger born from the shimmer of suns materializes in his hand, and the male on the floor whines in fear.

“Yes, yes.” Gaz sighs impatiently, and then in a blink has the point pressed to the being’s neck, right below where his pulse hammers. It sears his skin, burning away at the flesh slowly, filling the air between them with putrid smoke, the smell of incinerating sinew stinging in Johnny’s nostrils. “But how are we so different from you, then?”

“I don’t kill for money.”

“Just for sport.” Johnny follows up drily, and the male has no argument. His fighting rings are known throughout the realm. In the closest town over, one can make a fair amount of profit, or lose their freedom, if you knew where to look.

“As if you’re so appalled by it, MacTavish.” The being hisses, and Johnny stills. His power thrums in his blood, reacting to tense state of his body, churning in his mind, ready to strike. Chaos readies itself, pulsing deep, ready to blow this entire castle to the Netherworlds. “I know where ya’re from. I’ve heard rumor of what happens on the Isle, with it’s-“ Johnny’s magic bursts forward, twisting around Gaz to seek its target, tearing into the very essence of the male on the ground, ripping into the being’s own celestial connections and shredding them to pieces. The magic and rage combined electrifies Johnny, filling him with a heady power that pulses in every pore, every neuron existing in his body, and it’s a well fought effort to shove it down, to not give into the intoxicating feeling of the craze, the lust for battle and blood. He pulls and pulls the threads from the being’s crumpled form, draining him dry with each breath until there is no fight left, until he’s nothing but a carcass, an empty shell, eyes stuck wide in horror.

“Shite.” Johnny murmurs, finally releasing his heel. There’s not much left beneath it, just ropes of blood and bone, the body obliterated by the concentration of Johnny’s magic, dark red rivers seeping across the polished stone floor. Gaz chuckles darkly.

A ripple of power echoes towards them, and at the end of it, Price looms, arms crossed, mouth turned down in a huff of irritation.

“Job’s done then?” He motions to the pile of remains between them, Johnny nodding the obvious answer. Gaz’s dagger disappears, light seeping through his skin before it’s swallowed whole, tucked away for safekeeping.

“Simon’s finishing up the last bit.”

The three of them venture towards the library, a massive room with ceilings that stretch towards the moons, and shelves built from top to bottom. There are books of every kind here, books from every realm, even. Grimoires, from the witches in the mortal realm, and lost texts from its human inhabitants. Heavy volumes of history from the Netherworlds, sacred texts from a faraway realm that only Simon has been to. Books bound in human skin, books bound with being skin, books that only appear to those they choose. Books that possess their own spells, even if they’re not inherently magic. Books that contain the ability to give any being a gift, so long as they are willing to receive it. Johnny breathes deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of leather and paper, papyrus, and cloth, holding onto it for as long as possible before his lungs deflate with a whoosh. The taste settles on his tongue, and he tamps down the urge to start pulling volumes towards himself, eager to flick through them and devour what lies between their pages. He craves it, the knowledge, the magic that sits sleeping in this room. The bedlam that swirls in his bloodstream melds with his desire for new puzzles, new knowledge, and it creates a double-edged sword that only his brothers seem to understand. Maybe it’s because of his mum, and the deep, ravenous love of books that she had and instilled in him, the balance of his love for chaos and his love for puzzles lending well to learning, or maybe it’s because he’s lived too bloody long, walking the worlds with his brothers, seeking new truths like they were meals to feast on.

This is where they find Simon. He’s got a female sorceress of some kind, the one they were looking for in the first place, kneeling, in the middle of the room, arms pressed down to her sides, her eyes wild with fear. Johnny can smell it from here, the rank stench of her terror, the scent of her dread as the being in front of her walks in a tight circle, his eyes fixed on her quivering form.

“I cannot perform it.” She protests, and Simon makes a great show of sighing, like he’s tired, or exasperated. “That magic, it’s not of Faerie. We do not practice it here. Please-“ she sobs, and her desperation tugs at Johnny, just a bit, even though his sympathy is slim for this creature who cries pitifully in front of her soon to be executor.

“Simon.” Price intones from where he stands, a distance away, and her eyes flash to him, relief scrawling across her features as she mistakes John for one who may be kind to her, for a being who may help her.

She doesn’t know, that they know. That they’re fully aware, of the terrible things she’s done for the once ruler of this land, that they know the extent of her cruelty, her thirst for blood and pain.

Price crouches in front of where she sits on her knees, and cups her face between his palms, rubbing a placating thumb across her cheekbone.

“Tell us, love.” He encourages. “Tell us about the song. And perhaps, we’ll let you go.” It’s a lie, but she doesn’t know that, and it’s painfully obvious when she swallows, eyes darting between the four of them before settling back on Price.

“It’s blood magic.” She croaks. “The only way to capture the song is with the magic of blood and bone. I told him.” Price turns to Simon, who nods his affirmative. “There are few who still practice it.”

“Where?” Price urges, still soothing her with his touch, his words soft and reassuring.

“In the mortal realm.” Gaz rubs an exasperated palm over his face with a sigh, and Simon’s power pulses around the sorceress, tightening like a vice. She yelps in a panic, words rushing free like floodwaters. “There is a coven! There is a coven left, that still practices in the mortal realm, and they have a spinner, a blood spinner. She’s a witch, that-” She continues to babble, giving them everything, anything she had, where she believed they were located, what kind of witches they were, how long they’d been practicing. She gave and gave, until there was nothing left to say, and then she stared up at Price, with wistful hope on her face.

Hope, that dies, as she feels the slipknot of Simon’s power, twisting with torsion around her neck.

“No, no. You said… you said you’d let me go!” She cries, and Johnny feels his rage lash out inside him, distaste curdling his stomach. He can’t help but correct her.

“Is that what you told the mothers of the children ye slaughtered all those years? That you’d let them go? After ye sold them to fighting pits? After ye watched them die, and did nothing?”

“I wa-was only doing what I was told.” She sobs, flinging herself onto the floor in front of them. “Please!” Her fingers dig at her neck, clawing and scraping, but it’s pointless. The 141 has long had her in their sights. “Please… plea- please.” She moans, fragments of her life slipping through their fingers as it drains away, her body growing limp and her existence becoming futile by the moment. “I- ‘m sorry.” She tries, but it’s far too late now.

It's far too late.

The tavern is packed. Every one and thing inside gives them a wide berth, their eyes jumping from Simon, who walks in front, dark gaze glaring from behind the skull mask and hood he dons in public, to Price, who casually strolls behind him, hand in one pocket, the other swinging by his side, free and available, should quick intervention be needed. Gaz stands at the bar, flirting with a striking female who is leaning towards him, her lips parting to reveal shiny, sharp golden teeth.

That’s odd. What’s a Harpy doing all the way out ‘ere? If Gaz is taken aback, he hides it well, instead slipping her a note that more than covers the cost of a round, and then points at the table where they’ve settled.

“Bit out o’ place.” Price comments, and Simon grunts.

“It’s curious.” He agrees, and they all track Gaz on his way back, watching him until he plants himself on the bench, casual grimace lining his lips.

Simon shifts restlessly, and they all can feel the hot singe of his power, the frustration lurking in the air. Waiting as he hedges.

“If it’s true-“

“At what cost?” Price cuts him off. They hold a silent conversation with their eyes, arguments and counters flowing back and forth between them. Price is the natural voice of reason; he’ll convince him it’s a bad idea. The thought sticks in Johnny’s mind uneasily, souring as he turns it over. What if this is real? What if there is a chance? To end this madness?

Johnny was no fool, he’s seen the change in Simon, year after year. His fear and confusion, anger and dread starting to seep from his skin, coloring everything around them, affecting them all in different ways. His Nereid was at the end of her rope, and so was Simon.

“All I want, is a chance, Johnny. A chance to know her, without standing in the shadow, for her to know me. To hold her, to tell her she’s not alone.” He confessed, years ago, in the dark of an empty wing in his too big house. “I love her. I cannot give her up, I won’t allow her to die.”

He had returned to their realm frantic, distress wracking his body, seizing his power and twisting it until it nearly suffocated all of them where they stood. It took hours for Johnny to calm him, to get him to explain what had happened, for him to realize why Simon had been so distraught. His Nereid had nearly failed her task, botched her own hunt, and Simon almost stole her away in a moment of blind panic, without even stopping to consider that she might die as soon as steps foot in Faerie.

“What you’re asking, Simon, is a massive undertaking, it’s-“

“I’m not asking. I’d never ask this of you.” He snapped, magic fizzling through the air above Johnny’s head, explosions of grey and black lighting with power.

“Do ye truly believe we’d leave ye alone to face this? To spend a year in the mortal realm, as a merc, without us? Your brothers?”

“It is not merely a year, Johnny. It could be two, or three, or one hundred. I cannot take her until I know how to sustain her, and we’re still not closer to the answer.”

“I’m with ye Simon. Just as you’ve been with me through difficult times. I won’t turn my back now.”

“And neither will I.” Price booms from the doorway, the two of them whirling to where he stands with Gaz at his side.

“Sign me up. You know how I feel about mortal females. And their food.” Gaz gives them an impish grin, flourishing a set of light daggers and then lowering himself in a mock bow, an ode to his bloodline and ridiculous family. Johnny doesn’t say anything, but he watches how Simon’s shoulders ease, how he releases the breath he’s been holding, before giving them all a nod.

“I will go.” Johnny declares, and Simon’s eyes crinkle with relief. The sooner we get this all done, the sooner we can return home for good. Johnny was tired. They had been in the mortal realm for nearly a decade, coming back to Faerie now and then when something needed attending or when Simon had a lead. And now, with Simon desperately searching for the final piece of the puzzle, the end of all this finally felt close enough to taste. The only thing left outstanding was, how to get his blood to sing the Nereid’s song.

“I fancy a field trip myself.” Price relents, sigh expelling from his lungs with vexation. “Could use a change of scenery. Better than bloody Verdansk.”

“Or Las Almas.” Gaz mutters and Johnny protests.

“I liked Las Almas.”

“You just like Ale and Rudy.” Gaz ribs him, and Johnny laughs full throated. He did a soft spot for the two Vaqueros. They were smart, cunning humans who excelled in battle and cared for their community. Rare traits to find amongst the greedy, swamp like mortals that mostly roam their world. He respected them.

“Aye.” He agrees. The table goes quiet for a moment, words on the knifes edge, waiting, watching, until Simon clears his throat.

“Very well. We will go together then.” Price echoes him, while Gaz nods readily.

“Together.”

“It’s not optional anymore.” Your aunt’s voice vibrates through the speaker of the phone. “Your coven is your family.” She prattles on, unaware you’ve put the phone down and walked away from it to stack a few books together on the table.

“She’s nuts.” You mouth to Jet, who weaves between your legs before hopping up in front of you, rubbing her face against your fingers, seeking a scratch behind her ear.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.” You sigh, and you swear you see Jet roll her eyes, right after you roll your own.

“You need to spend time with your coven. You can’t spend your entire life holed up in that shop with your familiar and your books.” Why not? You don’t say that, of course, lest she hex you through the phone, or worse. She doesn’t understand. You have a deep affection, a pure love for your connection to your power, for your magic, but that love did not extend to your coven, who were mostly still stuck in the darkest ages of time, who’s desire for power had pushed them to extremes. When you don’t respond, she bites out her directive before hanging up. “You must perform your duties. You’ll be expected on Samhain.”

And then the line goes dead.

You sigh, and Jet meows, like she sympathizes. Like she feels your pain. Maybe she does. You’re not sure. She is your familiar, but you don’t speak her language. You don’t know how she actually feels.

But you do know she dislikes your aunt, nearly as much as you do.

“I know, I know.” You give her another rub of your fingertips under her chin before pulling the stack of books towards you and carrying them through the back to the front of the shop.

Your day passes quietly. Mortals come and go, browsing the books in the front room, some choosing to stay and settle in the armchairs or the nooks with plush cushions, curled up with their selections for hours. There are places to tuck away here, corners between shelves where you could allow yourself to get lost in another world if you wanted, with no one to disturb or bother you, except maybe Jet. The black cat patrols the front room with high scrutiny, jumping to and from different heights while she ensures nothing is amiss in her domain.

You keep yourself busy with your daily tasks, organizing, counting, compiling, all while trying not think too much about the demand of your presence at Samhain.

You don’t want to go.

But you also don’t think you’ll be able to get out of it. You had already managed to dodge Lughnasa, and a fully body shudder rips through you when you recall the efforts of matchmaking that were done on your behalf before the festival had even started.

Not like anyone wanted to be matched with you to begin with. Not when there were effortless beauties by the dozen, witches and warlocks waiting with bated breath to be paired together.

Crazy, evil old hags. Crazier than the full moon herself.

By the end of your regular business hours, the store is empty, and you’ve settled yourself in the back room, the one that stays locked, the one where you keep all the things you don’t want the general public to see, ancient books bound with skin, grimoires with spells to summon demons, to kill lovers, to resurrect children. Books with magic of blood and bone, written by ancient witches from your own coven. Stories that come and go as they please. Stories of gods and monsters. Books that could open doors. Books that could trap you beyond those doors, forever. Banned books, by some’s standards.

Books you’re really not supposed to have but can’t help but collect. Your desire to absorb it all, learn it all unyielding, no matter how much information you consume, and it's become more than your livelihood now. The bookstore has become a place where others can come if they need something that their coven cannot provide, a place a witch can find a spell that’s long been forgotten, a place where answers can be found, if you knew where to look.

A safe place, for yourself, and for others.

A dangerous place, to some, and a dangerous place to you, at times. A place that made you known in magical communities, a place where you could be found.

And to your coven, nothing was worse.

Secret practitioners of blood magic, they were extremely closed off to outsiders. They stone walled others, refused friendships in magical society, kept to themselves as much as possible. It was their tradition, the only way they could survive and continue their practice, their devotion to blood, water and bone keeping them alive longer than others, keeping them young and fair when their counterparts aged and withered, kept them practicing for the entirety of their long lives.

And who would want to give that up?

You hadn’t been asked to be born into this complicated web of magic, hadn’t asked to become an orphan either, the loss of your parents forcing you into your aunt’s hands at a young age, where you learned all too quickly that your magic was different from other young witches, that you had been blessed with your coven’s ultimate gift.

Blood spinning.

Jet meows, leaping from the floor to the table to sit in front of you on her haunches, jet black fur shining under the dancing light of the candles. There are no lamps in this room, the bulbs too bright or too offensive for the books, some who’s pages don’t even show themselves unless they’re lit by magic.

You keep the flames in here lit by your power, day in and day out. Wax drips onto the mantle that sits over the fireplace, forming sand like castles on the wooden beam as the candles burn, staying in perfect stasis while the flames never go out.

You cast your magic out, just slightly, enough to straighten a shelf that was haphazardly arranged earlier, and then you wave a finger over a flame, just enough that it lightly heats your skin.

Fucking Samhain.

You can already feel the insistent pressure that will certainly be coming after today’s conversation, the demands of your participation in the Divination ritual and gods know what else.

Don’t these bats know you should stay home on Samhain? That’s when the Others get through.

You shiver.

You’re just about to ask Jet what she wants for dinner before you lock up when you hear a clattering smack, the sound of the broom that always stands so astute by the front door falling to floor, and your blood freezes in your veins.

Jet hisses.

Company’s coming.

“Hello?” A male voice calls, accent unusual to your ears, ricocheting past the shelves to where you sit in the back, hunched over a dusty tome. “Is anyone here?”

“I am!” You yell, standing up too fast, knocking into the heavy wooden table with your hip and letting out a hiss of air through your lips. Ow. Shit. That’s going to bruise. “I’m here, sorry.” You push away some hair from your face as you appear from the back room.

Oh.

Fuck.

There is a beautiful man standing in the front of the bookstore. A stunningly gorgeous, perfectly formed human being with crystalline blue eyes and a smile that practically beams. His hair is cut into a mohawk, a unique style that you don’t see too often, and his eyes glimmer with something mischievous, something wild. His bone structure reminiscent of the gods you grew up learning about, his face open, and handsome, watching you from where he stands, bolts of setting sunlight streaming in from the glass door behind him, framing him in the orange and pink goodness of dusk.

Just looking at him sets your body alight.

“H-hello.” Gods.. Get it together. It's just a guy. You've see plenty of mortal men before. His lips quirk, and you try not to look too closely at them, their sweet shape, perfectly pressed together while he cocks his head.

“Hello.” Jet meows by your feet, sharply, and you frown at her before looking back at the man.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a book.” He starts, stepping closer, eyes roving over the floor to ceiling shelves that line the front room.

“Well, this is a good place to do that.” Wow. You wish you could pull the words back into your mouth as soon as they slip out, but you can’t. All you can do is cringe and try not to melt into floor. Smooth. So smooth. He doesn’t seem bothered by your obvious statement, and he smiles at you, again, nodding his agreement.

“It’s well… it’s a rare book.”

“Oh?”

“And I’ve been told, you’re a purveyor of such rare and curious books.” Your skin feels warm under your sweater, and you try to beat back the feeling of the heat by taking a deep breath.

“I… have some books. That are considered rare. Or unusual, yes. It depends on what you’re looking for?”

“It’s a grimoire. Of the Ulster Cycle.” You cover your suspicion with a cheeky smile, before shaking your head. What could a man possibly want with that?

“I don’t have anything that old here.” The lie slips through your teeth with ease.

“Oh, my apologies. I was told ye were a collector of sorts. The bloke I spoke with said there was a rare books room an’ everything.” Something prickles along the back of your neck, and your magic flares to life, zinging through your veins like fire.

Magic. There’s magic in here with you, magic that is unlike yours. Magic that hovers above the surface, like it’s waiting for something, waiting to strike.

Is it his?

Like he can sense it, he tenses for a split second before relaxing, and offering you his hand.

“I’m Johnny.” You stare at his waiting gesture, poised on the edge of a decision, uncertainty hanging in the balance.

Something is different here.

Something is strange.

But the way he looks at you, like he’s really looking at you, seeing you, noticing you, soothes the wariness in your mind, the strong beating of your heart drowning out your more cautious nature.

Still, you’re not one to give your birth given name to anyone outside the coven, whether they be friend or foe.

You've seen someone learn that lesson first hand.

“My friends call me Fern.” It’s not a lie, your friends, what little you still had, do call you Fern. Have called you Fern ever since you were all children, when you were more interested in laying on your back in the woods and staring at the clouds through the trees, then you were learning basic spells at anyone’s house. Strange, they used to call you. Odd. Weird. Their parents, bless them, had instructed their children not to be cruel to you, but the nickname had persisted, and then stuck, until it was what you were calling yourself all through Uni and afterwards.

“Fern.” He echoes, a ripple of something you cannot name crossing his face before it smooths, and he releases your hand while giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s lovely to meet you.” The heat on your skin comes surging back, and your magic simmers inside your veins. You’re staring, up into his eyes, two perfect blue swirls of sea and sky, like you’re in a trance, unable to look way for a long moment before he’s clearing his throat and you’re blinking yourself free.

Odd. Your brain warns.

Enchanting. Your heart sings.

“Sorry, I uh. Don’t have your book.”

“It’s alright. Mind if I had a look around?”

“Sure!” you gush, over enthused, and then run your palms down the front of your skirt.

Calm down. He’s not here for you. He’s here for a book.

You try not to track his every move as he browses, instead staring at the blank computer screen at the front check out desk, clicking the mouse intermittently and shuffling some papers back and forth mindlessly while you sneak a look every now and then.

He’s fit, wide back snug in a t shirt and jacket that hangs loose over his hips, denim notched just right below his waist. You can’t help but stare when he reaches for a higher shelf, and his shirt rides up to expose a flash of his midriff, honey cream skin on full display that makes your mouth water, just a bit.

Jet meows loudly, and then makes an exaggerated point of licking her paw, pointing it in the direction of the clock that hangs over the door.

Welp.

“I’m actually closing up here, in a minute, is there anything-“

“Sorry to keep ye.” He turns, and you force your eyes away, the intensity of the eye contact too much, the pull of him practically overloading your senses.

“Oh, you’re not. I have other work to do, I just like to lock up.” You don’t know why exactly, but it feels like you’re stalling him. Like you don’t want him to leave. Jet jumps from the floor to the shelf behind you, and she growls as the man, Johnny, who takes a step away from the book he’s studying towards you. “Jet!” you admonish her. Johnny breathes a soft laugh.

“Smart, locking up, cannae be too sure about what’s lurking out there.” He jerks his head towards the door, and then flashes you another smile. It makes you dizzy.

“Uh, I do have some rarities, if that… if that’s something you’d like to come back and see.” What? What did you just say? Did you really just-

Johnny visibly brightens, like you’ve made his day. Like you’ve made him happy or given him a gift. The feeling warms you from the inside, trilling in your heart until it’s beating double time, and your magic is practically singing in your soul.

He tells you he’ll come back then, that he’d like to come back, and you nod numbly as you wave goodbye.

What the fuck was that?

Two days later, the bells that hang from the front door jangle and chime to announce his arrival, and the butterflies swirl in your stomach as you walk up front.

“Good evening.” He greets you, and you have to snap yourself to attention after nearly getting lost in the whirled sea glass of his eyes. “It’s Foxglove? Or… Sage?” Your eyes widen and then close to slits before glaring at him. “You’re named after a plant, right?”

“It’s Fern.” You deadpan, and he chuckles, lips splitting to reveal unnaturally white teeth.

“My apologies, Fern.” He does not hide the way his eyes trace you up and down, from your black boots to where your two times two big, button-down shirt is parted to reveal your clavicle. “Are ye well?” He asks, and you try to stutter out a response.

“Y-yes. Thanks. Yourself?”

“Aye, thanks. Excited to see what secrets you’re keeping.” He raises an eyebrow, and you gulp. Where has the air gone? Why does it feel so warm in here?

“I uh. Yeah, well. Let’s… it’s this way.” You punctuate the rambling sentence with deflated inflection, and his lips press together like you’ve amused him.

You pull your magic under the current of the atmosphere in the hallway to wrap around the lock and spring it free, allowing the door to open before the two of you and step inside. The room itself is a marvel, deep burgundy walls with more floor to ceiling bookshelves, and a giant table in the middle, it’s top carved from an ash tree far older than you. The candles dance in your presence, and you feed the wicks just a small sampling of magic, allowing them to gradually brighten so Johnny can see better. Mortal’s eyes were not known for being so sharp.

“And these are all…?”

“Varying. Some very old, storybooks about monsters and fairies and mermaids and such. You know, fairytales.” You laugh, but he doesn’t, only nods thoughtfully as he reads along the spines. “I’ve got some… old magic books. From when people thought witches were real. And some old religious texts. Nothing crazy, not museum worthy or anything.”

Definitely a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“When people thought witches were real?” He turns, voice laden with skepticism, and something heavy sinks in your belly.

“Yeah, you know. Old pagan beliefs, that kind of stuff.” You try to play it off but can’t escape his gaze, can’t escape the way it feels to have him staring at you, reading you like an open book.

“And you’re usually in the habit of lying to customers?” You stare him, bewildered, your mind racing to come up with something clever, something snappy to throw him. Nothing comes. “I can feel you.” He explains, like it’s normal, or natural. Like you’re both speaking the same language. “Can feel ye from across the street, actually. Didn’t know little plants could hold so much magic.” He teases, lighthearted and sweet, but your fingers tighten into fists.

“I-“ you start, but abruptly stop when words fail you, and your chest tightens with panic. You internally scream at yourself, the strange feelings from when he first stepped foot in the shop coming back to haunt you, to teach you a lesson.

“Hey, hey.” He croons, and you stare at him vacantly, mind scrambling a mile a minute. “It’s alright. I mean ye no harm, Fern.” The way he says your nickname feels like a bite, like a mark against your skin, the word singed with some sort of magic, something flavorless that you cannot taste, yet you know it’s there all the same. You realize he’s staring at your hands, which are open now, pushed out in front of you like a barrier.

“What are you?” you challenge, and his lips twist.

“I’m no threat to ye.”

“Sounds like what someone who is a threat would say.”

“I promise, 'm just a low-level Wielder. You have more power in your pinky finger than I have in my entire body.” A Wielder. That explains the weird feelings. It’s an old term, one used to describe those born into magical families without marginal power. Wielding witches or warlocks usually have enough magic in them to cast minimal impact spells, some charms and enchantments, things of little consequence. “I ah, work in the military. I don’t practice.” He admits, and that takes you by surprise.

“The military?”

“Aye.” An impish grin splits across his face. “I like blowing things up. Work with a special ops team, around the world. We’re on leave right now, but. That’s usually what I’m doing.” That’s different. Magical beings usually stay far away from things like government, or military. Easier to remain undetected that way, and it was fairly known that mortals were left to their own affairs, without magical interference. You find yourself asking the question before you can smack your lips shut.

“But, your family must-“ not like that? Shun you? Worry about you? must hate you for that? You’re not sure why you blurted it out, or even where you were going with it.

“My mum’s gone. Da too. Got a few siblings left but, we mostly keep to ourselves.” Oh.

“I’m sorry.” Shame curdles in your stomach, and you grimace. “I wasn’t trying to pry, I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright, happened a long time ago.”

“I shouldn’t have-“

“Fern.” He says quickly, your name laden with the same feeling from before, the richness of some unintelligible power, and you draw a sharp breath. “It’s alright, I promise.” You duck your head in silent apology, and the room stays quiet for a moment before he’s speaking again. “What is this?” He’s pointing to a black book, its spine cracked and writing illegible, to most.

“That’s a grimoire.”

“It looks… old. Like it’s seen better days.”

“It is, and it has.” You don’t elaborate, because you don’t know if you should, or even if you want to.

“Where’s it from?” He pushes.

“Here. It’s uh… from my coven. From a very long time ago.”

“You lot been around a long time?”

“You could say that.” You could say that’s an understatement. There were only a handful of old covens left in the world, ancient powers that slept beneath the skin of their witches, only growing stronger and stronger through their lengthy history and connection to the earth. Dangerous.

He continues on with his inquiries, and you give him as much information as you can, pulling books from their resting places and cracking them wide for his eyes, pointing out little things of interest here and there while he stands in awe, time ticking away until the clock in the hall is chiming for ten pm, and he’s apologizing for keeping you so late as you click the door shut.

“You’re not keeping me.” You assure him. “I live in the flat upstairs. Short commute.” You laugh.

“Well, thank ye. That was a delight. Old books like that, the ones that most do not get to see are… special. I’m grateful to ye, for sharing the collection with me.” He makes your head spin, with how earnest he is, how easy and honest he confesses such things to you. It makes your knees feel weak, makes your throat feel dry.

“Of course. Um, anytime you wanna, you know. Come by and look, I’m here.” You stand by awkwardly, while Jet scowls at you from her perch in the window. Your heart sinks when you realize he’s going to leave now, the knowledge that he’ll step out on the street and possibly never been seen by you again twisting in your soul like a sour edged blade.

“I ah… was going to go for a late dinner, would ye like to join me?” You don’t even process it right away, just nod, numbly, like a robot in front of him. Dinner? With him? You, and him?

“Yeah!” you blurt and then try not to cringe at your over eagerness. “Yes. Yes, I’m hungry so… dinner would be great.”

“Know any good spots around?”

“Uh, yeah there’s a place down the street a few blocks that has a great curry. We could walk?”

“Sure.” He agrees, and then steps outside to wait for you while you lock everything up.

Jet complains the entire time, loudly, and you try to shush her multiple times.

“Oh, stop!” you scold over her meows. “It’s just dinner. He’s nice.” She watches you with keen eyes, green spheres that probably know far more than you, before slinking off to the stairs in the back, taking herself up to the flat. “Goodnight then!” You yell after her, to which she responds with a frustrated growl.

Familiars. You sigh and roll your eyes. So dramatic.

“I lost my parents too.” You tell him one night, a week later. He’s met you after closing, in a park where you like to walk sometimes, and the two of you slowly stroll along the walking path as you trade questions and answers about one another’s lives. It’s somewhat dark, sun already set, but the orange light of a giant jack o lantern that sits in the green space’s center glows robustly and bathes the twilight in autumn hues. “I uh, didn’t want to say anything, because it felt like, not the right time but, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.” He says earnestly and you give him a tiny smile.

“Thanks, I was young. There’s not much I remember about it.” Mostly true. You really didn’t know much, even though you were there. You had the memories in pieces, the woods, the moon, the Fae that took your mother’s life. The spell that ended your father’s. All buried deep in your heart, untouched. Unvisited. You both lapse into silence, and you fight the awkwardness by posing a question, hoping to change the subject without being too obvious.

“How many siblings do you have?”

“I’ve got one sister, who I don’t get to see as often as I’d like. And then, my brothers, who aren’t mine by blood but by we’ve all been best friends for far too long now, living together, working together, traveling together. We’re… very bonded.”

“That’s sweet.” His head tips back with a laugh, before looking back to you.

“Sweet isn’t what I’d call them, but it’s something.”

“They’re like your family then?”

“Aye. Closest some of us ‘ll ever get.” There’s a pang of something in your heart at that, the idea that Johnny has both blood and love, people who have chosen him, who love him. You’ve never really had that, and the concept is practically foreign to you. “Look, there. It's you.” He points to a bush off to the left and you turn to him confused. “Little plant.” He explains, bemused, clearly pleased with himself and his terrible joke.

“Piss off.” You elbow him playfully, trying to push away, and he grabs you, pulling you into his side with a firm grip, half holding you to him in an embrace as he chuckles and rubs your shoulder affectionately.

“Sorry, little shrub.”

“What are ye doing for Samhain?” He asks the following day during his visit to the shop, a week before the dreaded night, and you gnaw on your lip.

“There’s a festival. We burn large pyres and dance in the moonlight.” You tease.

“Nude?” he smirks, and you laugh, nearly dropping the volume you’re shelving.

“No, gods no. Fully clothed, thank you.” You don’t mention the Divination, the ritual that is your own personal hell. “We drink, and dance, and those who have lost loved ones try to find their spirits. There’s also matchmaking, done by the elders. Which I painstakingly avoid.” He hands you another book, and you pop it into place. “Would you… would you like to come?” Why not? It’s not like anyone is going to tell you not to bring someone. Especially not when they need you so badly. He’s quiet, holding another book in his hand, staring down at the cover like he’s reading it. He’s silent for so long you start to worry, start to second guess yourself, start to think maybe, you read this wrong. Maybe, this isn’t what you thought it might be. Maybe he’s-

“I would be happy to.”

“Be watchful of the féth fíada.” The witch who stands beside a roiling cauldron warns, before pressing a mug into your waiting hands. “Something else is in these woods tonight.” You give your beverage to Johnny and then take the second mug from her, before leading him away, down the hill and closer to the fires.

“What’s the féth fíada?”

“It’s the mist. On Samhain, the veil is particularly thin between worlds, you know? Spirits are usually here with us, until the sun rises but…” You sip the cider, spice and warmth coating your tongue. “We, the coven, believe the Others come through at the same time, and use the mist to cloak themselves.” You gesture to the wispy white fog that rolls through the forest like smoke.

“The Others?” He asks, and you nod.

“Yes. That’s what we call them. The Fae.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Thought the Fae were a myth.” You laugh and turn to face him.

“I assure you, they’re very real.”

“Oh? Have ye encountered one then?” You shudder, like you’re cold, frightening memories pooling at the forefront of your mind until you shove them away.

“Once. When I was a child.” He frowns then, head cocked in consideration, faraway look in his eye as he casts his gaze over your shoulder. Like he’s looking for something. Like he’s seeing.

“Were ye hurt, Fern?” Hurt? No. Traumatized? The echo of your mother’s screams ring in between your ears.

“No.” Someone lights a new pyre a second after your denial, orange embers leaping into the night sky with grace, and it draws your attention enough to distract the both of you. “Come on.” You tug him towards where a group has gathered, bodies moving together in tandem with a chorus of strings that sing through the air. “Dance with me?” You ask him breathlessly, emboldened by the sniff of fire whiskey that sits in your cup and he smiles before draping an around your waist and pulling you close to his body.

“I’d like nothing more.”

Your feet are light, moving around one another with an elegance you didn’t know you possessed, effortlessly shifting with the rhythm and time of the music, fingers grazing along each other in tentative, desperately seeking touches.

“You’re beautiful, little witch.” He whispers against your ear, words soft and saccharine, floating on the warm air around you as you sway together in time to the music. His hand cups your jaw gently, tilting your chin upwards until you’re both looking at one another, his blue eyes alight with the reflection of the bonfire behind you, lovely and bright, burning down into your soul like a love spell. “I’d like to kiss ye, Fern.” He murmurs, voice strained and tinged with an accent you cannot place, and you blink while your heart rockets off at superspeed, sending blood buzzing with excited magic through your veins.

“Okay.” You murmur, and he smiles at you like you’re the most stunning creature he’s ever seen, before slowly lowering his lips to yours.

It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed it would be. You’ve kissed some men in your life, some women, but nothing compares to this. There’s an explosion inside of you when his mouth meets yours, the gentle coaxing of the way he holds you melting you into a boneless heap while you breathe him in, his scent practically transporting you to another world, a mossy, emerald-green wood with lush plant life and giant ferns that blanket the forest floor. The feel of him, of whatever this is, mixed with your magic and the magic in the air is a powerful elixir, one that seems to make the world tilt where you stand, gravity disappearing and your body pressing into his as a result. The closer you get, the more you can feel something in him, something strong, something powerful, lurking in the shadow of this moment, waiting. Watching. He tastes like oak and dew dropped grass, earthy and rich and magical, everything wrapping up into one as you practically go limp in his arms when he parts your lips with his tongue and sweeps inside.

When he pulls away he’s still holding you steady, while you stare at him wordlessly, smile tugging at your lips. The world feels quiet, like everything has all but died down, like mostly everyone has left except for you, and him. A second stretches on for a minute, for an hour, and you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from his, your magic arcing wildly through the night sky, snapping and hissing with the overflow of your emotions. You never want this to end. You want this to last forever... you want him in more ways than you've ever known. You want-

"Fern! Fern!" Someone's calling you, over the noise of the night, and you reluctantly step back, realizing it’s your aunt’s voice carrying over the music and revelry.

“I… I have to…” You nod in her direction, where she stands beyond the pyre, at the seam of the forest, sealed mason jar of something in her hands.

“Of course.” He answers immediately, and takes your hand in his, folding his fingers between yours and petting his thumb over your knuckles. He brings them to his mouth, carding his lips over your skin with a gentle kiss, before giving your hand a squeeze and relaxing his grip. “I’ll see ye soon?”

“Y-yeah. Still want to do dinner, on Thursday?” Thursday should be fine, enough time to recover.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He vows, strong and certain. You hear your name again, but don’t release him, and it’s not until he’s asking you if you’re alright that you realize you’re clutching to him too tightly. Like he’s a lifeline. Like he could save you from this. His free hand moves into your line of sight, and then he strokes a finger across your cheek, eyes worried, face creased with concern. “Fern? What is it?”

“Nothing. I… I have to go. I’ll see you Thursday.” He opens his mouth to speak but you’re already pulling away, releasing him and bringing the cowl of your hood up over your hair, slipping into the crowd without another word.

You stumble around the dancing and celebrating until you break through and reach the tree line, your aunt and another standing in their ceremonial black robes. You swallow a gasp when you see the jar, it’s clear liquid a tell-tale sign of what’s to come.

Divination.

Your aunt’s lips purse when she sees you.

“Are you ready?” No. No, no. Please don’t make me. You take a deep breath to try to steady yourself, clear your mind and settle your magic. No. No, you’re not ready. The forest cracks and chants around you, cacophony of voices screaming and singing at the same time. No, you don’t want this. You don’t want to do this. This is not what you were meant for, you know it in your heart. You do not want to hurt; you were not meant for harm. “Fern.” Her tone snaps like a whip against your skin.

“Yes.”

You lay still for days, after. Unable to sleep, your eyes never close, your mind never settles, the adrenaline crystalizing in your bones as you drag yourself back and forth from your bathroom to bed, over and over.

You wash hands hundreds of times, but you still see the blood stains on your palms, under your nails, splattered up to your elbows.

Your power burns throughout you, magic heating the air with fervor and thrall, chanting voices culminating around you as you seek the vessels in his body and pull, drawing each drop through him and into yourself, ruby ichor spouting from his mouth like a furious volcano, blood dripping from his lips like the hallowed tears of the old gods. It’s everywhere, on your hands, your arms, your face, your neck, the earth. You imbue it with power, pushing your connections with the roots beneath the soil upwards, into the blood while the breeze sizzles and shatters, mist gathering around your ankles like shackles meant to drag you below.

You close your eyes thousands of times, but you still see the face of the man, still see his fear, still hear his pleas, his screams, his cries for mercy as you bleed him dry, scrying for the future with the litres of his blood.

The visions come quickly, splintering through your head with a sharpness that hurts, and you cry out amidst the pain, your mind being ripped into pieces as you scream. There are hands on you, arms cloaked in dark robes, holding you up, holding you steady while your magic vibrates through the ground and into your bones, filling your sight with the future. Clips of death, birth, tragedy echo behind your closed lids, the mineral scent of blood filling your nostrils until you think it will be burned there permanently.

Tears stream down your cheeks, cutting a path through the spray of red that paints your face.

Your cries join the reprise of the man who sits dying at your feet, the force of his life draining through your magic, bending and weaving with the power from the earth and your own blood until he’s nothing but a husk, a desecrated corpse that lays silently as you collapse in front of it.

The visions do not stop. They will not stop for days.

The elders extract the ones that pertain to them from your mind through their own spell, the process nearly as painful as the Divining itself. They hold you down to the ground to get what they want, pinning your shoulders with a bruising grip, cutting your skin to smear their fingers in your blood, holding your head still as you thrash. Their hands hurt. You will wear their marks for weeks.

Your aunt deposits you on your back doorstep in a heap as the sun rises.

No one calls. No one comes.

You lay alone in your bed, eyes peeled wide, seeing into endless futures, broken stories of other worlds, other beings, other places that you’ll never know. Places you’ll only ever read about in books Places that you’ll only see through this horrid act, or your restless dreams.

Your brain fractures into tiny little pieces. Your own understanding becomes non sensical.

You become lost between planes. Lost in your own mind. Lost to the Divination.

Jet never leaves your side. The shop stays shuttered, as it does every year after Samhain, no one coming or going, your lone employee enjoying her annual week after Halloween vacation.

Eventually your eyes close. You sleep fitfully. You dream of the visions, the screams, the sacrifice.

Finally, you regain enough strength to weave a weak spell that helps quiet your mind, and then you truly rest, for the first time in days. You rest, and you sleep until Thursday afternoon, when there’s a rapping against your door.

Johnny.

“Hey little sprout, what’s-“ the words die on his lips when you peek around the door, and the color drains from his face. “Fern.” He whispers.

“Hi.” You know how you appear. Strung out, most likely. Battered. Exhausted. Bruised. You try to fix the top of the knit shawl that you have draped over your shoulders, but it’s far too late. He’s already seen.

“What… what’s happened?”

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” You try to play it off but it’s pointless now.

“Who did this?” The demand is harsh, and rage simmers in his eyes, fury crackling along his skin and into the air between you. He looks… different, something primordial reflecting in his gaze, something ominous etched in the lines of his face. The question holds a promise of violence, of punishment, and being so close to him in this moment makes your head spin. It makes you feel like the very fabric of this world is tearing apart, ripping to pieces around you as he stands there, an otherworldly feeling swirling in the air between your two bodies. It suffocates you, pushes you into the dark depths of waters that feel all too familiar, like the leftover scars on your mind from the Divination are being ripped wide open and plunging you back between celestial planes.

“Johnny," You manage to choke out, voice rough and trembling. "it’s fine, I- I’m okay. It’s just… the aftermath. Of Samhain.” Your voice breaks, the tenor of your sadness something that’s out of your control, tears caught in your throat. He stares at you, bewildered, a hand raised midair before it falls to his side in a fist, and he turns away. “Johnny?” He doesn’t respond, and you watch the smooth skin of his jaw flex and harden. He stares into the distance, across the street, into the sky.

Looking anywhere but you.

It’s because he can’t stand to see you.

You look awful.

You look monstrous.

You are monstrous.

“No one should ever touch ye like this.” He bites out, his knuckles tensing against the door frame. His eyes are angry, and wild, burning a hole into your clavicle, where your skin sits exposed, healing from a gash. You shift, a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny, and then he snaps his gaze up to yours, face immediately softening, lips parting, expression rife with unease. With worry. “Are ye… are ye okay?”

“Yes. Just a bit tired.”

“If it’s too much, to have dinner-“

“No! N-no, no. I want… to see you. I want to. Just not sure if I feel up to going out?” He understands, nodding sympathetically, brow furrowed with thought.

“I could go get a takeaway?” Your stomach chooses to rumble at that exact moment, and a small smile plays on his lips.

“That would be wonderful.”

“Alright.” He steps just a little closer, close enough for you to get a deep inhale of him, that woodsy, mossy, magical scent, and swoops down to land a gentle kiss to your cheek before pulling your hand into his and bringing it to his lips, eyes slipping closed with a shuddering breath when he presses a kiss to your palm. “I’ll be right back. You'll be alright?”

“Yeah, 'm fine.”

He feeds you until you cannot eat anymore. He plies you with noodles of too many kinds, different cartons that overflow spread out on the coffee table, in front of where you sit curled up on the couch. You’re still exhausted, eyes straining to stay open, and eventually, you’re sinking lower and lower into the cushions, legs sprawled across his lap, his hand smoothing up and down your calf. It’s warm, and comforting, and you swear you can feel little zings of magic moving inside you, lulling you into a peaceful rest, cocooning you in hazy feelings of softness and safety.

Hours later, in the dark, lips press to your forehead. Your body curls against something warm, face flush against the steady thump of a heartbeat. Someone whispers in your ear.

“Sleep well, little witch.”

“Tell me about your magic.” He asks one night, a few days after you fell asleep on the couch, when you’re finally back to your normal self, spending most of your time getting caught up on everything you let slip during your post Samhain recovery period.

Having Johnny around has seemed to help, somehow. He’s been here, every day since, like he’s unwilling to let you out of his sight, showing up in the mornings before you open the shop with a coffee and sweet, a baked treat that two of you usually split as you go about tidying things around the front room. He hovers, his fingers lightly tracing over your skin often, grasping your hand in his, pressing his lips to your palm reverently throughout the day. You’re not sure how, or why, but it seems your magic and mind have taken to having him around, and you feel better, more well than you normally would during the Divination healing process, your head clear and wounds mostly mended.

“What about it?”

“There were many witches, warlocks, magical beings at the festival, but I didn’t feel anyone quite like ye.” A keen observation. You hem and haw, debating how much to truly tell him, debating how to make it sound… less insane.

“There aren’t any witches like me anymore, really.” You say quietly, casting a mournful look to where he sits on the wicker sofa, legs spread wide. You’re both sitting on your flat’s back porch, enjoying the crisp weather that has a chill to it, the coolness of air refreshing against your skin. “I’m a blood spinner.” He gives you a confused look.

“What’s that?”

“It’s like… a special kind of witch, in my coven. We aren’t exactly… the most orthodox of our kind.”

“What do ye mean?” Ah, fuck. You chew on the inside of your cheek, hesitant to break your oath, to betray the promises you made to protect the secrets that rule your existence.

But it’s Johnny.

And you trust him.

“My coven… we’re blood witches. We deal in blood, water, bone. Living things and… such. We can craft spells that affect other forms of life. It’s generally taboo, now. There aren’t any covens left alive that practice blood magic, except us.”

“And what is a blood spinner?” At the same time as he poses his question, he taps his thigh meaningfully, and you rise from the chair that you were sitting in to lower yourself into his lap, edge of your dress sliding down your thigh when he tucks his arm under your knees. His palm skates up and down the back of your leg, and goosebumps raise the hair on the back of your neck.

“Every few decades, a witch like me is born. They call us blood spinners, which is really just a made-up name for someone who’s… connected.”

“Connected?”

“We rely heavily on our connection to the earth, and most of my coven cannot pull on those connections without casting some sort of spell. I can do it… naturally.” You take a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. “I feel connections to the earth, the elements, especially water, so intensely sometimes it feels like they’re a part of me. During our walk the other week? I could feel the trees, breathing. Could feel the grass growing. Could hear the rapid heartbeats of the ducks in the pond. All without using a single spell. Using my magic is not something I have to cast for, like most others. I can just… do it.”

“I’m still not following.” Of course he’s not. Because you sound insane.

“Right, sorry. Most witches perform magic by casting spells. It’s how they organize and harness their power, pushing the chaotic force of it into something that can contain it, regulate it, give it a purpose.”

“But not you.”

“No. If a witch in my coven wanted to, let’s say, cast a love spell, they’d need an incantation. They could do it, of course, because blood and bone are the primary targets of such a spell, but they’d still need one. They’d write it themselves or get it from someone else if they weren’t confident in their spell making. But I… could just do it. Could just manipulate the blood, enchant it with my own power. Straight from the source. No words. No chanting.”

“Just your power.”

“Yes.” You hesitate. Might as well, while you’re at it. “And, I can use blood to see the future.” He stiffens.

“Divination?” You nod, and he studies you before murmuring quietly, “I didn’t know mortal witches could practice Divination.” Mortal witches? What is that supposed to mean?

“They can’t. We’re not mortal.” His eyes narrow.

“What?”

“My coven has always used their gifts to prolong their lives. It is a blessing, and a curse.” He raises an eyebrow in surprise and you shake your head. “Not me, though. Not yet, anyway. I’m still my natural age.” You offer him a toothy grin, and while he nods thoughtfully, his brow furrows in contemplation.

“Well, aren't ye full of surprises, eh?” He hums, and then presses you closer, leaning forward until his mouth is waiting, just above yours.

“Kiss me.” You whisper, fingers clutched in his shirt, desperate for him, for his touch, for anything he could give you.

“Ye never have to ask.” He answers, and then seals his lips to yours, stealing your breath while his hand sinks into your hip, your body heating under his ministrations, your head dizzy with lust and affection for him. He shifts you in one movement, so you’re straddling him, and you can feel the outline of his cock in his jeans beneath you, can feel the heaviness that sits there. You sink down, just slightly, enough that your clothed cunt barely rubs over him, the contact sending little electric shocks through your body, and you whimper into his mouth. “Fern.” He murmurs, and you sneak your tongue past his teeth, lavishing him as much as you can, eager to soak up every piece he’s willing to give. He groans, and your hands drift to his waist, a thumb tucking beneath his skin and the button of his jeans, desperate to touch, to feel, to have him… when his fingers encircle your wrist and pull you away. “We canna’ dove. It’s late.” He says mournfully. Your heart sinks, soul cresting with sadness, and he strokes some strands of hair from your face gently.

Why doesn’t he want you? Were you reading things wrong? Have you done something?

He brings your palm to his lips, kissing you tenderly, and some of the bitterness leeches from your soul, your heart gentling it's disappointment, your dejection ebbing away on silken spun clouds.

“Right. Of course.”

He sighs, like he’s bearing the weight of the entire world, before knocking his forehead against yours gently.

“I’m sorry, sweet Fern. It’s not you, ah just… it’s late.”

“That’s alright, I understand.” You hoist yourself off his lap, and he scratches his head, more so in a way that seems to be a nervous tic than a necessary action, and you shrug. He stands, body held in stasis halfway to you, arm extended like he wants to touch you, grab you, but he’s holding back. You eye the porch door, and he frowns, something uneasy flickering across his gaze. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” you blurt before he can say anything, and he tenses.

“Of course.” He rushes to assure you, and you give him a nod before turning away.

“Goodnight.” You call over your shoulder, before slipping inside your flat and flicking off the porch light.

“You’ve mentioned… you ‘ave books about mermaids?” His fork digs through the container of noodles, lifting a perfect mouthful to his lips after the question, and you nod with your own mouth full of pad see ew.

“Sort of. They’re not really… mermaids in the sense like, Ariel and such.” You’re sitting opposite him upstairs, in the kitchen of your flat, with a window open, cool breeze flowing through your curtains. Your mind wanders to the ancient Greek text that sits on one of the shelves, it’s writing penned by the old gods themselves, words magicked by you to be hidden from most eyes. “They’re different.”

“The Nereids.” He says plainly, and you blink in surprise. “The ones who lure mortals to their deaths?”

“You know of the Nereids?” He nods, scooping another bite into his mouth, swallowing before he continues.

“My mum used to tell me stories about them. Said they were hunters, used blood spells to trap their victims.” You sigh into your wine glass. His fingers snake across the table and then up your forearm, tracing featherlight touches on the inside of your wrist.

“They don’t use blood spells.”

“No?”

“No.” You scoff. “Their magic is much more complex than that. The blood songs are not spelled. They’re naturally occurring. The Nereids do not choose who sings to them.”

“So, it could be anyone.” He muses, and you shrug.

“Yeah. I’m sure it’s pre-determined by something, somewhere. Some magical force but, the mortals… they’ve no idea. It’s not like they choose, to have their hearts ripped from their chest during sex.” Johnny startles on the stool, body shifting in a rapid movement, so quick your eyes almost don’t catch it. “You didn’t know?” It wouldn’t surprise you. Not much is known about the Nereids. You only hold this knowledge because your coven is well informed, due to the length of their lives, and because you possess one of the few texts left that references them in such detail. Both you and your coven hold the truth of what lurks in the sea close to your hearts. Another secret to keep, another truth never to be borne.

But the wine has made your tongue loose and well, you can’t help but give him everything he wants, anything he’s asked. His eyes flash, and he cradles your hand in his, stroking across your palm with his thumb.

Your words flow so easily, so uninhabited.

It feels so free, so right.

“No. Had no idea.” He watches you carefully, dancing candlelight spinning shadows along the walls and across his face. He looks handsome as usual, but something in the way he regards you now feels different. Dangerous. Thrilling. Your thighs press together almost subconsciously, low whirring of need humming inside your body, and your fingers tighten on the stem of you glass as you continue.

“Yeah, they need them… to live. It’s very… complex. The song creates a pull of sorts, I think.” You drain your glass before motioning to the wine bottle, tugging its contents into your glass with a little flick of magic. “It’s pretty sad. They fall in love with their victims for a night, and then harvest the organ and eat it before the sun comes up. It’s what sustains them. The love, the blood, the magic.” You gesture to the bottle and then to him, and he encourages you with a nod. “It all comes from the heart, you know?” You tap your own for reference, finger padding at the skin over your breastbone, over top where your heart beats just a little faster than normal.

“Aye, I guess it does.” He murmurs, fingertips light against your skin. His attention is focused on you, unwaveringly so, and you fidget under the scrutiny. He looks so… ethereal, in the dim candlelight, so otherworldly that you have to blink a few times to make sure you’re not seeing things.

You’re not.

He’s just really so, so beautiful.

It’s late when Johnny poses another question, clearing his throat over the low volume of a movie playing in the background. He lays behind you on the couch, the curve of your ass pressed into his hips, his arm slung over your belly, palm pressed to space above your navel. His breath fawns over your cheek, and he presses soft kisses to your temple in quick succession before you feel the vibration in his chest.

“I was thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“What if… it was someone you knew? The mortal, who had the Nereid’s song. Could you save them somehow?” It’s an interesting question, and you pause for a moment. His fingers stroke the back of your hand, before wrapping around your wrist and bringing your palm towards his mouth, lips pressing a gentle kiss to your skin before pulling you tighter into his embrace.

“I don’t know. I suppose you could, extract the song. You’d have to call it forth because it’s naturally occurring. You couldn’t just… cast a spell. You’d have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourself, and then pull it from the mortal that way, but then you’d be dooming the Nereid to die. They need the heart, to live. I don’t think I could make that choice.” His hand skates along your ribs, under your t shirt, stroking up and down your skin slowly. Soothingly.

“I don’t think I could either.”

“That’s not what I meant!” You shriek with laughter, chest expanding as you rock backwards, leaning away from him and his devilish smile. His arm wraps firmly around your waist, keeping you close to him, fingers playing across your clavicle while you giggle.

“Aye but it’s what ye said.” He’s been taunting you relentlessly about last night, when you fell asleep on the couch and then proceeded to talk for a few hours, all while you were blissfully tucked away in a dream somewhere.

“Nooo Johnny.” You moan, mortified, and bury your face in his chest. You peek up at him, and your eyes betray you, even though it’s the last thing you want. You cannot hide it, the giddiness, the happiness you feel when you’re around him. It swamps you in glee, exuberance oozing from every one of your pores. Your power feels sweeter, feels lighter, feels more peaceful now than it ever has before.

You know it’s because of him.

You dread that it’s because of him.

Four days later, you’re cataloguing some new arrivals when the front door of the shop bangs open, smacking against the wall, nearly shaking the building, the sound alone bringing you to your feet in a panic.

Your aunt stands in the doorframe, body thrumming with spells just barely contained, anger flooding the space between the two of you.

“What have you done?” She screeches, eyes mad with rage, and you stare at her horror while Jet hides behind your legs.

“I don’t... what’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” She jeers with an acidity that taints the air. “You’ve always been such a foolish child.”

“I don’t understand…”

That male you brought to Samhain wasn’t a mortal, you stupid girl. He was Fae.”

“Johnny? No, he’s… he’s not. He’s-“ He’s not. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t lie to you.

“Have you not heard? What’s happened?” she spits. She's confused. She must be. This can't be right.

“Heard what?”

“A Nereid has been taken, to Faerie. By one of them.” You laugh nervously in her face, the absurdity of her statement unsettling.

“No, that’s not possible.” Why would a Nereid leave their home? How would they leave their home? They need human hearts to survive, after all. How would that even…

The room spins. Your Aunt continues to scream, going on and on about how stupid you are, how foolish and naïve, how you’re lucky you’re the blood spinner because otherwise, the coven would have already burnt you at the stake. Alive.

But you cannot focus on any of it.

All you can hear, all you can picture, is the horrid replays of those conversations with Johnny.

All you can think about, is how easily your lips spilled those secrets. How free it all felt. How right.

“You know of the Nereids?”

“I didn’t know mortal witches could practice Divination.”

“I suppose you could, extract the song…”

“They don’t use blood spells.”

“You’d have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourself…”

“It all comes from the heart, you know?”

“Oh, gods.” You whisper, mouth dropping open in shock. Your aunt finally goes silent, the whole room falling quiet as the blood rushes in your ears.

“You’re dead to us. You’ll perform your duties for Divination, when necessary, but outside of that, you’re to be shunned. No one is to speak to you, of you, ever again.” She pauses, glaring at you with contempt. “The jury’s still out, on whether you’ll be tried and burned.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t know… I didn’t do it intentionally.” You don’t even know why you’re trying to explain yourself, why you’re bothering. She won’t listen. No one will care. You broke your oath. You betrayed the thing you were supposed to protect. Your chest heaves, lungs fighting for air as the walls narrow in on where you stand.

All for some stupid attention. All because some guy, someone you thought was just a harmless mortal with a tinge of power, smiled at you and kissed you sweetly. Because he told you were beautiful, and held your hand, and went on walks with you in the park. Because he kissed you like you meant something, like you mattered.

Your aunt stops at the door, casting a parting remark over her shoulder as she leaves.

“Your poor mother, Fern. I hope her spirit never discovers what you’ve done.”

It doesn’t take long, to find him. You thread your power through the city, scrying your magic through every drop on blood on every street, every corner, ever floor of every building until you locate him, sitting at a two top table outside of a pub, a handsome male across from him. They’re speaking in hushed tones as you turn the corner, and you stop for a moment to take them in.

How could you not have seen this?

Those strange feelings, his scent, the shadow of something primordial in those eyes were all trying to tell you the same thing.

This male is not a man at all, but Fae.

You stomp down the rest of the block, urging mortals away, using your magic to push them, to send them scurrying in other directions, just as the one sitting opposite Johnny spots you, mouth dropping into an o of surprise before he’s speaking, lips moving rapidly.

Johnny swivels in his chair, but it’s too late. You’re already upon them.

Your rage, your shame overshadows your hurt, the fear that threatens to drown you, as you stand in front of him spitting mad, your magic swirling around you in violent hues of red and purple while he stares, dumbfounded.

“You tricked me, you Fae bastard.” He stands, hand outstretched in a cautionary gesture.

“Fern-“ He tries, but you steamroll him. He’s Fae. Don’t listen to a word he says.

“You used me!” You hiss, fist unclenching, raising in front of your body like a weapon.

“No, listen-“ The other one, like him, is standing off to his left, watching you warily while you yell, tears wet on your cheeks. He steps closer, coming to stand nearly behind Johnny’s shoulder before Johnny waves him off with a concerned look on his face.

“No! You listen! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your power throbs through you, biting and gnawing to get out, to strike him down and hurt him, hurt him as he’s hurt you, betray him as he’s betrayed you. Your feelings and thoughts and magic all swirl together, weaving and bending into a chaotic mass of pain and sorrow and anger, surging forward, and then your finger extends, pointing right at him.

In the blink of an eye the air shifts and he drops his glamour, exposing the true strength of his power, the tips of his ears, the mighty weight of the magic he carries in his veins.

Your words die on your tongue.

His hand darts forward, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling you close, close enough that he can incline his head above your ear, voice razor sharp, lethal and cold when he whispers in an accent you've never heard before:

“Did ye just point at me, little witch?” You’re stunned for a moment, terror galloping through your heart before your sense of self-preservation kicks in and you wrench your arm away, stepping back as quickly as you can.

“Stay away from me.” You hiss. Johnny hasn’t reverted back to how you know him, with the soft angles and rounded ears, his glamoured state, you now realize, and staring him down is a feat in its own. It hurts, to look at him, and you know it’s intentional, you know it’s the way they operate. They aim to sow fear. To scare. Their blinding beauty is just another means to an end, just another tool for them to use.

Something shifts, and Johnny’s eyes move, the intensity of their gaze wavering as he regards you.

He looks… upset.

No. No he doesn’t. He’s not remorseful. He doesn’t care. He used you. He lied to you. He tricked you.

You step away slowly, afraid to show your back to him, and he takes a half lunge towards your retreating form but it’s too late, you’re too far away from him now, and when you finally turn to run, you hear his voice on the wind.

“Fern, wait!”

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happyhauntt · 2 months

Text

la vie en rose — sirius black.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: it's just a regular tuesday in july until an escaped convict appears in your kitchen. oh, and he happens to be your ex.

─── pairing: sirius black x reader.

─── warnings: set in prisoner of azkaban. mentions of death (canon characters.) swearing. there will probably be a part 2 at some point.

─── word count: 1.8k.

IT IS THE SECOND TUESDAY IN THE MONTH OF JULY, and you have a bad feeling.

It comes with no warning, not heralded by a black mood or a grey, rainy sky, no creeping sensation lingering like a ghost at your back, causing the hair on your neck to stand on end.

The sun is shining high in the sky. Residents of the little village huddle together at tables in the beer garden, tucked beneath huge umbrellas charmed to prevent sunburn. The summer holidays started a week ago, so there are no students milling about; only families you have known since birth, grizzled faces and smiling ones, long beards tied back in the heat, witches who have swapped out their usual pointed hats for wide-brimmed ones.

It is hot and bright, someone has set the communal barbecue to work grilling burgers; there are drinks to be had, someone is calling for a round of firewhiskey shots, and all-in-all, it is the sort of day you dream of when you think of summer at the Three Broomsticks.

There is no reason at all to have a bad feeling, and yet...

It came over you like a wave the moment you woke up. Your room had already been almost unbearably warm, light spilling through the crack in the curtains, and a distant, suspicious buzzing that you suspected must be a bug that had come in through the open window in the night, but you'd had no time to dwell on it.

The feeling had crashed into you, dark and sickly. It had stayed, even through a chilly shower and a round of French toast for breakfast, settling over you like a blanket made of stone. It was heavy, and you hated it.

You hadn't felt this way in years.

Aunt Ros had noted it the moment you got into work, sneaking through the back door with a face like thunder. If there is anything anyone knows about you, it is this ━ you have a concerningly happy disposition. In spite of everything you endured in your youth, or perhaps because of it, you’ve been known to flutter about the pub as if you’re living on a cloud, able to draw a smile out of even the grumpiest patron.

Your past is a bleak stain on your life, and it is something you know you’ll never be able to scrub clean. Nor would you want to. No matter the sins of the people you once loved, or the graves where you’ve laid the remains of your heart, you cannot erase them. It would be such an injustice.

The world is a shitty enough place, anyway, but that doesn’t mean you have to be.

Today, though, it seems the world has got its grubby hands all over you, because it feels utterly impossible to shift this mood. Aunt Ros had frowned at you the moment you stepped into the back room. She’d tutted before you’d even had the chance to hang your bag on the hook, squinting over the thick frame of her glasses.

“Did a gnome manage to get into your greenhouse again, or is somebody dead?”

You’d huffed at her. “Neither.” You hadn’t had a stray gnome in your greenhouse for two years, and the perimeter spell you’d put on it would fry the little bastards if they dared to try. And as far as you’re aware, nobody is dead. Nobody new, anyway.

Your heart had twinged a little, the way it always does when you think of your old friends.

“Haven’t read the paper this morning, yet, then?” Aunt Ros had looked away from you, her voice taking on a peculiarly high pitch. She’d begun to fuss with a stack of unwashed glasses from the night before, drawing out her wand to cast a spell to start the washing-up.

You’d paused. Alarm bells began to ring in your mind. “What’s happened, Aunt Ros?”

“Better see for yourself, love.”

You’d skirted around her and headed into the office. A copy of today’s Daily Prophet had laid open on her desk. The usual mess of paperwork had been shoved aside, and the headline had glared up at you in stark black and white.

SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN!

The floor had suddenly felt horribly unsteady beneath your feet. Your hand darted out to grip the edge of the desk, and you’d found yourself thanking every deity you could name that you’d come into the pub through the back door today.

You’re certain every single one of the patrons huddled in the next room wouldn’t hesitate to stare at you. Or worse, want to talk about it.

As if you have anything left to say that hasn’t already been said a hundred times over.

Your ex-fiance’s mugshot graces the front page. It’s a recent one, clearly, and you’d swallow back the bile that rises in your throat at the sight of him.

“You should go home, love.” Aunt Ros had followed you into the office. “Take the day off.”

There’d been little point in arguing. Madam Rosmerta’s stubbornness is unrivalled, she’d been the landlady of the Three Broomsticks for at least a decade now, and besides, there’s very little to say. Her gaze had been dark and filled with pity, but an edge of vitriol had crept in when she glanced at Sirius Black’s picture.

Her feelings about your ex are clear. Exceedingly so. You’re the only one who ever believed his innocence, and everyone knows that.

So you’d folded up the newspaper and tucked it beneath your arm, retrieved your bag from the hook and retreated through the back door without argument. Now you keep your head down as you weave through Hogsmeade’s narrow streets on the way back to your little cottage. The sun beats down against the back of your neck. You swear you can hear people whispering as you pass by.

The sight of your garden, with its neat little rows of marigolds and pink roses and tufts of lavender waving in the warm breeze, offers more relief than you thought was possible.

Flowers have always had that effect on you. Even during the darkest days of the war, even when the aftermath of it had seemed so impossibly bleak, sinking your hands into cool pots of soil had eased your aching soul.

There’s just something about the life of it all. How, even in the depths of winter, you know that spring will come again. You know the buds will bloom anew. You know that, every year, dead things come back to life.

Upon reaching the garden gate, with its ever-creaking hinge and rusting iron handle, you cannot help but pause. The front door catches your eye, but for once it isn’t the pretty blue paint you notice, or the bright hanging baskets of geraniums on either side of the door.

The door is hanging slightly ajar. The paint is chipped around the broken lock, which was certainly not broken when you left for work an hour ago.

Not again.

You thought you’d experienced the last of the break-ins years ago. They used to be a regular thing, back when the war first ended. So-called friends of the Potters wielding their righteousness like a blade, even though you’d barely spoken two words to these people at school. Even though not a single one of them could name Lily’s favourite colour, or recalled the name of James’ owl.

Hypocrites, all of them. Drunk on power and freedom, the freedom that your friends had sacrificed themselves to gain.

They would break in and curse you, hating you for defending Sirius so staunchly, but how could you not? How could you ever live with yourself if you hadn’t?

You’d known him. Known Sirius as well as your own mind. Trusted him with your life, your heart, and how could anyone claim he’d done it? How could anyone believe it?

The aurors had been no help at all. You were an irritation to them, with your constant campaigning for more evidence, for a fair trial, for anything. You were lucky to get them even to file a report about the break-ins, let alone investigate. That’s part of why you had to move, at least in the beginning.

Living in the shadow of the school hadn’t done you any good, either. All those memories.

All those ghosts.

You draw your wand and push the door open, stepping cautiously over the threshold. You’d been a lot softer back then, sweeter than honey and freshly-bruised by the world.

That sweetness is still inside you. In every smile and chiming laugh, in the way you carry yourself, in the petals pressed against your fingers and the love you hold for the people you’ve lost. It’s still there, undeniably.

But these days, you’ve got a little more sting, too.

“If you’re not supposed to be here, I’m going to give you five seconds to leave through the back door!” Your warning carries through the corridors of your seemingly empty house, and as the seconds pass, the tension in your shoulders starts to ease, but then━

A scuffling noise at the back of the house. Near the kitchen, you think. A clattering sound, as if somebody dropped something.

You don’t hesitate for a moment longer.

Wand held tight in your grip, you charge through to the kitchen, a jinx settled on the tip of your tongue as you round the corner, but the sight you find causes your feet to come screeching to a halt in the doorway.

There’s a man in the middle of your kitchen.

Now this alone wouldn’t be so alarming, if you had a brother or a boyfriend or if, perhaps, Remus had bothered to reply to any of your letters in the last decade-or-so. but none of those things are true.

And this man, this man you recognise.

The years have changed him. He’s more than a decade older than last you saw him, though aged immeasurably by his time in captivity, with dark hair hanging in limp, bedraggled strands just above his shoulders. Ragged prison garb sits loosely on his frame, torn at the edges and smeared with dirt in places.

There’s a manic look in his eye. Bright and stormy and mad, which is so familiar that your heart stumbles inside your chest the way it did when you were young. He looks just like he did at seventeen and McGonagall would catch them in the kitchens after curfew.

That boyish innocence paired with the haunted look in his eyes is like a punch to the gut.

A dish lies in shattered pieces on your kitchen floor, and it takes longer than you’d like for your brain to kick back into gear, but when it does, all you can manage is a peculiar, choked sound.

There is an escaped convict in your kitchen, after all. Even if he happens to be your ex.

“Sirius? What the fuck?”

#sirius black x reader #sirius black fanfic #sirius black fanfiction #marauders era fanfic #marauders imagine #sirius black imagine #* chapter update.

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clairdelunelove · 1 year

Text

dry the rain

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

genre: fluff! (rainy day drabble)

warnings: slightly suggestive, cursing, awkward!ghost

synopsis: getting caught up in the rain during a mission is pretty miserable. but ghost makes it his goal to keep you dry and warm– even if it includes shedding off a layer!

a.n. I've been pushing myself to write more and I had a small idea come to mind since it's been raining a lot recently! personally, I imagine him in his 'jawbone' outfit in this one! stay safe, cuties! and if you wish to show more support here's my kofi! <3

thinking about ghost's inner dilemma when the weather gets colder and he realizes that he'd offer anything to you– including his clothes.

missions in the rain were, in many cases, the absolute worst. unbearably muddy terrain caused the task force to reroute several times, delaying the overall pick-up time, and he was essentially losing his patience over the whole ordeal. he still had inventory to check, weapons to reload, and strategies to draft. too much on the agenda; too little time. a huff leaves his lips as he hankers down in a rather secluded spot. there aren’t too many recruits flocking around him in this area since they’re preoccupied with shielding away from the incessant rainstorm. many of them crowd around large trees to find cover under the broad leaves. some were huddling to retain warmth because the onslaught of rain meant that a frigid breeze accompanied it. but he settles in the outskirts and it's tolerable. he’s adapted to shouldering the storm and chilliness. though, he does admit that the downpour was intense and his drenched balaclava was a consequence of that. it was so damp and sodden that it clung uncomfortably to the contours of his face. his hand claws at the front of his mask to ease the irritating feeling.

ghost who overhears your quiet sniffling despite your efforts of muffling the noise. it’s so hushed that he barely recognizes it over the harsh thundering of rain but his ears perk at the typical sound. and sure, he distinctly recalls that this is probably your first experience with such severe weather since you were belatedly tossed into this group but it’s a run-of-the-mill incident. technically, it’s not his problem. the icy wind is numbing enough to discern that a person is bound to experience some of the symptoms that coexist with this type of extreme weather. it’s only natural– nothing to fret over. yet, his head turns in your direction before logic can kick in.

ghost who stiffly asks, “you cold?” like his eyes don’t frantically scan your face for any signs of discomfort. he’d already deduced your current state; spotting the blueish tint creeping up on the edge of your lips and how your eyes appear hazy. he shoves himself into your proximity and at this angle his physique engulfs you. his gloved hand reaches to push the hood of his khaki poncho down so he can properly assess your condition and at this moment he’s unbothered by how sopping wet his mask is. or how intense the rain is. doesn’t care about it anyway– just intends on helping you. with rain droplets pouring down your face, you look like a hollow version of yourself. vaguely perceives the nauseating tug in his chest when you manage a bleak smile and joke, “was unprepared for this since I didn’t know it’d be raining cats and dogs.”

ghost who knowingly shakes his head at your banter but still indulges you by murmuring, “is that how the sayin’ goes?” because he fancies the way your lips curl into a lopsided grin. thunder rumbles in the distance and the cozy moment is partially interrupted. ghost notices that your shoulders tense at the occasional roar and you absentmindedly hum in response to his question. you have the best intentions but it’s too late because he’s uttering a curse as your teeth chatter from the blitz of a strong gust of wind that seeps through your layers of clothing.

ghost who silently begins to shed off his poncho; his only layer of rain-resistant clothing. doesn’t mull over the consequences of catching a cold or worse– never even considers it. he’s prepared to sacrifice for you. “oh,” he hears your surprised gasp and sees how quickly your hands outstretch to ward off his offering, “you need it more than I do, lieutenant. thank you though.” and there’s that sheepish smile on your face again. the flicker of your eyes informs him that you’re embarrassed for needing extra support. for being human. and he’ll never quite understand how genuinely selfless you are. the trait is synonymous to you and a source of strength that is entirely yours to keep. to thrive off of. “s’just take it, pup,” his voice rumbles as profound as a pass of thunder, “you’re cold.”

ghost who jabs, “don’t fancy carryin’ ya when you get fuckin’ hypothermia,” and then adds under his breath, “don’t want to risk it. ‘specially not with you.” the first half is a total lie and it’s obvious by how he shifts when he says it. he’d carry you to the ends of the earth. however, the second half of his comment is drowned out by the ample rainfall. and you never do hear those words that would’ve kept you warm for eternity but you’re given the next best circumstance when he crouches closer to you. the pouches of his tactical vest, housing grenades or ammunition, dig into your chest and it’s supposed to be uncomfortable if it wasn’t for the gentle way ghost drapes the large garment over your shoulders.

ghost who takes it upon himself to secure the poncho’s hood over your head so it rests snugly under your chin. you’re still shivering, hot puffs of air escape your lips, but the function of the extra layer slowly warms you up. his gaze on you is burning, “you don’t ever have to pretend,” and then murmurs, “not with me. not ever.” the fabric does its job immediately and shields you from the onslaught of rain. that isn’t the issue he’s concerned about, however.

ghost who, when he pulls away, sucks in a shaky breath because the view that greets him will frequent his dreams. he’s certain of it. his touch accidentally dips down to the slope of your collarbones and he’s directly reminded that you’re wearing his poncho. his clothes. and it drapes over your body so alluringly. dips and presses into every curve of your body. possessiveness creeps up on him like a threatened animal, baring sharp canines and all. your prying eyes don’t aid in the situation either. raking up his exposed forearms, sifting and inquisitive about the tattoos that swirl in a manic pattern. a rare strip of his skin that graces your vision.

ghost who awkwardly indicates how the fabric loosely hangs off your upper torso since it’s made for his broader physique, “looks ridiculous,” but he’s tugging the hood of the poncho over your eyes. can’t physically operate when he watches how your dewy lashes flutter when he allows his fingers to graze over your shoulders and pat down the cloth for wrinkles. his actions are meant to be mindless, calculative, and intended to take his mind off of you. yet, he can’t– and doesn’t wish to. desires to douse himself in the ethereal glow you embody. the wide, grateful glint in your gaze that brands him vulnerable and when you smile up at him he feels the clouds break. lets the sun warm his skin.

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon riley #call of duty x reader #call of duty #simon riley imagine #cod x reader #simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost riley drabble #ghost x you #ghost x y/n

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mrsbuckybarnes1917 · 4 months

Text

← Smutlet masterlist

18+ Pining

Bucky wasn’t sure if it was his memory or just his imagination, but he always found you intriguing. He was sure that you would be able to entertain him for hours on end, even though the chances that you would talk to him were pretty bleak. Steve was the only one who had noticed and Bucky was glad that he had kept his comments to himself, even when he had caught Bucky’s blue eyes constantly searching for your presence, lingering over you when he finally found you.

But of late, you had been invading his mind more often than not. You occupied his waking thoughts and penetrated his dreams. The first time you had visited his dreams, it had been relatively innocent, standing in front of him in a yellow summer dress accentuating your perfectly toned figure. He had woken with a gasp and his cock pointing to the ceiling. Why did it have to be you?

Bucky had seen you working out with the other SHIELD agents, training, lifting, sparring with your colleagues. Your movements were akin to water, the fluidity with which you ducked and weaved, he wondered how you would move on top of him. How he longed to know what he would find under that tiny tank top you sported, under the lycra material which clung to your hips and thighs.

Since he had found you in the gym alone, training alone, he had started avoiding those times, instead he chose to use it in the wee hours of the morning or late into the night. Anything to try and shake you from his consciousness and evict you from his lucid dreams. A part of him wanted to hate you, ever since he had met you, a feeling of loneliness snaked into his heart, how it lingered under his skin. Every thought of you, every dream, he knew one day he wouldn’t be able to stop himself, and then there would be no going back.

Bucky growled quietly, but not quietly enough for him to go completely unnoticed. Several agents, including Steve, turned to glance at him. Steve shot him a warning glance but Bucky only scowled back at him. Of all the briefings Steve had forced him to attend, why did it have to be you leading it? The way you stood in the spotlight, you were literally shining. Your voice was as sweet as nectar, your skin glowed under the fluorescent beams of the meeting room and your smile dazzled everyone in the room into an enchanted silence. Why was the strain in his pants becoming so unbearable?

He was lucky his services weren’t required and he was the first to leave the meeting room, a scowl etched across his features and briefing file pressed against his crotch. He was so intent on his departure, that he missed the way Steve rolled his eyes at him and the look of shock and disappointment on your face.

Once locked in the safety of his quarters, Bucky slid his right arm under his shirt, fingertips grazing his lower abdomen. He hesitated for a few moments before pushing his hand into his pants and curling his digits around his sizable length. He was free to let out the groan of frustration. His tongue moistened the corners of his mouth, held gently between his teeth as he concentrated on freeing his cock from its restraints. He was almost shocked by the clear viscous fluid that was coating the swollen head of his cock. Almost. His lips turned up at the edges as he took his thumb and smeared the precum over his growing length.

“Fuck,” he grunted, finding a little relief to the tension that had been building inside him. He palmed himself roughly, closing his eyes, trying to imagine that it's your silky walls sheathing his member, rather than the reality of his calloused hand pumping it over and over. He pushed his pants down over his knees with his vibranium hand, letting him spread his legs. Better access to himself as he swiped through memories of you in his mind. Flicking from that time you had smiled at him, another when your fingers had brushed his when Steve had asked you to hand him a mission brief, that time he had watched your sparring session. That was it, that was the one!

The way you pinned your opponent to the ground. He was twice your size. You held his hands down and Bucky’s cock had twitched when he saw how your thighs gripped his. His insides burning with envy, he wanted to know how you felt and now he used that recollection to fabricate his fantasy. Bucky's restraint was wavering, his bottom lip buried between his teeth as stifled moans emanated from his mouth.

He could practically see your perky rounded breasts floating in front of him. What he wouldn't give to reach out and knead them in his palms, to taste your nipples, to have you pressed against his chest. Bucky groaned, thrusting his hips upwards into his hand, if only it was you he was pushing up into. He imagined the whimpers and moans you would make as he hit all the right places. Oh, to hear his name tumble from your lips!

Bucky's breaths were shallow now, panting furiously as his orgasm approached. He had lost all his inhibitions, becoming more vocal about his desires.

“Oh fuck, Doll, just like that. Look how beautiful you are. I love you like this.”

It was the image of your eyes, the thought of looking into them, it sent him over the edge. His hand pumping, chest heaving and eyes squeezed shut as the all too familiar coil in his center snapped, sending him reeling. His movements slowed, sloppier than they had been as his body relaxed and spurts of milky white elixir erupted from his cock and painted his chiseled abs.

Bucky took a few moments to regain his composure, a feeling of unease settling in his chest. Maybe one day you wouldn't be just a fantasy.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fan fiction #skittle's smutlets

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bradshawsbitch · 3 months

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𝐚 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥 | 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

hello, all. this came out of my hands as i was sat on the train home from uni. is this my love letter to bradley, and to this fandom? maybe so. it's not good, but it's what came out 🖤

authors note: i do not consent to having my work distributed anywhere other than on my blog. i do not consent to having it translated nor altered in any way.

tagging people i love and cherish deeply from this fandom: @lewmagoo @roosterforme @hangmanssunnies @sebsxphia @theharddeck @rhettabbotts @hangmanapologist @sugarcoated-lame @bradshawsbaby and so many more. thank you so much for your love, your patience, and for your creativity - you're all incredible!

“hi…”

silence. the long, dreadful silence filled the void that was an answering machine. it’s up to you to fill the silence… the void.

“i–” the sentence trails off, vocal chords failing to utter the sounds without a telling choke or break.

for all the good days, all the days you feel strong, you feel confident and like you’re able to do this - there are days like these. and they’re growing more frequent. for the days you help others, for the days you look out for the people you love, for Penny, for Mav, Amelia… Phoenix, even Jake… for all the times you tell yourself you can do this.

there are days when you can’t. days where… you don’t want to be strong. where the solemnity of a silent house caves in on you, the loudness of your thoughts ever more noticeable amongst a barren house. days like today.

you try again.

“i miss you, bradley,” you manage the words, but at his name– it all roars and tears through your chest. it hurts, it feels as if the very core of your soul is being teared at by dark vicious claws, scratching, breaking, wounding. it starts off as a violent, swift and sudden pain, like a whip lashing through your chest - before it dulls into an unbearable throbbing pain that pulses as your breaths shorten.

“i need you–” now, there really is no stopping the treacherous sobs, the soft wails or whimpers that you had kept close to your chest for so long. all the voicemails left before this one will surely feel hollowhearted. and it pains you to unburden yourself like this…

but it’s true. you need him, you miss him. miss the security he brings, the warmth and comfort, the laughter and the completely effortless and unconditional way he loves.

bradley is amber, he is the roaring warmth of a fireside in an otherwise cold and bleak environment. he is the gold of the morning sun, exciting and hopeful for what the day will bring. he is the orange and red glow of the growing dusk, soft, gentle and promising of a safe haven to lay your head to rest.

he is the person who sees you. hears you, feels you and touches you in every way those words can be interpreted. never have you felt able to just be as much as you do with him.

“please, i can’t– i can’t do this without you anymore,” you whimper softly into the void. his gentle timbre that greeted your voice message all too familiar to your ears.

and then, the realization, the overwhelming fact that you’ve been trying desperately to choke down ever since–

“i don’t want to do this without you anymore!”

this sentence is what finally makes the rubber band snap, viciously and harsh it scatters the beads you had tread so carefully onto it with the realization that you can’t do this. this sentence is a shameful one, one that is selfish and cruel and wholly unfair. because you said you would. said you could handle this. promised, wholeheartedly, that you would be alright.

those treacherous tears that wetted your cheeks burned furiously behind closed lids. closed lids behind which visions of bradley’s warm, broad chest invited you to rest upon, his very breaths and heartbeat enough to soothe and comfort.

what if you were to lose that? the pain of losing… your person, it felt almost like it was too much to bear. but was this… this preferable then? the agony of loneliness, of surviving, of getting by, without him? you weren’t all so sure anymore.

leaving this voice message was meaningless. it wouldn’t provide any comfort, wouldn’t make your thoughts un-fog nor solve the way your feelings battled and roared within you.

so you hung up.

it would surely get better tomorrow.

only, the tomorrows hadn’t been better. not for a while now. so, you let yourself cry. let yourself mourn, let yourself finally think the thoughts that scared you more than anything.

would you be alone?

how would you go on?

the thing about time, is that no matter what you do it can shape and form around you without your consent. what felt like an hour could be a second, and a second could stretch into eons of time. a vast timeless space. that’s how it felt, laying crumbled on the livingroom floor. it didn’t matter, not really. though, from the way you felt when you slumbered and woke sporadically, you may as well have been there for hours, days? no, surely not…

the vibration of your phone, usually unnoticeable rang through the entirety of the house like a gunshot. your body jolted and scrambled to pick up the almost dead phone. oh.

that face. it could bring tears to your eyes all over again.

“sugar?”

you bit your lip so hard you imagined it could start bleeding at any second. a harsh intake of air was the only thing you could muster up.

“oh, little love…” tears poured freely again. and you clutched your phone to your ear, curling in on yourself, as if his voice alone could be placed as a balm over your hurting soul.

“please, darling… can you talk to me?” bradley coaxed, his voice soft, gentle, but filled with a hint of fear.

“bradley,” was the whimpered reply he got, a reply that had bradley clutching at the khaki fabric over his chest.

“i’m here, sugar,” he murmured soothingly, eyes clenched shut momentarily at the hurt he heard in your voice.

“but you’re not!” you whimpered softly, selfishly. you knew it was. selfish. egotistical. you signed up for this.

“i know, darling. soon. i–” he cleared his throat “i’m coming home.” you knew he might be lying. might be trying, to the best of his might, to settle you. to soothe the eruption.

“will you?” your voice was weak, and suddenly you wondered if it hadn’t been days since you fell into a crumpled heap on the floor. how could you lose it like this?

“yes, darling,”

“do you promise?”

as the door swung open, the sound of booted steps reached your ears.

“i promise, little love” bradley murmured into your ear as his strong arms wrapped around your frame. as if it were nothing, bradley’s strong arms cradled you close to his chest as he lifted you into his lap on your shared sofa, tucking your face into his neck as you weeped.

“i’m here, dove.. it’s alright, i’m home. i’m not leaving,” your whole body sagged helplessly against his chest.

thump thump. thump thump. thump thump.

alive. breathing. speaking. touching. you whimpered softly and burrowed closer to what little of his tan skin was exposed to you, inhaling him.

“i’m sorry,” you sobbed, clutching at his uniform. at the very thing he was, he was not even yours. he was… the property of the government. he loved this, loved flying, you knew that.

“don’t you dare say that you are sorry for loving me, for missing me, for enduring loneliness that i could not comprehend navigating.” bradley’s voice was rough, gritted, his arms encircling your waist ever closer, as if holding you harder would keep you together.

“i love you,” he was desperate. desperate to have you know, to please not leave him here. he needed you too.

“bradley,” you sighed, your breath stuttering slightly as it was prone to do after crying, after an eruption of emotion.

“i’ve been offered a position.” he cut you off, his words caressing your neck as he burrowed his nose into your hair. furrowing your brows you only slowly let your fingers sneak into the soft curls on his hair, the softness of it a gentle reminder that he was real.

silence. another silence.

“i don’t want to leave.” he confessed. in that confession lay more weight than he let on. it was the confession of a man weary and tired, of a boy scared… scared to death of losing what he loved most dear.

“i don’t want you to leave,” your confession was filled with unsaid fears. anxieties and fears that had yet to come to pass, but that felt like they were on the precipice of becoming actualized.

“which is why i won’t. not anymore.” leaving the safe haven of bradley’s warm skin, your quizzical brow made him chuckle softly, those amber eyes of his glittering all too beautifully in the afternoon sun. his gentle touch on your cheek had your eyelashes fluttering shut momentarily, leaning into the palm that cradled it.

“i’ve been offered deputy chief of naval operations. i’ll be here, sugar. you’re going to get so sick of me,” bradley offered gently, now cradling your face in both of his palms, as if you were something precious he needed to hold with care.

“are– are you serious?”

“as a heart attack.” bradley promised solemnly as he placed soft, lazy kisses across your face, whispers of love caressing your wet skin.

“will you stay with me?” he knew. he was giving you an out, should you want it.

it was the furthest thing from what you wanted.

“always. you’ll be sick of me.” you smiled softly. bradley’s face lit up, that familiar rumble of a laughter bubbling in his chest.

“oh, little love, that is quite impossible.” he retorted softly, his lips gently caressing yours to seal the deal.

#i honestly don't know what this is here but here it is anyway #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #rooster x you #my writing

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blueparadis · 2 years

Text

❝IF ONLY I COULD❞ + KAVEH

+. CWs —» f-reader, s!her pronouns, m-masturbation, implied accidental voyeurism, subtle undertones of perv!kaveh & bottom-dom!kaveh, wet dreams, mention of al-haitham; word count — 0.8kish.

+. PRECIS —» Kaveh can’t help it, you are just too much for him and hence he decides to keep you off his mind.

+. NOTES —» phew! The way he has me in a chokehold. . . also I'm trying a new style of writing so feel free to send me kaveh thoughts:> you can read my works via NAVIGATION LINKS.

In his memory, Kaveh has always found her engaging as well as entertaining even if he had bleak chances of talking to her. It is true that he is often teased about her, especially by al-haitham, whenever he catches those cherry eyes lurking over her, looking for her.

But lately, she has been frequenting his mind more than before, more than in one way and all because of a lucid dream. The first time when he saw her in his dreams, in a white nightgown laughing before extending her arms towards him , he gasped and woke up from his sleep thinking why it had to be her?

And since then, he has been attracted towards her, romantically perhaps and hence he stopped visiting the library during her work shifts. He wanted to stay away from her, now more than ever since he hated the feeling of loneliness that lingered underneath his skin every time he dreamt of her, thought of her.

Yet here he was, submerged in her thoughts and far away from this world. Kaveh should not, he really should not since he knew that if he did this once there is no coming back.

Moreover, chances are there that she will be more vivid than before in his dreams, in his mind and every time she passes by Kaveh at the workplace. But now, it is too late to think of what might be the consequences of his thoughts. The strain in his pants has already become unbearable.

Kaveh slides his right arm under his vest grazing his lower belly thinking for the last time, but eventually, his arm slipped into his pants, his fingers clamping around his length, and finally, a soft groan escaped from his mouth. The tip of his tongue kisses the corner of his lips as he takes out his cock that was coated with a warm white fluid, pre-cum.

For a moment, he is surprised, and then he is not. There is a crescent along his lips as he taps the tip of his cock, smearing the reddened end with its pre.

“Oh fuck. This feels so much better.”, he huffs looking over his shoulder to check if al-haitham is really asleep or not. Kaveh thinks he is sleeping, he better be otherwise the worst case that could happen is that she would not smile while looking at him but rather avoid him if there were any eye contact to happen henceforth.

He palms his member, a little harder this time trying to imagine how it would feel to be sheathed by her gummy walls. He starts to pump his cock as his pants were clustered at the bottom of the chair while his legs were trying to give space as much as possible by spreading them further.

He revisits his memories, memories where she and her beautiful body were in abundance: the first time you smiled at him, the accidental touch when she was handing him the papers he asked for, that late evening when he caught you bathing, naked and gleaming in the moonlight.

He picks the last one, where he watched you scrub yourself, your plush body, your boobs, and hardened nipples. He remembers how he felt his cock twitch at that moment and now he is pumping his cock rashly, the hem of his vest being buried in between his teeth, muffled moans escaping his mouth as the squelching noises become louder and louder.

His other hand gradually makes its way towards his nipples, pinching and circling around them thinking of her lips on his. “Oh fuck.”, he hisses as his toes curl, his hips buck up with a force as he thinks how euphoric would it be to have her soft calloused hands on his cock, to have her warm lips in his, to have her boobs pressed against his bare chest, pronounced nipples grazing against each other while Kaveh’s cock is hitting her sweet spot with precision and all he could hear is the blend of desperate moans, of his and her.

He squeezes his eyes shut as his hands move up and down his swollen cock, hitting his girth with calculated thrusts. He paces up as he feels his orgasm approaching, huffing and panting, not caring how vocal he has become until the coil at the core of his flat belly snaps making him dizzy, his hand movements sloppy, and his inner thighs closing in slowly.

Kaveh’s chest rises up and down frantically as he finally opens his eyes watching the spurs of milky white fluid all over the floor and his study desk. A heavy sigh leaves his body as his breathing normalizes.

“If only I could tell her . . .”, he mumbles before closing his eyes and thinking of you, again. He takes a few moments to relax before cleaning the mess.

—

@tokyometronetwork

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simpingforstardew · 20 days

Text

250 feet below

pairing: sdv sebastian x reader

synopsis: you were sick of living in such a bleak city, living such a bleak life; so, too, was sebastian. a drabble based off a vivid dream i had recently.

warnings: angst. profane language. allusion to suicide / sucidial ideation. please stay safe. ♡

a/n: this occurs pre-canon. i liked the idea of the farmer having already met a villiager of pelican town during their life in Zuzu city... something something red string of fate.

word count: 1.3k

Zuzu isn’t a city where people live. Millions toil tirelessly, burdened by exorbitant rents and the weight of overpriced necessities. But in all your years of life, you can’t recall the last time you saw a denizen of Zuzu laugh, or create art, or spread kindness. In fact, you can confidently say that not one of the 8.3 million souls that surround you in this city is truly alive.

In your youth, you navigated the city’s labyrinthine alleys, searching for signs of life—a spontaneous burst of laughter, a splash of colour on a drab wall, a moment of genuine connection between strangers. All you found were weary faces, the heavy silence of resignation, and a pervasive sense of disillusionment. It’s as if the pulse of vitality has been suffocated by the corporate grind.

But now, you walk with intention as the cold chill of the night air settles deep into your bones. Night has descended like a heavy cloak, shrouding the landscape in a veil of darkness. Above, the moon rises like a sentinel amidst a sea of shimmering stars, their watchful gaze seeming to follow your every step through the dense forest on the edge of Zuzu. Amid this celestial spectacle, the forest comes alive with nocturnal symphonies—the hoots of owls echoing through the dense canopy, while the occasional rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs beneath your hiking boots punctuate the stillness. Each step forward is a battle against exhaustion and fatigue, blisters forming on your feet from hours of relentless trekking. Hunger gnaws at your stomach, a constant companion on this solitary journey through the darkness.

Your favourite hoodie drapes over your shoulders, a gift from an old friend whose name now eludes you. Your backpack, light and inconsequential, occasionally slips from your shoulder as you trudge forward. Ahead looms your final destination: a concrete suspension bridge, a vast monumental structure steeped in the history of your home town—a history you always wanted to learn. Too late now, you think.

As you make your way across the bridge, your gaze falls upon a figure perched on its rail, dwarfed by the towering cityscape beyond. The river below churns restlessly as they gaze pointedly into the water, the distant hum of passing cars blending with the rhythmic crash of waves 250 feet below.

“Don’t,” the stranger’s voice, firm and resolute, cuts through the night as you approach. They make no attempt to turn towards you; instead, he takes a final drag of his cigarette and drops the rest in the river beneath.

“…Don’t what?” you respond, pausing in your steps. The stranger chews his lips, his grip on the railing firm. The silence is unbearable.

“Get to know me, ask questions, stop me. Just... don’t bother trying anything.”

“Oh, I… wasn’t planning on it,” you reply, your tone casual as you shrug off your bag, letting it fall to the cold concrete below.

A shaky exhale escapes the stranger’s lips; you watch the mist rise into the cold air in the moonlight. Leaning back against the bridge’s railing, the stranger’s eyes meet yours, searching for something you can’t quite decipher. There’s a vulnerability in their gaze, a flicker of uncertainty that belies the firmness of their earlier words.

You sit in silence for a few minutes, and take the opportunity to ease the remaining tension out of your hands and arms, stretching your fingers until the joints no longer ache. The stranger seems content enough to let you have your quiet, though you catch him watching you from the corner of his eye occasionally.

“Want a snack?” you offer, pulling out a half-eaten family-pack of cookies from your bag.

The stranger’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Wh— No, I… Are you serious right now?”

“Extremely,” you say, biting into a cookie before extending the pack towards the stranger, “You’ve never thought about your last meal before? Always thought mine would be an actual meal… but cookies aren’t that bad, I guess.”

As you speak, you can’t help but notice the tension in the stranger’s posture. Their grip on the railing doesn’t loosen, although they do tentatively accept a cookie from the pack.

“Did my mom send you to get me or something?” he sniffs, breaking you out of your daze; his voice tired and hoarse. His suspicion should bother you, but at this point you’re far too tired to feel much of anything.

“No dude, I told you— I’m just waiting for my turn.” The motor traffic behind you continues to speed by, radios and horns blaring in a Dopplerian cacophony. Although their headlights silhouette your form, the man beside you is perfectly illuminated, his face stark against the darkness. Behind him, the full moon casts a halo around his face.

He is your age, if not a bit younger. His exhaustion is evident in bloodshot eyes, monolid and green; his sunken cheeks exaggerate the lifelessness of his pale skin.

You’re the first to break eye-contact, letting out a soft chuckle as you fetch your phone from your pockets, “Just a coincidence, I guess.”

He looks at you with a curious stare, like a cat studying a moving shadow. No one in this city has ever looked out for him the same way you are; It’s peculiar how alone one can be surrounded by as many people as Zuzu city contains.

Your earphones are now plugged in; and lost in your melody of favourite song, you can’t see the awe of his gaze. Moments pass in this newfound comfort— be it from mutual understanding, or a fear of disruption— before you turn to face the stranger once more.

“Did you wanna listen with me? Just for a song or two.” You look towards him as you sit down on the bridge, offering up your left earphone.

You aren’t naive, you recognize what you’re doing. Hell, you’ve been doing it your entire life. You’re stalling. Desperately finding excuses to delay what you fear will be the inevitable: one way or another, the stranger will leave. You’ll be alone again.

But right now you’re not alone, and that’s good enough.

The stranger finally swings his legs over the rail of the bridge, and plants his feet firmly on the concrete of the superstructure. He sits besides you, timidly puts an earphone in his left ear, and cries.

As the minutes stretch into hours, the initial tension between you and the stranger dissolves into a shared silence, punctuated only by the soft strains of music. The reasons for your presence on the bridge fade into obscurity, replaced by a sense of companionship born from the serendipity of the moment. With each passing song, the darkness of the night gradually gives way to the gentle hues of dawn.

Neither of you notice the transition, until your phone dies.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?” The stranger’s voice wavers, a fragile whisper amidst the fading light. You turn to him, a smile softening your features, before rising with a languid stretch.

“Stranger things have happened. Why wouldn’t our paths cross again?” Your words carry a gentle reassurance as you gather your belongings, mentally preparing for another day at the JojaCo. office.

“Well, I mean… I’m moving soon, somewhere out of Zuzu— My mom is probably packing up all my shit right now so we can move in with her new boyfriend.” Weariness etches lines of exhaustion on the stranger’s face as he rubs sleep from his eyes.

“Still, we’ll see each other again one day,” you smile, shielding your eyes from the rising sunlight, “I just know it.”

#sdv #sdv x reader #stardew valley #stardew valley x reader #sdv sebastian #sdv sebastian x reader #sdv sebastian x farmer #stardew valley fanfic #sdv sebastian x y/n #sdv sebastian x you #sdv fanfic #sdv sebastian fanfic #stardew valley sebastian #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #fanfic #fanfiction

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cuppajj · 6 hours

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out of curiosity, what does saint vanilla do when he finally corners and grabs a cookie? like does he just put a hand in the middle of their face or does he actually hug to "comfort" them (probably also keep them still) as they're "purified"?

It begins with the warmth of his hug, like an old friend that has missed you for so long. The soft and silky robes remind you of an inescapable web that you struggle within. He tells you that it’s okay to be afraid, the bleakness of your soul has gone so long without seeing the light, but that’s why he’s here to help you.

Your skin starts to sting, spreading from his palms to everywhere on your body. It turns from an itchy feeling to a burning sensation, hot and searing and so, so painful that it forces you into a fit of painful screams and cries. Saint Vanilla’s voice remains level as he comforts you through it; you can hear him excited for you, proud of you even; he’s thanking you for seeing the light, and you can feel his tears soaking into your skin.

You begin to feel light as the pain becomes unbearable. You see your skin beginning to dissolve like paper in water, drifting away in tiny pieces which fade into glimmering stars.

You realize in your panicked stupor that the sparkles adrift in the air around the village where he’d found you aren’t mere magical decorations, but the remains of your friends and loved ones who met the same fate.

It’s too late for you to escape, as the weightlessness has consumed your lower body, and the beast clutches you tighter. In your final moments, the agonizing pain fades to a numbness, enough time to allow you to emit one more desperate wail to the Saint. He simply smiles as the last of your being dissolves and joins the starry canvas.

Then, the Beast of Penance picks up his orchid staff. He could’ve used it to deliver you to salvation as well, but you were just one, not many; and you were the most afraid of all of them. Why, with his poisonously huge heart, would he not be by your side to comfort you?

#beast ancients au #Saint vanilla cookie #pure vanilla cookie #cjj arts #crk #crk au #cookie run kingdom au

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skayafair · 15 days

Text

Hell Circles

Alright time for a soul-crashing post!

When I saw Edwin curling down on the floor in that room in Hell, trying to be as quiet as possible and not even trying to run when Charles found him, my mind faltered.

We know Edwin escaped Hell. So why did he look like he gave up? He hasn't been there for as long as the first time, I think even with hell's no-time he should have been able to feel this.

I explained it to myself in 2 ways, they aren't mutually exclusive and are both pretty painful to think about.

It was just this devastating to end up in Hell for the second time, and Edwin clearly didn't expect for anyone to come for his rescue. So his resilience and resolve weren't as strong as the first time or, rather, he felt broken by this sudden developement and didn't manage to bounce back from it yet (again, it wasn't very long this time). The boiling point of "I WILL get out of here again, everything be damned" wasn't reached yet. (As you can clearly see, I have no doubts whatsoever that he WOULD HAVE done this eventually, just after much more trauma and suffering. I'm so glad Charles came before all that.)

This is a psychological cycle. I often go through a similar one so I couldn't help remembering it. When you run as fast as you can and try your best to no avail until you're out of all the resources to go on, and so you give up. Curl up in the corner and hope the outside world won't notice you, give you some respite. The future seems bleak or non-existent. You give. up. It won. And then over time the inner battery charges, or the desperation reaches its breaking point, so you grit your teeth and get up. And run and try again and again and again. "Impossible just means try again". I thought Edwin must have went through similar cycles time after time. The first time he was dragged into hell, then the second. After every couple of "deaths". The worst thing about it is that while real life has at least one escape (not recommended but as a last resort it's at least always there if everything becomes too unbearable), Edwin has none. His only choice is either to tremble in the corner forever (and who said the doll-spider won't notice him even so?) or to run and be torn to pieces. Forever is a very long time. Only with running there's still this very thin, very subtle hope to escape, so in a way this choice is unavoidable. Oh, right, Edwin actually has another possible escape - into madness can you tell I'm fond of loveraftian horror. Locking himself up in his own mind might help, although I'm not sure it would have been effective enough. And honestly I'm glad he wasn't this broken after all.

So yeah that was fun to realize :')

Also Edwin doesn't handle change well, as we know from Charles' words. How jarring (beside the obvious) was it to be tossed from one demon to another? I bet the "punishment" changed, too. It must have felt devastating to figure out the way of handling one and get more used to it, more mentally stable, however horrible it might be, - just to be thrown into a completely new situation.

Let's add insult to the injury, shall we? Look at the corridors Edwin was kept in. The greenish hue, the dim light that makes even the most spacious halls feel claustraphobic. It feels heavy, weights on your mind. There are no windows, no outside, forever. It's suffocating. This place is a pure torture on its own, even without demon doll head spiders.

All in all, I didn't like Edwin much when I first started watching, but after completing the series and rewatching on top of that, I admire him. To go through all these horrors and get out of them is worth that on its own. But Edwin retained his kindness, compassion, moral compass and a will to help others in need. He didn't grow callous, didn't lock himself away emotionally from the world fearing to be hurt again - at least not completely, not even close. I really didn't expect to come to respect and admire a teenage series character like that.

This show has a heart in it, it's living and beating and big and kind, and its characters reflect that in full.

#dead boy detectives #edwin payne

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manicrouge · 5 months

Text

Liar

[𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚁𝚞𝚜𝚜 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛]

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 29/12/23

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Keegan lies to you the night you meet yet you remain oblivious to it until you bring it up to him again.

[𝙲𝚠]: angst i guess but it's not that bad.

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 4,533

[𝙰/𝙽]: I had plans for this but I really don't have the motivation to finish it, but considering it's quite a few words I didn't want it to go to waste- there's no smut, apologies, but smut isn't really something I'm overly passionate about so I hope that this fluff is good enough to suffice !!

ENJOY !!

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

There's something about him and you're not sure if you should really speak on it because then, ultimately, your delusion is in the real world and not confined to your head. It's torture though, it really is, the constant headache of worrying about how you look and what you're doing when you're around him, and still, you can't seem to snap about it.

There's a limit to love, you've agreed to that inwardly. Some things you do in the name of love are okay: buying them something just because it reminds you of them, getting them something when they're too busy to get it for themselves, asking them out and asking them if they would like to accompany you on a date somewhere in the city.

That's normal for love, it something you imagine most people do.

But then there's your tricky little mind and it seems to kick and scream at the thought of doing something sane in the name of love. You don't want to do any of those things, you don't want to be nice. It's obvious, at least, you think it is.

He makes you a violent person.

Perhaps its because you want to show off, you want to him to see you and admire that you did everything he wants from you and much more. When you were just a rookie, you're quite sure you were close to being kicked out, being forced to resume life the way you had prior to them finding you on the side of the road after ODIN had been attacked.

The very thought, even to this day, makes you nauseous. Facing the unbearable heat, soldiers and starvation is a recipe for disaster, and after going without food for however long you did, you had sworn you weren't going to let anything compromise that. But things were overwhelming and you were essentially a burden during the first few months of your training; you couldn't do anything right.

But he saw you at your lowest, and he didn't let that happen. In fact, you're quite sure he saved you when you met that night.

'Crying won't get you anywhere, kid.'

If there was one thing about Keegan, he was absolutely right about everything. Including that.

Pushing your head up from out of your lap, you sniffled, rubbing your nose as you catch a set of blue eyes staring at you. He was unlike anyone you had ever seen before, a mask covering his features, beanie atop his head as he approaches you, kicking a stone beside you. You turn your head away from him and watch as the little rock rolls down the edge of the hill in the direction of the track.

'You were supposed to be asleep an hour ago,' he adds, taking a seat beside you. You keep your eyes trained on the direction the stone had slipped, keeping your arms wrapped around your knees before resting your chin upon them. 'You'd get into trouble if one of the superiors caught you outside.'

'I'm no good anyway,' you said, 'better going out this way than any other way.'

Your tone was bleak as you contemplated throwing yourself down the hill. It wouldn't have killed you, but it would free you from the shame of having to speak to the man sitting beside you. 'They're gonna get rid of me soon, throw me to the wolves.'

There wasn't a reply from the man sitting beside you for a while as he shifted where he was sitting. You hear the tear of velcro and finally decided to turn your head to see him holding a box of cigarettes in his hand.

'When I was first starting out,' he began, 'couldn't shoot a sniper for the fuckin' life of me,' he continued, plucking a cigarette from the carton. Bringing his hand up, he hooked his fingers under the edges of his mask, pulling it up, revealing his jaw and lips.

Much to your surprise, you spied black stubble around his mouth and trailing his jawline. Placing a cigarette between his lips, he grabbed the lighter from the box. Cupping his hand around his mouth, It took a moment, the item in his hand spluttering before eventually spitting a full enough flame for him to light his cigarette. 'I could shoot every other gun okayish, but I wasn't the asset they needed me to be.'

'Don't believe you,' you mumble, looking at the pattern on his mask. You recalled the white markings to belong to a particular unit that even the General had trouble addressing. They did their own thing, stayed out of everyone else's way. 'You're a Ghost, aren't you? Best of the best.'

You don't look at a Ghost unless they talk to you.

'The mask?' he asked, 'part of the branding, forget I have it on half the time,' he admits, taking a puff from his cigarette. 'Everyone has to start somewhere, kid.'

'I've been here for months and I'm still awful at everything,' you confessed, 'I can't shoot a gun for the fuckin' life of me; my aim is off and I can never seem to focus.'

'If you think about it too much, you'll struggle,' he said.

'A- And, I can't do close combat- I've been to the infirmary more times than I can count... whenever I go to the nurse now, she doesn't even speak to me,' you rambled, running your hand through your hair. Your throat starts to clog up as you continued to pour your heart out to the man sitting beside you. You couldn't really seem to help it; he was there, and from what you could tell, he wasn't discouraging your fury.

Rules had it that your hair was supposed to be slicked back out of your face and tied up, but after the day you had had, you couldn't muster the strength to keep it tied up. So, after you had had a shower, you kept it out to keep the dull ache in your head away for as long as you could.

You were surprised the man beside you hadn't said anything to you about it. Only, when it's out of your way, you found it easier to keep your hands from plucking and picking at your scalp whenever the anxiety got too much and you were scared you were going to drown in a well of your own tears.

'You're too stressed about everything,' he said, 'if you overthink it, like I said, you're gonna fuck it up. What's got you so stressed, kid?' he asked, looking at you. Your eyes water as you turn your head away from him, letting out a shaky exhale.

A better question would have been what wasn't stressing you out.

'Hey, don't shut down on me, tell me what's wrong... can't promise I'll be much help, but it's good to have someone to talk to,' he said, 'talk at me, tell me what's wrong,' he demanded, as though he was some form of saviour.

Only, in that moment, he was.

'They're gonna throw me out if I can't be what they want me to be,' you were much too choked up to fight against the urge of spilling your guts to the Ghost, your grip around your knees growing tighter as you began to shake. 'And I can't go back out there; if I go back out there, 'm gonna die, I know I am,' you sniffled, 'a- and I can't die, especially not out there with those monsters I can't but I'm going to if I don't get better but I don't think I can get better and- and—'

A firm hand was placed on your shoulder, his arm wrapping around you as he pulled you to his side.

You were startled at first, feeling his gloved hand on your shoulder, being pulled close enough for your senses to be flooded with his cologne. Ghost's weren't supposed to be like this, they were supposed to be aloof, transparent, careless. Yet, as he held you, you found your trembling nerves were soothed with his efforts.

The cigarette on his breath stained the moment, and when you opened your eyes, you found that he had tossed the cigarette down the same hill that the little rock he had kicked had rolled down, the red hue of the burning tip settling into the darkness while winking at you.

'You're not gonna get thrown out, kid,' he quietly said, 'it's been a tough change, I know it has been, but you can't let it get to you because, if you do, the stress is gonna kill you before anything beyond this base gets to you, hm?' he asked, looking at you.

You looked back at him, thinking back to that morning where you had pulled out a small clump of hair from the your head. You'd spent the next hour crying over it, and whittled yourself so far down that you'd convinced yourself you were going to die.

Everything lead to the thought of death with you. You couldn't escape it. The devil caged you and he trapped you, laughing in your face as he dangled your very livelihood before you.

And still you failed.

'How do you know that?' you asked, 'you think some sort of miracles going to happen?' you continued.

'I'm going to teach you,' he said, 'I'll give you a helping hand; wanna see if you're as useless as you're saying you are or if you're just overcomplicating everything.'

'You don't have the time to do that, at this point I'm gonna be 90 but the time I manage to land a hit on someone in training.'

'And how do you know that?' he asked, 'you my Captain?'

You stared at him, the sudden shift in his tone causing your face to heat up.

'You'd be wasting you time with me,' you said, shaking your head, attempting to pull away from him, all for his grip on you to tighten.

He wasn't going to let you pull away from him, especially while in the state you were in. You'd curse him if you didn't feel so secure in his arms, so, you simply give in to the urge of staying close to him, not allowing your ego to destroy the first ounce of comfort you had gotten since arriving on the base.

'Wasting time here with you now; could be in bed,' he stated simply, 'I'll speak to someone, get you put under my supervision until I'm sure you'll be fine returning to your brigade.'

'Are you allowed to do that?' you asked.

'Captains in your department barely look at me, kid,' he chuckled, ''scared I'm gonna bash the brains in with the butt of my gun or somethin'. They won't turn down my request- especially if you're as much as a burden as you're sayin' you are; they'd be happy to get you off their hands if that's the case, not that they'd refuse me in the first place.'

He spoke to you as though you were a friend, but you regarded his support as treating you most likely as a lesson; the men your department had little interest in showing a woman how to fight, perhaps that was why you were struggling so much. No one really wanted to give you the time of day, and in a path where it was either sink or swim, you found their actions were taxing.

It was blatant that the men you worked with had little interest in you, and you're clued up enough now to know that. Yet, deep down, you're sure you've always been conscious to their biases towards male soldiers, only, now, you say it without fear of being reprimanded for your supposed 'accusation'. They can't do shit to you anymore and you're thankful for it, because, in the end, if they even look in your direction, you'd have no issue bashing their brains in with the butt of the pistol in the holster on your thigh.

Recently, you find you've been going back to that night where you had been in tears, mostly while by yourself, whether it be at the base or elsewhere, you were focused on that pesky little memory which lead to your stomach pulsing in a sickly manner as you recall the feel of his hand resting on your shoulder and the smell of his cologne.

Little has changed- if anything.

Only, he's a little taller than he was when you first started training together. His height has him towering over you now, and you always laugh about it to yourself whenever your sparring with each other- especially when you're able to put him on his ass.

There's confusion surrounding the memory in your mind, you have mostly forgotten about it until one day, it reappeared. You're unsure what triggered the memories resurgence, and you review it with a sinful glint in your eyes, even with the lack of suggestiveness about the scene.

There's something there that makes you want to scream, that makes you want to cover the world in blood, and you have been fighting with yourself attempting to unwind the memory, unwrap the secrecy of its meaning which it is rejoicing in while you're suffering.

—

The next op leads you to No Mans Land, Elias has sent his sons there with the intent of helping you track down Ajax. You're familiar with the tactics and intent between sending his two boys out there, though none of you really comment or acknowledge the possibility of your squad growing with two members, and supposedly a dog. You're happy to do the work he assigned his boys with yourself; it would be nothing but a quick in and out, especially with the looming time between Ajax's kidnapping and where you find yourself right now.

It's been weeks and you're still no closer to getting him back and you find, while peering through your scope, searching for any sign of the Walker boys, you're gritting your teeth as you contemplate the damage it's doing to Keegan. Both of them are good friends, been together since day one.

But there's nothing you can do; one wrong move and Ajax will be gone forever, and you're not selfish enough to put the life of a friend on the line. You'd put yours on the line before you even dare to put someone else's out for your own greedy intent.

The Federation are like dogs, and as soon as they catch a whiff of Ghost blood, they'll have their feral little backs up, huffing, puffing and growing, impersonating that of a wolf, when, in reality, they're nothing of the sorts. Instead, the puny little pups who cower at the sight of their own shadow... or Rorke. But neither of them are very different from one another.

'You catch anything, kid?' Keegan calls through coms.

Looking down from your position, you catch the man standing below you, Merrick surveying the surrounding area as you hold your sniper up, keeping your eyes on the terrain surrounding you.

You're a fair distance away from where the Walker boys were sent by Elias, ensuring the area is clean for when they eventually make their way to the meet up spot.

'Negative,' you respond, pulling your scope away from your face, 'clear,' you say, 'they're all hauled up at the camp the Walker boys are goin' to- that's my bet anyway,' you say, hooking your arm through the strap on your sniper, carefully making your way down from the tree.

Setting on a curve in the tree, you look down at the ground, shuffling off while keeping hold of a branch. With a grunt, you push yourself off of it, landing on the ground with ease.

'Stalker-Six, this is Viking Actual, we are en route to the target location, how copy?' you perk your ears up, while you busy yourself with grabbing your canteen off of your belt, frowning when you're greeted with a distinct lightness. During the walk up to the scope point, you're quite sure you were only sipping at it. 'We are en route to target location location, how copy?'

A step closer to getting Ajax back.

Hooking you canteen back onto your vest, you lift your head to see Keegan holding his own out to you, 'you drink like it's goin' out of fuckin' fashion, kid,' he remarks, letting go of it as you grab it out of his hands. Unscrewing the lid, he watches you, 'just don't finish it all; can't drink any of the water around here and we don't know how long they're going to be.'

'Solid copy, viking,' Merrick responds, 'be advised, recent reports indicate a lot of enemy movement in that area. We're on a schedule here, so get that intel and get out fast,' he continues. Both you and Keegan listen, and you take two sips of water from his canteen with his narrowed gaze on you before relenting, giving him the bottle back. 'See?'

'Roger that.'

'You're the one with an empty canteen, princess,' he answers, snatching it off of you, putting it back onto his belt. 'We best continue to move up from this position; we're too far out to meet them,' he says, looking to Merrick who hums, 'we're clear to proceed—'

He's crudely cut off by a distant rumble, the shudder resulting in the wind picking up pace, a crows cried out in the distance.

The collateral damage done to the world since ODIN was ripped from the States has been catastrophic, and every now and again, you observe your surroundings with a reservation set for when you make it back to the base; you don't have time to contemplate and wallow in your sorrows, rather, you simply have to get on with it, just as Keegan does as he opens his mouth to speak again.

'Whole place is gonna be swallowed soon,' he sighs, turning to look down the path.

Merrick proceeds forward without another word, intent on keeping on the schedule he has planned out since hearing word from Elias requesting you're there to meet the boys for the information.

Keegan takes a small step before stopping looking over his shoulder at you, 'c'mon, kid, burning daylight,' he says, motioning his head in the direction of Merrick who has already began to trail the path down, 'and water too,' he chuckles, picking up the pace.

It takes a moment to realise why he's suddenly hot on his feet, his sudden shift in mood causing your heart to murmur as you finally see some form of happiness on his face.

You're a second away from smiling at him, and then his comment strikes you like a blunt blade and you grumble out a curse, following after the two men with a huffing breath and curse

—

'Stalker Six, we got something here, looks like they're digging through some sort of wreckage.'

After a few minutes of silence and trivesing through the remains of the wild life in the rotting area, you're greeted with the voice of the same Walker boy who has been doing all the talking.

You're familiar with his name, Hesh. Although, as you're walking beside Keegan, you find the name of the other one escapes you. It doesn't help that he certainly is not one for words.

The comment he makes has all three of you sharing a look, unable to muster any form of response. Despite the urge to speak, you remain quiet, watching as Merrick's brow furrows, rubbing his masked mouth with his hand. 'What do you mean? What kind of wreckage?'

It could be anything and you've learned, over the years, that nothing should surprise you anymore. Hell, even if aliens greet the remnants of Earth tomorrow, you're convinced you'll barely bat an eye to it; it's simply just another day on the job.

'Not sure. It's guarded, but we're gonna push through.'

It's good to know the boys share the same determination as their father, though, the mysterious wreckage works to cause your brow to wrinkle as you contemplate what exactly they're up to now. 'Do they ever have a fuckin' off day?' you ask.

'Negative,' Merrick retorts, 'enemy always has to be doin' something, was the same in the Second World War and it's the same in this one too. You let the enemy loose for a moment of shut eye, they'll dig your grave and put you in it by the time you wake up again,' he continues, his tone gruff as you watch his back.

It's difficult to miss the gunshots the further the Walker boys push into No Man's Land, and you find your hand hovering about the pistol in your holster just to make sure nothing and no one will pounce on you.

While proceeding to the meet up spot, you busy yourself with the thought of Merrick's words, while keeping a watchful eye out for any signs of moment. Nothing is going to get past you, and if it does, you're thankful you have the watchful eye of Keegan located at your side.

It's difficult to even think of him never being as capable as he is today, and when you glance at him, you find your mind falling back to the night once again.

There's something in your chest that flutters at the thought of his care towards you from the night you met all away to right in this moment; Keegan always has your back.

And you always have his... only because of his training, of course.

He catches your look almost immediately and you catch his face shifting beneath his mask.

'What?' he asks, 'something on my face?' he asks, clearly amused.

You say nothing for a moment, looking in Merrick's direction to see the man is a fair distance away from the pair of you.

'You remember how we met, right?' you ask, to which he nods his head, keeping his eyes surveying the area. 'When we met, you said you were a shit shot and—'

You stop when you catch Merrick looking at Keegan with a raised eyebrow. Typically, the man kept his nose out of the conversations the pair of you have; there's nothing in there for him to really understand, only bothering to join the debate when it is of importance.

In fact, he remarked that, before meeting you, Keegan was quiet- and he still is, in your humble opinion, yet, apparently his short and witty replies to your comments render all the Ghosts shocked.

The pair of them share a look, and you catch it. It's subtle, you'll give them that, but it's notable enough for you to let out a short laugh.

'What?' you slowly say.

Keegan takes a breath, turning his attention to you. He's grinning beneath the mask.

'You wanna know the truth?' he asks.

Your eyes narrow.

'What truth?'

'I lied to you when we first met,' he says.

It's as though a bullet is fired into your stomach as you look at the man in front of you. He's unmoved by his confession, carrying on as though he has said nothing to you.

'You lied to me? About what?' you ask.

Maybe it was about the fact that he really wanted to take you under his wing, maybe he was full of shit about that- what if it was a funny dare or something? You'd take the pistol out of the holster and blow your brains out if such is the case.

His calmness is insulting as he looks at you.

'Saying I was a shit shot, I'm a liar,' he says, and despite the match, you can see him smiling under it, 'was one of the best in my squad, that's how I got the attention of Elias in the first place.'

'W- Why would you lie about that?' you ask.

Your entire life seems to be a lie in a moment of overdramatic reflection.

'Because you looked like you needed someone to relate to,' he shrugs, as though it's something that means little. 'I didn't want to make you feel like you had no one there,' he says, 'the people in the squad you were in when I met were unforgiving to you, kid; they expected perfection from the minute you joined and you were capable of that because you need help and—'

'I needed you,' you state, not caring for any excuse he'd muster up.

Beneath his mask, you note the smile on his face as he nods his head.

'You said it yourself,' he chuckles.

'Didn't think you'd risk your own price to do somethin' nice,' Merrick butts in, 'suppose you did the right thing though, got one of the strongest fighters on our squad through a lie.'

Your cheeks redden at the compliment and you rub your face with your gloved hand.

'Was all worth it in the end,' Keegan shrugs.

As you push forward, per the command of Merrick, your heartbeat is ringing in your ears- it's pathetic really; you feel like a fucking high schooler as your thoughts are swarmed with the very thought that, even upon meeting you, he cared enough about you to lie to you.

You know him well enough to know that despite his quiet nature in the face of opposition and those who he doesn't know, he's a prideful man and he takes pride in his work and abilities. His confidence, while at times annoying, is something you wouldn't change in the world. His confidence keeps you alive and his confidence is the very reason you're standing beside him and fighting beside him.

After a while of silence, you look at him and nudge him with your elbow.

'Thanks for lying to me,' you say.

'You're welcome,' he answers, looking at you, 'all you needed to have was a little bit a of help- somethin' they weren't ever going to give you.'

'Why did you even approach me in the first place?'

He turns away from you for a moment, sucking in a breath. That glowing confidence seems to disappear for a moment, but after a brief second of collecting himself, he turns back to you.

'I thought you were pretty.'

You're winded, and not by the walk.

'I was a crying, snotty mess,' you blurt out, to which he rolls his eyes.

'I'd seen you around the base, and you only started crying when I starting talking to you properly. But, even if you're a crying snotty mess or not, it doesn't matter to me, kid,' he says, 'you looked pretty.'

You bite your lip, turning away from him. Unfortunately, you lack what he has in abundance. He doesn't say anything further as the you proceed to the meeting spot, instead, he slips his hand into yours, tightly squeezing it.

It's short and brief as he soon lets go at the sound of a barking dogs, although, before the pair of you jump back into action, you both offer. each other a knowing look as you prepare to paint the world red; you know his eyes are on you.

We'll talk about this later.

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perdvivly · 4 months

Text

A problem I see with online discourse again and again is that political boarders are legible factors in shaping cultural beliefs and completely hidden online.

A take I see online a lot—from Americans—is that the point of education is to act as an aid for entering the workforce. To me, this seems unbearably bleak. Maybe this is me simply not being able to hack it, but I do genuinely believe that if I were the sort of person who believed that humanistic learning was worthless I would probably have already killed myself. That is simply not a world I want to live in and luckily for me not a world that I think we do live in.

But it’s very easy for me to form the belief education is valuable even if it isn’t tied to productivity because I was shaped by cultural forces that valued education. Tangibly valued it. The Home-Scotland fee rate for 2023 entry to university is £1820, and that’s *if* you pay, you could apply to SAAS and just get free tuition. Google tells me that the average annual cost for university in America is $71,703 before aid and $28,037 after aid.

I live in a world where university tuition is about the cost of a car, Americans live in a world where university tuition wipes a family out financially. And then we talk online as though we were talking about the same thing when very clearly we are not.

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