#she’s MEANT to be like… a collector of information who can eventually be a really useful resource for the party to turn to for information | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nevertheless-moving · 4 years ago

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thanks again to @dykerory and @willowcrowned for this genius au. this is an incomplete collection of very specific set of headcanons/daydreams i had about a tangential version of your au that made me emotional in the middle of the woods. whenever you feel the time is right, i’m very eager to hear your og version on the ‘but obi-wan, tho!’, because i admittedly pushed this one’s resolution really far chronologically because i wanted batman to be involved.

continuation from here

note: my understanding of dcu is as sporadically informed as my understanding of the gffa.

newly graduated clark kent gets his first journalism job and starts settling more and more into the superman thing. the rest of the justice league has been around but his entrance onto the scene is the one that really inspires the various heroes to actually start coordinating to deal with the weirdness magnet that is dcu Earth. Clark is in his early 20s. Anakin is in his late 30s.

He’s been living on Earth, without the force, for nearly 2/3rds of his life. He has a close knit circle of friends who were kind to him even when they thought he was just a weird and crazy emo cult victim (the gradual increase of public encounters with aliens and superpowers sparks some awkward apologies, Anakin at 38 just waves his friends off, smiling and changing the subject, neither confirming nor denying his high school ramblings of spaceships and magic. it doesn’t really change anything).

He lives an hour’s drive from smallville, and runs a successful auto shop. people travel from pretty far to check out some of his more wild and specialized motorcycle abominations. makes enough money selling them to rich idiots to fund his free auto-class and auto-repair programs for impoverished communities.

It took a while but he eventually came around to the idea of helping people without physical force (ironically, this is happening around the same time Clark is coming to the realization that he can help people with physical force). Generally respected as a pillar of the community. When people start to realize how profoundly weird he is as a person in a number of inexplicable ways, someone will generally pull them aside and quietly whisper that he was in a cult at a child, no one really knows much about it except that it’s what inspired his anti-modern-slavery work, which is a little telling. Not married. Was in a long-term relationship for like 9 years. It didn’t end well but no-one knows the details.

Has several cats.

He’s- wistful but settled. He’s been through a lot of therapy. He meditates every morning and night, clearing his mind and examining his emotions in the way Obi-Wan taught him. He thinks Obi-Wan would be proud of him. He know his Mom would be.

Once he gets used to the idea, he never really stops loving the concept of learning just because. Duel bachelors degree in in african american history and american literature, masters in engineering, masters in astrophysics a phd in theoretical physics, another phd in medieval folklore. He’s worked a lot of jobs.

He was already pretty well versed in astronavigation back at the temple. Over the course of his time on earth, he gets more educated in earth astronomy and physics. With is increased knowledge, his theory for ‘how did i get here’ shifts from slight hyperdrive miscalculation, to big hyperdrive miscalculation, to some sort of hyperlane incident. he realizes that none of the stars he knows are familiar in any NASA database. He must be beyond wildspace, which helps him let go of the last bit of hurt he felt that Obi-Wan never found him.

Then he really learns physics- and- light doesn’t exactly work like that right? He thought it was just primitive Earth understanding but... he gets a phd more or less accidentally, trying and failing to disprove that the speed of life is constant constant.

Get’s another even more accidentally, explaining how alternate universes might form if we assume slightly different universal constants. He publishes his thesis anonymously around the same time metas are becoming a household term, and at least one science journalist speculates on it and how alternate universes might explain the increasing prevalence of wildly different superpowers. He doesn’t claim credit for the honorary diploma awarded to the unknown theorist- he doesn’t want to risk drawing any attention to him and by extension Clark, who’s alien differences are far more of the ‘military experiment interesting’ variety then his.

He stops tinkering with Clark’s ship. He finally gets how it works. Now that he realizes how FTL travel has to work in this universe, tinkering with the mechanical generation and harnessing of the massive quantities of energy necessary to do is startlingly familiar. But it doesn’t matter. No matter how far and fast he travels, he’s never going to be able to get back to the life he used to know.

Perhaps this is what being the chosen one actually means- he’s meant to live a life without the force, so that when he returns to it in death he’ll be able to somehow...educate? the force? maybe?

Ok, he’s not great at the metaphysical spiritual side of things, but he does accept that going back is out of his control, and he’s doing good here, even if it’s not galaxy altering.

Despite all the therapy, he never doubts that his early life was real. He has his saber and deep, deep down he can feel a spark in the kyber. He can’t do anything with it, but it’s there. There’s also pieces of the utter wreck that was his ship in the cellar, next to the sleek unblemished pod that Clark arrived in. Shortly before Clark becomes Superman, he asks for his help in melting down his old ship to make unearthly alloys.

He’s not surprised when Clark tells him he met a ‘real’ ‘magic’ user- it stands to reason that considering how relatively easy it is to convert energy from one form to another in this universe (Clark can fly), at least one kind would bend to sentient willpower in a similar way as the force does.

It’s still a little nervewracking showing his lightsaber to someone new for the first time in a decade. Zantana scrutinizes, bewildered.

“There is some sort of power locked within, but it’s unfamiliar to me,” she admits finally. “I could probably brute force it and force the energy to release itself, but it would likely destroy the container.” Anakin politely refuses.

Later, after the justice league’s formation, Clark mentions to J’onn that he has a friend who might be able to work on his ship. J’onn is extremely doubtful when he’s brought to a bizarre autoshop in the midwest that looks half-like a roadside attraction. Anakin sighs and digs his hands into the guts of the craft, muttering incomprehensibly and yelling at clark to melt down some pieces from the special scrap pile. A few days later he explains the patches he’s done to an impressed J’onn. When he asks how a human came to learn such things, he’s absently informed that,

“I used to work in a junkshop in Tatooine. All sorts of ship parts came through.”

“I’m unfamiliar with this world.”

“Tell you what, if you ever meet anyone who’s heard it of it, send them my way, and I’ll make your next repair free.”

“Oh! I’m afraid I don’t have any earth money...”

“Ugh, of course you don’t. it’s cool, capitalism sucks anyway and everyone’s entitled to free transportation, regardless of the area they happen to live. I do ask that if you can’t pay for the repairs that you spend an equivalent number of hours either attending one of my free auto classes, or volunteer at a community-led charities of your choice, here I’ll get you a pamphlet-”

So the Martian Manhunter becomes a weekly volunteer at a Midwestern Food Waste Reclamation Facility. J’onn J’onzz ends up becoming Anakin Skywalker’s friend well before he becomes comes truly comfortable around Kal-El. For a telepath, 39 year old Anakin’s Jedi orderly mind is a soothing relief.

(again, Anakin has spent far more time meditating on Earth then he ever did at the temple. Before all this, spent five years dutifully memorizing the Jedi way even as he struggled to live up it’s basic practices. For the first few years on earth, religiously practicing every meditation technique Obi-Wan ever taught him, thinking obsessively about the philosophies he never had time to really process, is just a desperate attempt to reconnect with the force, prove himself worthy of it. But even after he gives up on ever touching the force again, he keeps up the practice, he can’t release his emotions exactly, but he does find peace. The tendency to stop mid-rant to earnestly pronounce made up zen bullshit and then sit quietly for an hour before picking up on his tirade again as though there was no interruption is one of the things many things people find profoundly weird about him)

Kal-El doesn’t stop asking new aliens and dimensional travelers if they’ve ever heard of Coruscant, or Hutts, or the Jedi Order. Anakin might have given up, but Superman remembers his older brother scrubbing away his own tears to focus on helping Clark calm down enough to touch the floor again. The more the Kryptonian’s powers developed in alarming ways, the more Anakin set aside talk of missing his home galaxy. Anakin might have claimed it wasn’t like that, but Clark was determined to take every chance his increasingly weird life threw at him, no matter how vanishingly small.

In the middle of his first battle with Braniac, Clark starts insulting his incomplete database. The world collector pauses, demanding a more precise explanation. Clark complies, giving his best technical description of Coruscant’s cityscape, Tatooine’s binary star system, and so on. Braniac is so distracted that Superman recovers completely from his kryptonite poisoning and easily saves the day.

Neither the lantern corp or the denizens of the neutral zone have the answers. Superman doesn’t mention it it Anakin, but he never stops looking and listening.

“How did you even meet that guy?” Flash asks curiously after stopping to say hello on one of their after work laps of the country.

“Aliens among us support group,” Kal-El responds deadpan.

“Oh. Wait, what? He’s an alien? I thought he was from the future or something! You’re messing with me. No way that’s a thing. How many people are in the support group? This is a joke, right?”

“Sorry, most of them aren’t out and I don’t want to violate their privacy- a lot of them have high profile jobs. How do you think I met J’onn?”

“SUPES I’M FREAKING OUT RIGHT NOW YOU’VE GOTTA STOP”

Anakin is just sort of vaguely known by a solid chunk of the super community as ‘that one midwestern zen space mechanic’ and no one really questions it because everyone’s life has just gotten so goddamn weird. A few of them know he used to be a space wizard of some kind. Space wizards now being a regular hazard of life on earth, no one has reason to doubt this, and it’s as good an explanation as any for Anakin’s general vibe.

well. almost no one doubts this. Batman does not simply accept Anakin’s general bullshittery without carefully investigating and drawing his own conclusions. He does not share these with anyone.

But one day Clark- this is well after Superman became Kal-El to him, and not long after Kal-El tells him to call him Clark- comes up to him and asks for his help finding about an alternate universe. Knowing and dreading where this is going, Batman stalls,

“Shouldn’t you be asking one of the league members who regularly travels between universes?”

“I have, over the years,” Clark admits, awkwardly scuffing a boot on the floor of the cave. “But no one’s familiar with the exact one I’m looking for, and I thought since you’re a detective, and also one of the smartest people I know, you might be able to help me...”

“You’re an investigator yourself, and you can survive the vacuum of space,” Bruce shoots back flatly. “I’ve told you before Gotham is my priority, and this has ‘personal project’ all over it.”

“Come on, B, please,” Superman pleads, trailing Batman around the cave like an overgrown puppy. “In a few months it will have been 30 years! He’s my brother! Just let me see the research you’ve already done!”

“Who says I’ve already done research on your brother?”

Clark shoots him a look. And Bruce concedes the point with a grunt.

“I’ll need need to talk with him first,” Bruce finally concedes. “Bring him by the cave. Take the-”

“Take the tunnel entrance, I know, I know,” Clark agrees with a grin. “This doesn’t mean he’s authorized to know your secret identity. Thanks Bruce, this means a lot. I’ll ask him tomorrow about his schedule.”

Superman flies off and Batman scrubs his face with a gloved hand. After a moment he pulls up Anakin’s file on the main monitor. Bruce honestly respects and likes the man, as much as he respects and likes anyone who’s not family. He admires his sense his style, appreciates his upgrades to the batmobile, and is impressed by both this civil rights work and his additions to the scientific community.

That doesn’t mean he’s not convinced that Anakin’s brother is a bit insane. Again, he’s not judging! He dresses like a bat to scare random henchmen and beat up actual demigods! He wishes his rogues gallery was as capable of directing their ptsd-inspired delusions and staggering intellects towards such productive pursuits!

Bruce was already in quiet awe of the Kent’s ability to raise an outrageously superpowered being without blowing up a chunk of the country; their success in derailing a supervillian origin story just puts him over the edge. He stares at the three most likely profiles he’s pulled together. Christen Jones, from a negligent family, death certificate filled out suspicously sloppily at age 3. Earl Lucas, went missing at age 9, both parents dead in a violent assault. And Jake Hayden, who at age 5 disappeared along with the rest of his family in a seismic accident later linked to Luthercorp.

Anyone of them could have suffered on the streets for years and coped by establishing an elaborate fantasy world, aided by self medication, only to eventually be picked up by the Kent’s and start healing. Certainly Anakin had the intellect to create worlds in his mind. All his rogues were smart enough to create their own little realities in their heads- it doesn’t mean they were actually reachable.

Unfortunately Anakin had a Kryptonian younger brother who was determined to actually find the space wizard knight homeworld, even as the 'Jedi’ in question had slowly moved away his reliance on the delusion as an adult. Batman really didn’t see any way bringing up his conclusions to Anakin or Clark could possibly be helpful, and so many alien allies had a ‘If you find about the Jedi please contact Kal-El of Krypton on Earth’ pamphlet that it would be excruciatingly awkward to try and discretely correct anyone.

Bruce was not looking forward to this conversation.

#star wars #star wars au #dc #crossover #batman #anakin skywalker #corn boy anakin au

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leahseclipse · 5 years ago

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Daily surprises

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff

Warnings: None that I can think of.

Summary: Everyday, Spencer finds a new book in his bag, as he begins to look forward to it when the event has been occurring for a while.

Requested by @writing-in-april

A/N: I really liked writing this request!!! it really was cute asF!! Thanks for proposing that April, the fic u wrote for me last time was amazing (as ALWAYS), so I hope that you’ll like this one.

And uhh sorry about the books parts, I don’t know any of the books- I literally googled the summaries-

Word count: 3.8k

Books have always been a passion of mine; I have always been fascinated by how words can make the reader feel, how each reader can have a different opinion about them, different feelings, every reader is different when it comes to the fact of the opinion they have about the work.

They had always been a sort of shelter to me. I usually had the habit (and still have it) to comfort myself in them, they’d be able to express feelings like no one could, allow me to learn about various things, subject, build an opinion on a subject I had never thought of having an opinion, debate or even mention before.

I had been collecting more and more of them through the years, to the point of having an apartment that could be mistaken as a sort of tiny library.

My books are literally everywhere, in my shelves, on my couch, on the low table, under and on chairs, even at my desk, and in my bag.

I always carry around one or two in my bag (of course, if they both don’t contain a lot of pages to the point of weighing a ton when combined together), in case I happen to have free time (which happened to become rare when I had begun working at the FBI), and have nothing else to do but read.

It also happened to be a passion I've been sharing with another person, more known as y/n.

She had first mentioned that she didn't happen to read a lot, but eventually appreciated reading, which I was more than happy to hear, considering all the books I knew and how much it meant to me.

Clearly, she didn't expect me to know a whole library in my brain when she happened to ask if I could recommend a few; but she always liked to hear me rambling about them.

She had eventually begun taking a liking to reading again; often asking me about books I've read, talking about her opinion on the book she had read, which would often be followed by an endless rambling from me, being much longer than what she had previously explained, or even expected when I had begun sharing my opinion as well.

It was nice to have someone else to talk about books with, without feeling I could possibly be disturbing them.

Most of my colleagues would either stay there until I'd be done, they knew how much I appreciated talking about these to them; even if the majority of the team wasn't much interested, they were just being polite and respectful by staying.

Now that I talk about it, I probably should have apologized for all of the times I had rambled for a large amount of time when talking about the four books I've read in a day.

They're pretty much the main subjects I talk the most about, if, of course, I exclude Star Trek, Doctor Who, and the many subjects I throw facts about all day long from the long list that includes all of the things I'm interested in;

...which would take quite a while to detail its entirety, since I probably would take the time to explain each of them as detailed as possible, without letting any word behind, as my brain would constantly send me as much information as it contains...which again, means, a lot.

But, even if my passion about them is often difficult to keep for myself without having the need to ramble an essay worth long about them, I try not to begin to talk about it, or mention it, except if someone else does.

That became rare…as I often end up talking more than intended each time.

Reading can sometimes lead me to fall asleep quite later than I planned before even taking the book itself.

Having the ability to read fast has often led to many nights with little sleep, considering how many books I can read in a short amount of time.

The aftermath of it isn't pleasant, as it results in more fatigue on top of the one I already have because of how late I'd stay up when working at the bureau.

The feeling I had this morning when I had woken up happened to be one of the side effects of a long and endless reading session I had done the previous night.

Little did I find out after thinking about it for a bit that I'd probably be regretting it at the end of the day, if not earlier.

Even if my body was telling me to stay in my bed considering how tired I was, work couldn't allow me to do it, unfortunately.

It only took a quarter of an hour in order for me to get ready, as I already had been crossing the door to leave my apartment without having the time to think about doing it.

The rest of the morning wasn't as busy as it usually would be; only paperwork for the previous days, nothing too complicated.

But because of the short night I had, the coffee trips have been quite numerous after a while.

A short conversation had occurred later in the day between y/n and me when she had gone to peek over my desk, curious to why I had been going in and out of consciousness; and leaving a lot to take refills.

I didn't mind her asking at all, on the contrary, I had been waiting for an opportunity to talk with her; but as I didn't want to disturb her, I just kept glancing discreetly at her from time to time, hoping something to talk about would awaken a future conversation.

After a while, I noticed that she had left the room, just as I had the thought of something situated in my bag.

I had soon taken it in search of what I've been looking for, as I suddenly happened to be quite surprised as I found a book that I didn't remember putting the night before, any other day, or even this morning before leaving my apartment for work at all.

‘The Collector, John Fowles’

It was a surprisingly good choice, and the person who had put it there either had good taste or personally knew my preferences; or even both.

Who knows.

Even I would be explaining it to myself, and not to anyone; I’d prefer not to engage myself in that; as it could last up to an hour considering the length, and all that is to explain in order to understand the moral, and the motives of whatever is in the character’s mind in the book; so...a lot.

“Withdrawn, uneducated and unloved, Frederick collects butterflies and takes photographs. He is obsessed with a beautiful stranger, the art student Miranda. When he wins the pools, he buys a remote Sussex house and calmly abducts Miranda, believing she will grow to love him in time. Alone and desperate, Miranda must struggle to overcome her own prejudices and contempt if she is to understand her captor, and so gain her freedom.”

The resume of the book had simply begun automatically playing itself before I could even lay my eyes on the back cover; as I had read this book more times than my two hands could ever count, and you know; because of the eidetic memory thing, even if I had read it only once, I would have remembered it anyway.

I remember reading it for the umpteenth time around last week, precisely on a saturday, at 11PM. As long as I can remember, I apparently had nothing else to do but read, and absolutely not any other book to pull out of the shelf, except that one.

Even if I had strictly- no idea -of who could have truly placed it there, except y/n-, I still had appreciated having this work as a possible distraction, or a way to pass the time if I eventually happened to have no idea of what I could do next, in case I didn’t have any work left to do.

As I raised my eyes to the desk in front of me, I happened to meet with y/n’s eyes just when she had happened to stare at me as well.

“What’s that book genius?”

“Oh, that? It’s the collector, from John Fowles. I like this one, but- is that you who put it there?”

“Yeah...why?”

“I uh- no particular reason! I just uh...wonder why it’s there…?”

“Well, read it, and you’ll see.” She said, as she stood to go god knows where.

“Read it? But I’ve already read-” I hurried out, but she had already gone out of the room, shooting me a smile before disappearing in the corner of the door. I stood there for a good minute, as I decided to open the book and read a bit of it as she previously told me to before leaving without even giving me an answer. She always liked to be mysterious, that’s kinda the reason I fell in love with her for.

It really took a while so I would get a number.

She had slid it in one of my file just when she had left the building to go home, I swore I didn’t even have any breath when I had attempted at catching her before she has gone to her car, and if I hadn’t decided to go, one minute later, she would have been on the road, and I doubt that calling people on the road would have been safe and clever for me to do it.

It might have been a bit “mean” to do that as some would say, but we always had the habit of doing that, way before we started dating. We’d always let the other try to guess what the other meant, what he wanted to say, it all was a game, a sequel to the story that would occur later, all of these discussions, secrets, have been a preparation, and kept for what happened right now.

It all was thanks to her, because if she wouldn’t have given it, I doubt that I would have gathered the courage too soon. Probably in 10 years or so, if not.

As I still was in my lecture, a bright blue paper with an inscription written in black ink had brought my attention, which led me to read it.

“I know you’re surprised, yes, it’s in a book, and yes I could have told it to you in person, but I find it better in a note, you can keep it and carry wherever you want. It's also better as a note, and, in a book, because you had always liked books, which became the passion that has made us grow closer. This book was the first one that started a conversation between us, I don’t remember the day, but you probably do. This note might be confusing, but I wanted to do that, because at least, you have a reason to finish the book, because you might have another surprise soon. -yours truly, y/n”

The note had even ended with a heart; she’d always write one at the end of her texts, even a small word sometimes, it probably was an habit of hers, I don’t really know, we never mentioned it once, as I didn’t mind at all, I really liked the attention.

Well, I pretty much like everything she does, whether she’s talking to me, talking to someone else, or doing whatever thing. I always like to see her around; I tend to get more relaxed when she’s with me; she always talks with me, and tries to know about what I do, even if I often noticed she probably didn’t understand a single word of whatever I rambled about.

Among all of the subject she was at ease with, books happened to be one of them, she’d always participate actively, as most of the subjects included in the books would often inspirate her, push her to talk more than she usually would with other subject, or even in general, I’d help her find her words, participate in the conversation by argumenting, agreeing with her opinion, sharing my opinion so that we could compare them and argument once more about the differences, I’d also initiate the conversation by switching to another book when we’d have nothing else to talk about the book, or if one of the details in the book would make me think of another one.

Our discussions would often last hours, we wouldn’t even realize the amount of hours we’ve spent talking until one of us would think to look at the time.

Even if I liked every single moment we’d spend together, if I had to choose one (a temporary, as I always change my mind on which moment I prefer as I again like every single one), It’d be our numerous discussions about books, I had and would never grow tired of it.

As much as I like to hear her talking, I often let myself get distracted by her, to the point of having to be “woken up” from my thoughts by her when I happened to not pay attention.

Because in these moments, all that matters is that I get to hear her voice, her smile as she passionately talks about what she likes, she way she always talks while moving her hands around, when she looks at me while I talk, when she touches my hand with the tip of her fingers to take the book situated in my hands.

She made me get more and more excited about the moments when I’d reach for a book in my bag, or somewhere in the drawer of my desk.

Especially when she had begun picking my interest by telling me she might propose another book the next day...or so?

I don’t think I’ve been more excited about reading a book again before now.

Who would have thought someone would have such an effect on me on a subject I admire before y/n arrived in my life? I’ve never been so passionate about something other than books before her.

My waiting (that had seemed like an eternity) had only lasted till the next day, not long after my arrival at the bureau.

I hadn’t expected it, but the book had happened to be situated close to my keyboard, which after thinking, was obvious, if I’d take account of the numerous trips we both had done throughout the morning due to various reasons concerning either paperwork or matters of previous cases.

I had taken a seat on the desk, quite empty for a while due to, again, the trips, as I had glanced at the surroundings, only to see a few members of the team, busy doing whatever task that was in front of them.

‘Great Expectations, Charles Dickens’

Again; fairly surprising, but quite a good surprise to discover, as I hadn’t seen it for a while before today.

The edition of the book present on my desk was one of the original versions of it, The cover had a black color, along with the title and the author written in large letters under the title of the book, both just on top of an illustration representing a woman holding a bouquet of various types of flowers, behind it, the outfit she wore was visible; a white embroidery, with a grey-ish and black necklace on top of it, which was situated around her neck. The illustration was displayed in the shape of a large square, almost taking the rest of the bottom of the cover, as a space was present after the closure of the white border around the illustration.

My eyes wandered around the cover, as I switched sides, ending up on the back of it.

“Considered by many to be Dickens’s finest novel, Great Expectations traces the growth of the book’s narrator, the orphan Philip Pirrip (Pip), from a boy of shallow dreams to a man with depth of character. From its famous dramatic opening on the bleak Kentish marshes, the story abounds, with some of Dickens’s most memorable characters; Among them are-”

I wasn’t able to finish the rest of the summary, as a familiar scent had caught my attention, two arms embraced my shoulders.

“You didn’t say hi today. I’m gonna begin to think you don’t love me anymore.” She had said, in an obvious playful tone that had taken some time for me to understand as it was, only a joke.

“Sorry, I’m married to someone, my work.” I had said, before the feel of her lips on my left cheek interrupted me; as, before she could go, I turned my face, stealing a kiss from her.

“Is that your apology?” She asked.

“If you see it that way, yeah.”

“Then I accept your apologies;”

“I’m glad, I couldn’t bear to see you in such a state that would make you sad, all because of me.” I talked in a dramatic tone, which seemed as if I was doing a play, but she had laughed at it, so, turns out that my ‘play’ had been worth it after all.

“Have you opened it yet?”

“No, I only read the summary. Why, is there something there again?”

“See by yourself.” She said, gesturing her hand in the direction of the book, as I opened it per request.

When my eyes fell on the first page, I had expected to see the page on which the title and the author are written in black, but instead of it, a picture that had apparently been printed in a matte paper was taped on the page.

The picture had contained a picture of me, reading a book while I was sitting on the floor, against the wall, of what seemed to be my apartment, the book I was holding seemed to be the same ones I was holding in my hands.

“When did you take that? I never saw you taking your phone when we were together.”

“That’s because you never pay attention to your surroundings when you read. A fire could happen in the apartment and you wouldn’t even notice it until you’d smell the smoke.”

“No, you’re lying, I do pay attention…sometimes.”

“See? You admitted it yourself. The tone of your voice when you reached the end of the sentence even said it for you.”

“Yeah but, did I...do something wrong or…?”

“No, nothing wrong. On the contrary, your focus was so strong that I was able to take the picture. So, that’s a good thing, do that more.”

“Now that you told me that, I’m gonna pay more attention, you might attempt to kill me behind my back.”

“Yeah, I might kill you if you keep saying that. I’ll kill you with a bad book, I’d be a shame to kill you with a good book, I might damage it.”

“You care more about a book instead of possibly committing a murder on the one and only love of your life?”

“My one and only love is tea, you know it.” She said, as I faked being offended. “Come on, I’m kidding. But, if you keep insinuating that, I’ll care more about the book. So, if you don’t want me to kill my one and only love, behave on your best.”

“Okay, behave on my best.” I said, tracing the outline of the picture with my index. “Even if the thought of seeing myself in that picture is kinda weird, I’ll keep it. Thanks for it, I’ll read it, well, if...I get to finish the work on my desk.” I said, as we both glanced at the paperwork on the desk.

“Yeah...I, uh. Yeah. I don’t want to...sadden you even more, but you should check your mails, there...might be more.” She said, as she tapped my shoulder before leaving, the smile on my face dropping as I came to the realization.

“I guess the reading session is getting postponed then.”

The week had really been full of a lot of surprises (if I don’t count the case we had, of course), she had pulled out books I haven’t read for years; books that I had wanted to read, but never got the time for; or even books I’ve never read, but she had surprisingly matched my taste well, as I ended up liking them more than I thought I would before even starting the book.

To my surprise, we had gotten to have rest for once after the busy week that cancelled all of our plans in a snap.

I haven’t even realized that it already was October 31st today, the work had completely gone over everything else that made up my thoughts, to the point that I haven’t thought of the book y/n had chosen today.

She’d always put it either on the top of my desk where I could see it, or in my bag, but after a minute or so of searching, I didn’t see it.

The only book that I could see was in my bag, a copy of ‘The Narrative of John Smith by Arthur Conan Doyle’, I had always left it there, it was one of my favorite books, I had never gotten anywhere without it.

‘Maybe she forgot about it today. It happens.’

We had a small party like we usually do (when a case doesn’t interrupt us, of course), and various small events had been organized.

As I had been looking around, my attention had been snatched away by a hand slightly tapping my right shoulder, as I turned around to see y/n.

“Missed me?”

“Yeah, I did.” I said, as I brought her closer, and brought my lips to hers, as we exchanged a brief kiss. “Where have you been?”

“I was with Penelope, just for a bit, because if you didn’t see it, she wasn’t around either.”

“Wasn’t she? Oh, apparently not.” I said, as I saw her coming in, walking in the direction of Emily who had called her.

“What were you thinking about?”

“You, and books.”

“Oh, talking about books, did you notice something?”

“Something? Uh, no. I haven’t seen one, except the book I always carry.”

“And what is it?”

“The Narrative of John Smith, why?”

“Well, you just noticed something. The book you just saw is the one you were looking for.”

“But, I had it yesterday, and all of the days before. I-I don’t get it.”

"In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s October 31st today; the date the book was published by the edition you own, it even was the first book I laid my eyes on when we met.” She pointed out.

“...you just reduced my IQ to 60 in a minute.”

“Oh, did I?”

“Yeah, I knew it was our anniversary, but never had I thought that this book was involved.”

“Now you did, and you better remember it, and never forget to carry it.”

“I would never.” I said, as I gently put my hand on her cheek, as she suddenly raised herself on the tip of her toes, kissing me before I even got the time to think of it.

“Happy anniversary Spence.”

“Happy anniversary y/n.”

#Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #Criminal Minds Spencer Reid #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader

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downwiththeficness · 4 years ago

Text

In the Bond-Chapter 19

Summary: Lilah often wished she’d never said yes to working with the Gecko brothers—usually while dodging gunfire. At no time was she regretting that decision more than when she’s hanging upside down from the ceiling, staring down a group of hungry culebras and one (1) extremely powerful sun god.

Word Count: ~6,300

Warnings: Smut

A/N: This is an AU of my Story In the Blood, which can be read here. Basically, this fic explores what would have happened if Lilah had met up with Geckos before she met Brasa.

Taglist: @symbiont13

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She’d made the call not really knowing how it was going to go. Lilah had an address, a plane, a packed weekender bag, and not much else. Sitting at the airport bar was the extent of her plan. She tipped back the last of her beer, eyeing the mirror that reflected the entrance.

Kate was early. Lilah checked the digital clock next to the wall of liquor. She’d asked her to be there at one. It was barely twelve thirty. There was something to be said for punctuality, a quality she had found strangely lacking in most criminals—go figure. Lilah signaled for another round, two fingers in the air, her free hand gesturing at the approaching woman.

Dressed in a long sleeved shirt and jeans, her hair tumbling in soft waves around her face, Kate looked barely old enough to even be in the bar. Lilah supposed that was true, though she’d never bothered to ask Kate’s age. She fixed the bartender with a soft, sweet smile and didn’t even get carded.

Sliding onto the stool next to her, Kate rested both arms on the bar top, “He doesn’t know I’m here, by the way.”

There was no need to expound on who Kate meant. Lilah doubted that Seth could have stopped Kate, even if he wanted to. And yet, a small part of her appreciated the discretion. An angry, possibly vengeful, Seth was one variable she didn’t have the energy to contend with on this particular trip. And still, it chafed that he hadn’t reached out. Lilah hadn’t received a single text message or call. It hurt her more than she cared to admit.

Not bothering to spare Kate a glance, Lilah shrugged, “Wouldn’t matter if he did.”

“It might.”

“Doubtful.”

Lilah knew she sounded petulant, but she couldn’t quite make herself care. She sipped at the too expensive beer and leaned lazily back in her seat. Kate fiddled with the bottle, thumb rubbing at the label.

“So, Iceland?”

Smiling, Lilah nodded, “Reykjavik, actually. There’s a huge church there, and the knife is in, like, a reliquary.”

She’d had to look up the definition of reliquary when Brasa told her about it, tablet in hand, finger swiping from one picture to the next. When Lilah had commented that they were lucky it was in a church and not in another private collection, he’d sighed and said he’d rather deal with the private collector. The capital “C”, Church, could be a harrowing enemy.

Lilah disagreed. A church of this size and age was unlikely to have up to date security systems. And, to be fair, a lot of churches were underfunded, which left little to know staff to wander the halls in search of delinquent women looking to pocket ancient relics.

“Uh huh,” Kate drawled, taking a swig, “How do you expect us to get in?”

Lilah shrugged, “I hadn’t gotten quite that far.”

“Uh huh,” then, “How far have you gotten?”

Hands giving a sweep around her, Lilah pronounced, “This is about it.”

“Uh huh.”

With an expression that was nearly a glare, Lilah groaned, “Stop saying that.”

Kate shrugged, “Its just that you usually have a plan. Way before we get to the airport.”

She was right, Lilah usually had a solid plan before they even left for the job, before they even bought the plane tickets or booked the motel. She didn’t like being rushed, but the reality was that they needed to get the job done and get back as fast as humanly possible. For this job, Lilah was willing to wing it just a little.

“I know,” Lilah sighed, taking a deep pull, “This was sort of last minute. There was...an attack.”

She didn’t think it would be wise to hide what had happened from Kate. Context and background information usually sat well with her. Like Lilah, Kate liked to know what, exactly, she was dealing with. And, there was part of her that just needed to tell someone.

Beside her, Kate stiffened, “What kind of attack?”

“Benny tried to open the portal,” Lilah explained, waving away the bartender’s offer of another round. While they waited for the check, she continued, “A lot of the people he was with died. Some of them were injured—horrifically. The knife is all we need to close the portal for good.”

That, and a shit ton of Brasa’s blood. He’d told her over and over again that he’d put in safety measures, that there was nothing to worry about. Lilah was dubious, at best.

Nodding, Kate slipped off the stool and looked at Lilah expectantly, “When’s the flight?”

Lilah glanced again at the clock, “About an hour from now.”

Kate frowned, “We’re not going to get through security in that time. Why didn’t you tell me to be here sooner?”

Smiling coyly, Lilah lifted a shoulder, “Probably because we’re flying private. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Head cocking to the side, Kate regarded her closely, her mouth parted in something near enough to a smile, “I guess you’d better show me your plane.”

Leaning down, Lilah grabbed her weekender and slung it over her shoulder, “Boarding is that way.”

The plane was exactly as she remembered it, right down to the stewardess offering them a glass of champagne for the flight. Lilah settled into the plush seat and sent off a text to Brasa to let him know they were on the tarmac.

When she looked up from her phone, she noticed Kate tossing hers back into her bag, likely doing the same thing.

“So, you do any research on this church?”

Lilah’s head ticked to the side, “A little. Its huge. Big ol’ pipe organ that’s pretty famous.”

Kate sipped her champagne, “You read that off Wikipedia?”

That was exactly what she’d done, right after Brasa spelled out the name for her.

Laughing, Lilah confirmed, “Pretty much.”

“You got a way in?”

“There’s services a couple days a week,” Lilah said, resting her head in her palm, “I figure, we go in with the church crowd, sneak away, hit up the reliquary, walk out with the church crowd.”

Kate blinked, “You said its a big church. Do you know your way around?”

“Javier got me some maps,” then, “I told Brasa we’d have a seventy two hour turnaround.”

Brows coming together, Kate shook her head, “It might not be that simple.”

“You and the boys do it all the time.”

Lilah and the boys had done it many times over.

“Yeah,” Kate shot back, “In banks, in museums, jacking cars. We’re stealing from a church.”

Lilah rolled her eyes, “What’s the difference?”

Her expression closed tightly, and Kate took a beat too long to respond, “Its the church. Its...God.”

Ah. Touchy subject.

Taking a deep breath, Lilah chose her words carefully, “Technically, they stole it first. The knife is Xibalban, it belongs to Brasa’s people. We’re not stealing it. We’re just..playing a bit of Robin Hood.”

Kate glared at her, “You can’t be Robin Hood when you’re sitting on a private jet, Lilah.”

That was fair.

“Point. Then, we’re reverse Indiana Jones-ing it.”

Laughing, Kate shook her head again, “I don’t think that fits, either.”

“Well, we can’t all be Richie with the pop culture references, can we?” Lilah retorted, half amused, half annoyed.

“No,” Kate murmured, “He really does have a connection for everything.”

“Oh, my god, he does,” Lilah agreed, one hand covering her eyes, “The first day I met him, he called me Scully. And then he proceeded to show me that there are, in fact, things that go bump in the night.”

He’d actually flashed his fangs at her, his eyes glowing behind his glasses. Lilah had scrambled back from him, too scared to even scream. It had been Seth that had calmed her down, had told her what they were doing, what their mission was. It had been Seth that set her on the path she was on now.

“That sounds like Richie,” Kate said with a small smile, “He likes to go ahead and rip the band aid off.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

It had taken about two days before Lilah could bring herself to sit within ten feet of Richie, and even longer before they had a conversation over three sentences long. Once she’d gotten over the initial shock, Lilah had grown to really like Richie. Despite the constant one upping and the long tangential digressions on canon, he could be sweet. He could also rip a person in half. Pros and cons being what they were, Lilah had eventually put him on the (extremely) short list of her friends.

They stopped for fuel in New York, and then they were taking the last leg of the trip. Landing went smoothly, and a car was waiting to take them to the hotel Brasa had booked. It hadn’t occurred to Lilah to ask him to book something low key and under the radar. When they pulled up to a swanky awning with gilt embellishments, she cringed internally.

Lilah appreciated a good hotel like most any other person. When she was on a job, though, it was always better to stay at a highway motel. Less surveillance, and if the police showed up, there were usually more concerned about the drugs in the room three doors down than a single woman drawing as little attention as possible. This was...ostentacious.

“I bet the beds in there are phenomenal,” Kate said as she walked ahead.

As she took in the extravagant lobby, Lilah couldn’t help but agree, but they would pale in comparison to the bed she shared with Brasa. Nothing could or would match those mattresses—which she still hadn’t asked Javier about. She resisted the urge to check her phone for the thousandth time, looking for a message from Brasa. He’d been busy dealing with the wounded, dealing with increasing calls for violence, dealing with all the things that came with governing a growing mass of people. She didn’t want to add to that.

As Kate predicted, the beds were pretty fucking good. Soft as clouds. Silky sheets. Very nice, but empty. Lilah would have slept on a futon to have Brasa here with her. She missed his presence, missed his touch. Since she’d left Jackknife Jed’s, Lilah hadn’t spent more than a few hours without him.

Spoiled. Lilah was fucking spoiled, now.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Lilah focused on unpacking her pajamas for the night. First thing in the morning, they would scout the church, find their entrance and their exit. Maybe come up with a few back up plans. She was pretty sure that the base plan she’d spouted off on the plane was their best option. But, she liked to have some alternatives.

As she crawled into bed, Lilah reached out and touched the bond. He was tired, she could tell. Gently, she suggested that he sleep. Lilah was met with a wall of stubborn willpower that had her physically rolling her eyes. Turning to her side, she reached up and turned off the bedside light. If he wasn’t going to get some rest, she definitely would.

Lilah slept hard. It was the kind of sleep that could make someone wake up and not know what year it was, the kind of sleep that stole the freshness of the morning. On her back, hands near her face, she blinked up at the ceiling as she tried to get her bearings in the unfamiliar room.

The shower was on, water sloshing.

Kate.

Her bed was warm—hot, even. There was a weight on her legs and hips, hidden by the comforter. She shifted, surprised when the weight moved with her. It continued to move even when she’d settled, enveloping her from belly to knees.

Hands. There were hands trailing up her sides, sliding underneath her pajama top. She sucked in a breath, releasing it forcefully when they cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples. The comforter shifted, rolling in a singular wave upwards until the fabric parted to reveal dark hair and brown skin.

Brasa.

He smiled at her as he climbed her body, his eyes reflecting darkly in the low ambient light of the room. She smiled back, hands resting on his shoulders as he settled over her.

“Hi,” she said lowly.

He echoed her, leaning down to kiss her sternum. His mouth was warm, his hands massaging along her waist and down over her hips. He nuzzled her skin, rubbing his cheek against her neck and collarbone.

Lilah relaxed into the pillows, let him do as he liked. Her fuzzy mind reveled in the feel of him, his tongue tracing patterns ahead of his fingers. He pushed her shirt up and over her breasts, palms cupping them together. When he drew a nipple into his mouth, her body arched up, knees clutching at his sides.

Her thighs rubbed sensuously against bare skin. She bit her lip as she realized that he was very clearly naked, and very clearly aroused.

The shower cut off, drawing her attention. She tensed beneath him, turning her head to look towards the closed bathroom door.

Undeterred, Brasa pulled at her top, trying to get her arms through it. Lilah pushed at his shoulders, jerking her head towards the bathroom.

“Kate is literally going to walk out any second.”

His jaw clenched unhappily, but he let go of her top. Lilah pulled it down over her chest with one hand, the other reaching up to touch his cheek.

“I’ll be home soon.”

Lips pouting, he nodded. In between one blink and the next he was gone, though Lilah was left with the distinct feeling of his mouth pressed firmly to hers.

She was right, though. The door to the bathroom opened and Kate wandered through it, towel drying her hair. Lilah sat up and flicked on the bedside light, rubbing at her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Lilah waved her off, “I needed to get up, anyways. You take all the hot water?”

Kate smirked, “For the price of these rooms, it should take at least three days to run out of hot water.”

“You can thank your resident sun god for that,” Lilah drawled as she rose from the bed, picking up her clothes for the day from where she’d set them the night before.

“You think he takes tithes?”

There was a strange kind of sarcasm in those words. No bite. Just barely touched with the dark amusement that came with doing the things that they’d had to do in the last year and a half. It peeked out periodically from behind all their lips, cut through tension, acknowledging the oddity that was their lives.

Lilah shrugged, “I can ask him next time we’re in the temple.”

Kate paused from where she was combing through her dark locks, “He has a temple?”

“Yeah,” Lilah answered from the bathroom door, “I mean that literally.”

“Weird.”

“You have no idea.”

After showering and getting ready for the day, they headed out into the city. Lilah managed to Google Translate her way through ordering the pair of them a coffee that they drank while they walked. The church was pretty big. Scoping out the entrances and exits took most of the morning. By the time the noon services started up, Lilah’s legs were demanding a break.

The pews were filled with churchgoers as they took a spot near the back of the sanctuary. Lilah spent about ten minutes distracted by the artwork and the architecture before she realized that Kate was softly crying.

“What’s wrong?”

Sniffing, Kate shook her head, “I haven’t, you know, been in a church in a long time.”

“Oh.”

Lilah was not good with soothing crying people. She looked awkwardly around, grateful that most people were focused on the sermon ahead of them and not the weird American girls behind.

“You know my dad was a preacher, right?”

“I,” Lilah whispered, “Did not know that.”

To be fair, not a one of their crew delved too deeply into each other’s backgrounds. That was the trade off: they worked together as a team to hunt down rogue culebras, might even share a few stories of their more notorious exploits—no digging into old wounds.

“He was.”

“Oh.”

“After my mom died, he kind of...lost God. He drank a lot, and I had to take care of my brother and me.”

“That must have been hard.”

“Yeah,” Kate said, her voice cracking, “And then all of this shit with Richie and Seth started happening. And then Amaru. I thought I’d never feel right in church again.”

“Oh.”

Kate cut her a look, “Stop saying that.”

“Sorry,” Lilah said on reflex. “I don’t know what else to say.”

Shaking her head, Kate lifted a shoulder weakly, “Nothing to say, really.” Then, “I miss it. Miss the ritual of it—praise and worship, sermon, invitation, closing. You know exactly what to expect.”

Ah. Lilah lifted her toes in her winter boots, knowing what Kate meant, and not knowing how best to respond. She sat next to the woman throughout the sermon, not a word of it in English. Then, when the nonverbal cue for prayer sank into the crowd, she tapped Kate’s arm and jerked her head to the side.

“Now?” Kate asked.

Lilah smirked, “Why not?”

While the congregation’s heads were bowed, giving them an opening. while all eyes were closed and no one was looking about, Lilah and Kate disappeared into a back hallway and towards a series of meeting rooms. Lots of unlocked doors. They moved through the halls, ducking into a bathroom when steps sounded a little too close.

Eventually, they found the pastor’s chambers. Lilah was pretty fucking shocked when Kate pulled out Seth’s lock pick set and went to work. Impressed, she leaned against the wall opposite the door, keeping watch while the other woman worked.

It took several tries and one foul oath, but Kate got the door open. They slipped inside, and Lilah tapped her phone to pull up the picture Brasa had sent her. She showed it to Kate, her eyes scanning the shelves.

And there it was. Sitting unceremoniously on a low shelf, holding up a set of biblical commentaries. Lilah paused, thinking that this was deceptively easy. Gilt in gold, the reliquary was formed in Gothic angles and sharp spires. Serving as a stand for the knife, one could be forgiven for almost missing its significance.

With care, Lilah checked it for a pressure switch, then pulled the knife from the stand. As she stood, she held it out for Kate’s inspection.

She looked at it, looked at Lilah, and shrugged, “I guess that’s it.”

“I guess,” Lilah muttered, slipping it into her bag.

They tip toed back into the sanctuary, right as the invitation started. People were walking forward, taking the hands of church elders, making commitments to God. Lilah sat in the pew with her pilfered relic, feeling as if the room had tilted ever so slightly to the left. As soon as was socially acceptable, she rose and headed out towards the street.

On the walk back to the hotel, the sun beginning its descent towards the horizon, Lilah shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat, “You know, when I think of all the jobs we’ve pulled, this one was surprisingly anticlimactic.”

Kate nodded, pushing her hair out of her face, “After the year I’ve had, I could use a little anti-climactic.”

Lilah had to agree. After one too many high intensity situations, the ease of this theft was so very welcome. And strange.

When they reached the hotel, they took advantage of the little restaurant at the back of the building. Lilah ordered a nice wine and a pasta with a heavy cream sauce. Though it smelled amazing, she found that she could only pick at it, full after just a few bites. She wasn’t surprised. The adrenaline of having taken something that didn’t belong to her often suppressed her appetite.

Despite only eating a small portion from her plate, Lilah tipped the wait staff well. The meal was delicious, even if she wasn’t in the mood to eat. No need to take it out on anyone else.

When they returned to their room, Kate flung herself haphazardly on the bed, her boots hanging off the end. She flicked on the TV, saying, “You want to tell me about this knife ritual thing?”

Lilah opened her mouth to speak, and found that she didn’t have words. Brasa had been remarkably reticent to give her details about what they needed to do to close the portal.

“I honestly don’t know,” she answered, finally, “We use the staff, the cup, the knife, and some of Brasa’s blood—that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

Lifting a brow, Kate regarded her steadily, “No magic incantation?”

Huffing, Lilah rolled her eyes, “I mean, probably. There’s always some sort of magic rhyme to shout into the abyss, right?”

“For sure.”

With Kate momentarily distracted by the television, Lilah pulled her phone out and tapped out a text.

L: Got it.

She set the phone down, intending to get comfortable on the bed. No sooner had she sat down to remove her boots did it vibrate twice, indicating a text. Lilah picked it up, tapping on the screen.

B: Excellent. ETA?

Smirking, Lilah pulled up the keyboard.

L: Tomorrow, late. Midnight, maybe?

His response was almost immediate.

B: You plan to leave in the afternoon?

L: Depends on when Kate wakes up.

There was no immediate answer, and Lilah set the phone aside. She tugged off her boots and socks, leaning back into the pillows.

“Have you noticed,” Kate started, her voice cutting through the noise of the television, “Changes?”

Lilah cast her a look of confusion, her brows coming together.

“Since you and Brasa got together. Like, physically?”

Thinking about it, Lilah pursed her lips, “I don’t think so?”

The sentence came out more like a question because she honestly didn’t really know. With everything that had been going on outside of her, it hadn’t occurred to Lilah to look inwardly.

“I mean,” Kate continued, one hand rotating, her palm pointed towards the ceiling, “Obviously, you know about the immortality.”

Lilah nodded, though the concept had been purposely set aside so that she could deal with the more pressing matters of the bond and her growing relationship. She figured that she had plenty of time to deal with it later.

With a ‘tsk’, Kate reached over and grabbed the remote. She shut off the TV and threw the control down. Then, she scooted over to the edge of the bed and pulled her legs up and underneath her.

“I knew it would be different...after. I knew things would change—more than they already had.”

Lilah nodded. Different was all that Lilah had known for so long that it had made the complete circle all the way around to perfectly normal. Looking into Kate’s face, though, Lilah could tell that their unique circumstances, the odd path of their lives, wasn’t all that the other woman meant.

Kate tucked her hair behind her ear, “I haven’t slept in two weeks.”

Spluttering, Lilah’s brows rose in surprise, one hand covering her mouth.

“I mean,” Kate continued, leaning forward in concern, “not really. Not like I used to.”

Hands up in question, Lilah asked, “What the fuck does that mean?”

Kate sat back, her shoulders dropping, “I,” she stopped and shook her head, “I sleep maybe a few hours a night, wake up, stay awake for a few hours, and then sleep another hour. That’s it.”

Looking around the room, Lilah found herself once again trying to find words of comfort. She was not good at this.

“That must suck.”

Kate, thankfully, laughed, “It does. I tried everything. Sleeping pills, weed, hot baths, I ordered a special tea from the internet. Do not recommend, by the way.”

Mouth in half a smile, Lilah rolled her neck, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And that’s not all of it,” Kate went on, “I don’t get hungry, not really. I eat. I can eat. But, if I don’t think about it, I won’t.” She fixed Lilah with a hopeful look, “Is it like that with you?”

It took Lilah a moment to think of her answer, “No.”

All the air went out of Kate. She picked at the bedspread, “Oh.”

“Its still new,” Lilah said quickly, unable to take Kate’s down expression. “I’m just now learning how to use the bond.” Her eyes turned to the ceiling, “For the first, like, six months I didn’t even acknowledge that it existed, let alone participate.”

Kate huffed, “Oh, Richie wasn’t about to let that happen. He said he’d spent enough time knowing and not acting.”

Lilah frowned, “What does that mean?”

Expression indulgent, Kate said, “They know it immediately. They know it.”

Brasa had known, had said as much in the first minute of conversation. Lilah had been too intent on getting away to ask questions. Now, she wished she had. The book on bonds had been helpful for troubleshooting and basic knowledge. The way in which bonds worked, how they changed the bonded, was vague, at best.

“Does…” Kate trailed off, her eyes looking away, pink tinting her cheeks, “Does he, you know, feed you?”

She blinked, “I mean, yeah. Usually after he takes it from me.”

Nodding, Kate’s gaze seemed to lose focus, “For the first two months, Richie would insist on it, every day. He said that it would make me stronger.”

“Brasa said that same thing.”

Another nod, “I do feel stronger. There are mornings where I wake up and I feel like I could run a hundred miles.”

Lilah barked out a laugh, “Maybe I need to insist a bit. Get me some of that energy. With everything that has been going on, I’m constantly tired.”

The treaty, the bond, Seth, Benny, learning a her new role, the injured, all of it was building up into one big ball of awful. Lilah had to constantly remind herself that, as stressed as she was, her bondmate was likely infinitely more frustrated and exhausted. The thought made her reach out for him. He felt stable, but his side of the bond was pulled somewhat shut. Open enough that she could tell he was physically well, but closed to any detail as to his feelings. Lilah pulled back as gently as she could, not wanting to disturb his privacy.

They watched a few more episodes of really bad reality television while Lilah double checked their flight itinerary. She’d gotten a confirmation email to her inbox for a car service after lunch. Everything just sort of fell right into place. They’d gotten what they’d come there for, their exit was prepped, all they had to do was pack up and get in the car.

Lilah stared at the ceiling, half listening to the reunion episode of the show. Over the din of yelling voices and accusations, she began to feel...a little bit useless. The planning, the coordinating, the logistics of every job she’d ever done had been something she’d taken care of personally. In this case, all she’d had to manage was getting a partner that, in the end of it all, the job hadn’t required. And then, everything had gone so god damned smooth that is made Lilah suspicious.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Kate pushing from the bed and tugging on her boots, “I’m going to go to the evening service. You want to come?”

Eyes narrow, Lilah asked, “To the church we just robbed?”

“Yeah.”

“No thanks.”

Kate shrugged and grabbed her coat, slipping the hotel key into her back pocket, “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Have fun,” Lilah deadpanned, shaking her head.

She watched as Kate gave her a little wave and headed out, the door closing softly behind her. The room settled into relative silence, only the drone of the TV to keep her company. Rubbing at her eyes, Lilah rolled from the bed and grabbed her pajamas.

The shower was perfunctory, going through the motions to get the grime of the day off her skin. She toweled off and pulled on her clothes. Dirty laundry in hand, Lilah stepped out of the steam filled bathroom. She tossed her used clothes into her bag and stood near her bed, staring at nothing.

Annoyed with the newest episode of the show, Lilah grabbed the remote from Kate’s bed and shut it off, leaving the room completely silent. She continued to stand there, looking at nothing. Lilah stood there long enough for the heat to kick on, startling her. She glared at it and rolled her eyes, catching her reflection in the mirror.

There were smudges from the last of the day’s makeup underneath her eyes, but the shadows weren’t there. She leaned in, noting that the usual breakout along her chin had cleared up, the skin smooth. The whites of her eyes were stark and clear against her irises. Maybe there had been changes. Maybe Lilah had been too distracted to notice.

Her hair was still a bit thin along her temples, the permanent line between her brows still there from near constant frowning at a computer screen. The scar from when she’d fallen and cracked her chin open in that bathtub at age five remained, a thin line just beneath her bottom lip.

Maybe not too many changes.

The air in the room rippled. Gasping, Lilah braced herself with her hands out. Stillness. Feeling the air stutter in and out of her lungs, she glanced around, looking for danger. When nothing but the sound of the heater kicking off met her expectant gaze, she dropped her hands.

Another ripple, this time with the accompanying scent of coffee and caramel.

“Brasa?” she called out to the empty room.

Ripple.

“I am here, querida.”

Lilah spun in place, an aborted shout stuck to the back of her throat. She clocked the broad shoulders, the warm brown eyes, and sighed.

“I think I’ve asked you not to scare me like that.”

Ticking his head to the side, he offered her an unrepentant smile, “But then I wouldn’t get to hear your heart beat so beautifully in excitement.”

“There are other ways to achieve that, you know,” she said ruefully, one hand coming to rest where her heart was, indeed, beating a pounding rhythm.

Brows quirking, Brasa gathered her to his body, arms folding around her waist, “You have a point.”

“Of course I do,” she retorted, rising on her toes to kiss him briefly, “What brings you here?”

He pressed his forehead into the skin of her neck, breathing deep, “I missed you.”

Arms draped over his shoulders, Lilah laughed softly, “Its only been a day. We’ve been apart for much longer.”

Letting out a long breath, Brasa said, “I disliked it then as much then as I do now.”

Lilah tightened her grip on him, swaying a bit, “I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Too long,” he groused with a shake of his head.

She pulled back, cupping his jaw with both hands, “Its faster than I anticipated. I could be gone another whole day.”

The hands on the small of her back clenched, and Lilah heard the fabric of her t shirt tear. Gasping in shock, she twisted her body and found that he ripped the shirt up to about the middle of her back.

Saying his name in censure, Lilah stepped back, holding the shirt away from her body and assessing the damage in the mirror. There was no saving that shirt, not without a sewing machine that she not only didn’t have, but definitely didn’t know how to use.

Firm hands turned her so that he could look at it, and Lilah caught the banked pride in his expression as he tugged, “Oops.”

“Oops?” Her voice was high and incredulous, “That’s all you have to say? ‘Oops’?”

He shrugged, his palms following the line of her spine until the fabric bunched around his wrists, “Perhaps it is an improvement.” When she fixed him with a doubtful look, he went on, “Perhaps I can make it up to you.”

Her brows lifted in interest, but she said nothing. He took that as a ‘yes’, his hands slowly rounding her waist to rest below her breasts. Watching in the mirror as his hands encircled them, gently rolling her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

Humming against her skin, Brasa played with her lazily, the distinct lack of urgency lulling her into a low simmering arousal. Lilah leaned into him, her hands resting on the dresser to keep her balance. In the mirror, her reflection undulated. The long line of her throat exposed as she tipped her head back against his shoulder.

“Beautiful,” he groaned, teeth catching her ear.

Lilah focused on his face in the mirror, watched as his eyes devoured her image. His hand rucked up her shirt, squeezing her breasts together, their touch no longer teasing.

Mouth laying sloppy kisses wherever he could reach, Brasa leaned his weight into her. He pinned her to the dresser, shifting her to the side when one of the pulls dug into her belly. Lilah arched back, catching his mouth, the angle too acute for her to get anything more than the barest of kisses.

She whined, tugging on his arms so that he would let her turn around. He held her still, and she could feel the shape his mouth against her skin, spreading into a wide smile.

“Did you need something?”

Lilah grit her teeth against the honey of his words, the way they melted over her, the cajoling tone peeking out from underneath. After so long where he’d given in to her easily, after he’d offered no quarter in the building of her pleasure, the teasing chafed.

She writhed, shimmying her hips against the erection behind her, trying to get him to break. He took it, took every bit of her want, absorbing it so that she only got the tiniest ricochet in return. It left her wanting with such force that she could keep the needy moans inside.

It might have been his name she was chanting, might also have any one of the nonsense syllables that he had been known to pull out of her. All Lilah knew was that her core was clenching down on nothing when it could be fluttering around his hands, or better yet his cock.

Brasa repeated his question, his voice dropping down into his chest so that it came out in a harsh rasp. Lilah nodded, biting her lip. Through the bond, she felt his pleasure, felt how satisfied he was to watch her fall apart in his hands.

Teasing fingertips traced the waistband of her shorts, dipping just below, “Is this it?”

Again, she nodded, her eyes squeezing shut as he pushed down past the elastic to rest all four fingers against her mound. She widened her stance and rocked forward into them, getting a little bit of needed friction.

“Fucking wet,” he groaned, one arm wrapping around her middle and pulling her up and into his body, “You’re ready for me?”

For the third time, she nodded, relieved when he pulled down her shorts just below the crease of her ass, his other hand pressing her forward so that she was leaned over the top of the dresser. She heard the sound of shifting fabric, and then he was pressed against her opening.

With the taut band of her shorts cutting into the meat of her thighs, Lilah could only drop her forehead to the dresser as he pushed steadily forward. He was careful with the initial thrust, hands massaging.

“Good?” she heard from over the pounding of her ears.

Rising, Lilah rotated her hips, seating him deeper and relishing his sharp inhale, “Very good.”

One hand grabbed her chin, turning her head so that he could kiss her, his tongue dipping inside. He kissed her like that as he pumped slowly inside, taking up once more his unhurried pace. Lilah swallowed around a dry throat, her hands closing into little fists.

“More,” she cried out, hoping to coax him into a faster, harder pace.

He chuckled. And though his pace remained the same, the intensity kicked up a notch. He buried his cock inside her all the way each time, the intermittent sound of skin slapping against skin overtaking the silence of the room. Slow. Deep. Unhurried. Brasa fucked her as if he had all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t at all concerned about coming.

It built inside her in intervals that were so small Lilah barely noticed them until it was too late, until her pussy was contracting around him in dizzy pleasure. Brasa snarled, his hips grinding against her ass, one hand holding her steady as he arched over her body.

Lilah relaxed her upper body against the dresser, blinking slowly as Brasa grabbed her hips and pulled them back hard. The air was punched from her as he did it again. And again. He got another five or six good thrusts in before he hissed and she felt him pulse.

When it was over, Brasa pulled out and adjusted her short before doing the same with his down pants. He wrapped his arms around her and walked her back to the bed. Lilah went, reaching back to ruffled his curls.

She hummed as he helped her to lay down, his big body molding to her side, “That was nice.”

He pet her hair, “I’ll do it again when you get back.”

“Promise?”

#from dusk til dawn #from dusk til dawn: the series #Brasa #In the Bond

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mimsypoo · 8 months ago

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(i also see smithers as transfem, i use she/he interchangeably due to my headcanons on how gender feels for her. hope u don't mind 👍)

i don't have time to respond to all of your individual points, but i will say a bit.

"just because it doesn't revolve around your ship." firstly, please don't condescend to me like that. yes, i enjoy burnsmithers, but that's not really the point i was making here. anyone who knows me personally will know that i don't care that much about canon/canon ships. even with burns and smithers, i don't actually think about them getting together very often. i like it, but i don't need it. my attention towards the ship comes more from the fact that i like both of them a lot individually, so it's convenient to have them in a little package like that. (and i like seeing smithers win.)

i am glad that you are able to personally enjoy and accept the characterization of smithers in more recent material, i truly am. having so much content of a character you love is very lucky.

i'm incredibly picky, though, and i don't think all of the changes in her personality can be reduced to 'character development.' she was written by people, writers who make decisions and have thoughts and change things based on their experiences and biases.

just because the writers may be trying to give their characters 'happy endings' as you put it doesn't mean i'm going to like their creative decisions. it's the simpsons, it's so highly episodic, and even moments that were advertised as big changes in the status quo were eventually abandoned. the writers do not like having to see big changes through. (cough cough cough the burns cage cough)

their dynamic, at its roots, is based around codependency. that's where it was born. without an understanding of that, they lose a lot of their nuance and depth because of how much they're defined by each other. this may not be true of modern writing, but it is true of the early seasons. i don't mean that they can't exist at all without each other, and i apologize if the way i said this lacked clarity, but what i meant was that their personalities were developed with room for their codependency. even when they aren't near each other, they are still people who are capable of relying on each other. the way their characterization has shifted does not often leave that space in their personalities.

i do not mean they always need to be around each other or thinking about each other. what i mean is that their personalities were created as foils, and they are losing that in the writers' inclination towards projected individualism.

in earlier seasons when they're pictured without each other, i like them just fine. i agree that there is more to them than each other. my critique was not that their characters have no potential, it was aimed at the writers' inability to properly utilize that potential.

they have their moments in modern simpsons, but overall, i think it says a lot that my favorite independent modern smithers appearance was one where she doesn't even talk. (werking mom)

on werking mom, i need to bring up that my complaints about smithers' identity come from ME being gay, transgender, and hell, even a doll collector! i see SO MUCH of myself in smithers. and yet, with modern smithers, i experience a palpable detachment. like suddenly, there's something off.

a lot of that does come from the new way they use smithers' gayness. i like it in earlier seasons because it feels so casual, like it doesn't have to be said for us to know it. it's more human like that. modern simpsons is OBSESSED with saying it. constantly. over and over again. in every scene. and it annoys me because it feels like they forgot that there IS more to smithers than that. smithers' experience with gender and sexuality will always inform her life and interests, but the modern emphasis on that doesn't feel like a nuanced exploration on the influence of lgbt identity on everyday life or something. it feels cheap and performative.

when i say "smithers has been reduced to his gayness," what i mean is that his characterization has become a lot more stereotypical. obviously, the gay jokes have always been there, i'd never deign to say smithers' characterization has ever been fully without stereotype. even so, the fact that her writing elsewhere has become more shallow makes this noticeable to me because most of her episodes revolve around gayness in some way. even if bottle episode wasn't about her being attracted to men, it was still dependent on gay stereotypicality to make the episode work. even the wine court stuff was tied to her involvement in the lgbt community. part of this comes from the simpsons' inclination to make her nicer- it feels like they see 'gay' as being a positive trait rather than neutral, so they struggle not to see gay people through a positive lens. that's stereotyping, even stereotypes that intend kindness can be condescending if they lack depth. smithers being depicted as better than he was in the past is, at least partially, intrinsically tied to her identity as gay.

lackey is in and of itself an example of this double standard. it's noticeable that nowadays, smithers doing good deeds always feels intrinsically linked to her gay experience rather than her individuality. along with that, it's hard to read as 'character development' because, to me, smithers already feels like a husk at the beginning of the episode. his being a good person is tied to his relationship with michael, how she wants love but won't take it at the expense of others... then keeps working for mr. burns. you relate this to in-universe explanations, but it isn't a real thing that happened. it was a thing that people wrote. along with that, it doesn't feel like a development or change. it feels like an easy thing for the writers to do because it would be annoying to let smithers have a new boyfriend. it would do too much to change the show's overall formula, and it's easier to just make smithers drop him to keep things the same. it doesn't matter if their excuse as to why is incoherent, so long as they've dropped the new player by the end.

when i say, "smithers isn't allowed to be gay for mr. burns" anymore, what i mean is that acknowledgments of that attraction feel half assed and chorelike. the writers do not care about the way smithers likes mr. burns. i stand by what i said. the writers don't want to write burns and smithers being codependent, they want to write AROUND it. as in, i believe they want it to affect their plotlines as little as possible. their lack of chemistry is an important signal at the writers' lack of interest in their relationship. to me at least, it just doesn't feel like the writers understand how or why the two could like each other, and bottle episode really encompasses that frustration for me.

i just don't like the decisions they make for their characters in modern simpsons. you mention flanders' grief, so i'll say i didn't like o c'mon all ye faithful's handling of that, either. it has the same problem as smithers' relationship with michael, it has to do with a fundamental fear of change.

at the beginning of lackey, smithers doesn't have a boyfriend. by the end, smithers doesn't have a boyfriend. at the beginning of faithful, flanders believes in god. by the end, flanders believes in god. any "changes" that occur in the plotline are illusory because these episodes pose no threat to the writers' routine. my complaints are not just me wanting burnsmithers fodder. i think the way they're handling the characters is bland, clunky, and uninventive. any 'innovation' is wholly performative or intended to lampshade a flawed understanding of the characters themselves and why they were entertaining and charming at their inception.

thinking abt bottle episode now -_- i think it's so exhausting to watch burns and smithers in recent seasons because it feels like the writers are trying to write AROUND their codependency? they can acknowledge it exists on paper, but in practice, they fail to anchor their interactions in a logical understanding of it.

like, they had burns pestering smithers for help early in the episode to the point it was a catalyst for the plot, and yet, when smithers is INCARCERATED burns doesn't notice until he's specifically told? it just feels like the writers don't want to engage with how these two need each other to function, not just from the watsonian perspective but doylian as well.

without smithers, burns becomes just an evil old rich man. without burns, smithers kind of just exists??? they are both SO important for contextualizing each other and creating respective depth.

along with that, i think smithers' personality has become way too reliant upon his gayness. in the name of "representation," they've brought it into the forefront of his characterization and, in doing so, dropped most of the shit that actually made him unique in the first place. of course the writers can't see why he would like mr. burns anymore! they just see him as a nondescript spineless gay guy! i believe his writing is way more homophobic than it was in the early years because it feels like being gay is all he has at this point. and yet he's also not allowed to be gay FOR mr. burns. and mr. burns is a pathetic old man, but he's not allowed to need smithers because he has to be one dimensionally evil and capable of performing functional independence.

their newfound lack of chemistry drastically impedes their ability to be enjoyable and entertaining, and i think the writers know that but don't realize it's their own fault. it seems like they don't have fun writing the two as the unit they're supposed to be, so they go to great lengths to mischaracterize them even further just to keep them from interfering with each other's plotlines. i mean god, take thirst trap for example. i'll just post what i said about that one on discord.

[text: they got the "smithers likes mr. burns" thing down and they don't seem to know anything else about them and i'm just staring at them like there is no world where mr. burns marries a random shady woman who is blatantly using him for his money and smithers is just like Yeah she's cool because she likes Mr. Burns too!

No. He would want to kill her and wear her skin]

more than anything i wish that burns and smithers would be allowed the codependency that defined them in the first place. they don't just like each other, they NEED each other, and that fact is supposed to create an obstacle that defines them intrinsically. that's where their writing begins. can we just go perform a simpsons coup d'état

#i know how it can be to just try and get your point across and get lost in infodumping #but i do wish you could have viewed my post as though i was saying it from the perspective of someone who does know these things #and whose opinion has been developed based on the same information as yours

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hawkbucks · 5 years ago

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Joke’s on you, I’m going to list my favorite quotes anyway (besides the ones from the foreword that I’ve already listed) because they are Very Important:

“Like any normal nineteen-year-old, I earned both of my master’s degrees on my own merits.”

“Yinsen bought me the time I needed to recharge the suit, but the cost was his own life. I owe him big time, and I will never be able to repay him.” “Iron Man was born... and my world would never be the same!”

“Don’t let the smooth talk fool you. Deep down, I’ll always be a tech geek, more comfortable alone in a workshop than surrounded by celebs at a gala fundraiser.”

“You don’t always have to fight villains to save lives. That’s why I started the Maria Stark Foundation in memory of my mother. It may not be the branch of my company that gets the most public attention, but in my opinion, it’s where we do the most good.”

“Didn’t see [my dad] an awful lot, so Mom took me to visit every day. I grew up around Stark Industries. Or maybe Stark Industries grew up around me?

“Instead of blowing up the world, why not help build a better one instead?”

“Over the years, I managed to develop a small core of people who I could trust implicitly. Strip away my high-tech suit, my fancy toys, even my checkbook, and I know these guys would still be on my side. They’ve become the family I thought I lost.”

“Rhodey’s have me back for as long as I can remember. where as my stalwart best friend or flying by my side as War Machine, he’s always been there for me. We’ve been brothers-in-arms from the moment I first saved his life. He’s since repaid the debt more times than I can remember. There’s no truer friend than Rhodey. And his middle name’s Rupert. Don’t tell him I told you.”

“I may have inherited a fortune from my parents, but the very best thing they left me was [Jarvis].”

“I thank the heavens for Pepper every day. I’m nominating her for sainthood. Seriously.”

“[Happy] may have been a little rough around the edges, but that was one of the things we all loved about him. Especially Pepper. Those two crazy kids were meant for each other and, even though things sometimes got rocky between them, their love was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Happy was a huge part of my world. And unfortunately is was my world--the world of Iron Man--that eventually got him killed. I’ll never forget that. And I’ll fight every day to make sure it never happens to anyone else I love.”

“Guys like The Ghost and Spymaster will stop at nothing to worm their way into a company’s infrastructure and dig up our darkest secrets to sell to the highest bidder. Which reminds me... I really need to delete my web browser’s search history...”

“[Janice] was one of the great loves of my life, and she lost hers because of me. I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven myself.”

“I have a soft spot for the bad girls.”

“[Rumiko and I] turned into something quite real, at least for a while. As usual, I got lost in my work... and I ended up losing Ru in the process.”

“When I really get down to work, I don’t have time to worry about what I look like. Maximum comfort yields maximum productivity. A pair of Chucks, well-worn jeans, and a T-shirt will do just fine.”

“Oddly enough, it’s the smallest stuff I get sentimental about. A watch and some engraved cufflinks. Dad left them on the nightstand the evening the accident happened. Collectors ask me about the watch once a month. It’s never going anywhere.”

“Easy listening is not on my playlist nor is mindless head banging. Classic rock, punk, and indie new wave are more my thing. I like the funky relaxes atmosphere in the ‘fringe’ and ‘artsy’ areas of my favorite big cities... preferably before they get gentrified and become infested with hipsters.”

“So any joint that dispenses concentrated caffeine and has free Wi-Fi will have me warming its bench seats sooner or later.”

“If somebody if bumped back on the waiting list because I showed up with no reso, I’ll gladly pick up their tab and add a nice bottle of a Pinot Noir.”

“[blueprint notes] Reprogram J.A.R.V.I.S to agree with me more often.”

“Still, mad respect for the classics.”

“...this suit boldly went where no Iron Man had gone before.”

“When designed some of my earlier armors, I always felt like something was missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Was it a faster core processor? A more powerful repulsor? A better defense system? You’d think. But instead, what did I add? A nose.”

“Jet. Powered. Roller. Skates. Yeah. You heard me.”

“My repulsor beams could stop a charging rhino in its tracks. Theoretically, of course. Rest assured, I’ve done no testing on actual rhinos. That would just be cruel.”

“There are people who say I am just a glorified machine operator. They think my armor is the real star of the show and that anyone could strap in and do my job just the same. Those people probably think that Jimi Hendrix was just a guitar player, or that Mario Andretti was just a driver.”

“[Has an entire section dedicated towards his science friends called “SCIENCE BROS!”]”

“Everything you learn in life can help inform your hardest decisions. Sometimes, though, the answers you can’t find in your head you can find in your soul. Or on Wikipedia.”

“Soon after, we came across the flash-frozen body of Captain America. We thawed him out, and he joined the team as well. Don’t tell him I said so, but it was one of the best days of my life. That’s when things started to click. Suddenly, the Avengers weren’t just another experiment to me. They were something bigger. Something important.”

“We’ve had a ton of different members over the years, but Cap and I have always held steady at the core of the Avengers...”

“...there’s no shame in relying on others to help you get the job done. Sometimes, there comes a day when even Earth’s Mightiest Heroes have to join forces to face the threats that no single hero can withstand. That’s when the call goes out. That’s when the Avengers assemble! (Ooh. Did you just get goosebumps, too?)”

“Whether you’re in charge of thousands of employees or a select squad of heroes, leadership is a pretty heavy burden. Choosing the path that is best for the most in the long run can come with major downsides in the short term. That’s the real test of your character--whether you can make the tough choice despite what everybody else thinks of you.”

“Life is good. I plan to enjoy every minute. And I know what I’ll be wearing as I do.”

#My god I love him so much I just!! LOVE HIM!!!

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datninjalyfe · 5 years ago

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Stay, Part 1: Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Favorite Childhood Memory

Izuku couldn’t focus on class. Aizawa had separated him and Katsuki, but placed him where was Todoroki directly in his line of sight. Distractedly, he tried to take notes, but when he reviewed over them during lunch, it didn’t make sense. He really tried, but no matter how many times he read over them, he couldn’t decipher his scribbles on the page.

“You okay?” Todoroki asked, sitting down across from him.

“I have no idea what I wrote down for my notes. Could I see yours?”

Todoroki reached into his bag and pulled out his notebook, handing it over to Izuku.

Dammit, of course this is what his notes look like. Information was written in lines and rows, laid out perfectly across the paper. Izuku found the actual information he was looking for, not sure where or why he got so lost. He quickly jotted it down in his own notebook, handing Todoroki his back as well, uttering a, “Thanks!” through a smile and pushing food into his mouth.

Iida and Uraraka started to walk over. Uraraka sat down next to Todoroki and almost immediately as Iida started to sit next to Izuku, a hand came out of nowhere, pushing Iida out of the way. Katsuki sat down directly next to Izuku, telling Iida, “Move it, Four Eyes.” Izuku eyes widened in surprise as Katsuki gave him a light kiss on his mouth. “Hey, nerd.”

“No, no!” Iida yelled. “You’re breaking so many rules! I can’t just—no, no, no, NO!”

“Relax, I just came over here to ask him a quick question.” Katsuki said, not looking over at him.

Izuku chuckled. “Sure, Kacchan, what’s up?”

“I made us dinner reservations for this weekend in Cloud City. Mina said there’s a festival this weekend—,”

“I didn’t hear that, what’s the festival—?” Uraraka started, but Katsuki instantly cut her off.

“He can’t go.” Todoroki told Katsuki.

Shit, I told him I’d go see his Mom again! “Yeah, sorry, Kacchan. I made plans already.”

Katsuki grew silent, anger flickered in his maroon eyes, but Todoroki didn’t so much as blink. Turning away from Todoroki, Katsuki looked back over at Izuku and said, “Cancel them, this is important.”

“Sorry, Kacchan, this is important too.” Izuku told him. “Can I text you about it later?” Izuku narrowed his gaze at Katsuki. That was their code for: We’ll talk about it later, when we’re alone.

Katsuki paused again before growling, “Fine.” Izuku knew he clearly understood the message. Katsuki kissed him before getting up and walking away, sitting next to his own group of friends, who started loudly berating him and he yelled, “Fucking hell, I’m not leaving you losers, I just had to ask Deku something!”

Later that day, as Izuku had gotten up from his seat in class, Todoroki pulled on his jacket, grabbing his attention. “Thanks for not saying anything about seeing Mom this weekend. Especially in front of Iida and Uraraka. If you want, you can tell Bakugou later. Maybe he’ll understand.”

But Katsuki didn’t. Izuku told him that he’d gone to see Todoroki’s mother the weekend he ran into Nebina. “I told Todoroki I wouldn’t anything to anybody, Kacchan.” They argued about it for a solid half-an-hour, Izuku trying to make him understand, but Katsuki hugged the side of his body, his hands starting to smoke.

“Deku. I’m not just anybody. I can hold a secret. Hell, I’m holding the most important secret in the world for you right fucking now, in case you forgot.” Katsuki snapped.

“I’m thankful for that, Kacchan, really, but this is important to him—,”

“To him? What about what’s important to me?” Katsuki said, raising his voice a bit. There was two knocks on the wall: Uraraka’s way of telling them they needed to be quieter. Katsuki exhaled, letting go of his body. He pushed out the chair from his desk and sat down. “Am I not important?”

“Kacchan, you are important.” Izuku said.

“It just seems like you spend so much time with everyone else.” Katsuki said. “It’s not fair.”

“You’re allowed to have friends. Why can’t I?”

“It’s not just that, though, is it?” Katsuki said, closing his eyes and turning his head away. His brows were shaking.

Izuku knew that face—he’d seen it so many times before. He didn’t want to see Katsuki upset. He wanted to get up, wanted to comfort him. Instead, Izuku said, “You have nothing to worry about.” Not a total lie: He doesn’t like me back. I want to spend time with you, I just don’t want to lose time with him either.

Katsuki was quiet for a moment, his sharp red eyes viciously cutting through Izuku, who knew that Katsuki was thinking up something quick to say and closed his eyes, waiting for it. But surprisingly, Izuku felt his lips—softly, lightly kissing Izuku. It lasted only for a few seconds, but as softly as he had kissed Izuku, he’d whispered, “Okay, Deku.” He wrapped his arms around Izuku’s shoulders, burying his head into Izuku’s neck.

This. It was this tender moment, where Katsuki was completely vulnerable that made Izuku melt for him. It was this moment that he had longed for as a kid, growing up with Katsuki. Wanting Katsuki to just be raw, exposing a gentler side of himself.

It was this kind of moment that Izuku could see himself falling in love with Katsuki. “Could you make yourself warm? It’s a bit cold.”

Katsuki smiled and unzipped the jacket he was wearing, handing it to Izuku, who put it on over his tank top. It was lighter than most of the others that Katsuki owned. Izuku inhaled the scent, feeling a sense of relief to the smell of sweet candy. Izuku noticed his injured arm mostly healed from the school nurse, now only in a wrap rather than the sling. “Come here, I’ll warm you up.” Katsuki laid down and held an arm out and Izuku placed his head on Katsuki’s shoulder. Katsuki pulled up the single sheet on his bed, covering the both of them. Despite that Katsuki was still wearing a tank top, Izuku immersed himself in the furnace coming from Katsuki, an intense heat that was sent in waves, like a heartbeat. “Better?”

Izuku nodded. “Your quirk is amazing, Kacchan.”

“I remember those words.” Katsuki said through a small chuckle. Izuku hugged Katsuki’s chest, the heat dispersed evenly throughout. “I remember you saying those words all those years ago.” A quiet laugh and he asked Izuku, “What’s your favorite memory of us as kids?”

“When you didn’t push me around like an asshole.” Izuku said and he immediately covered his mouth. “Shit, I—sorry!”

But Katsuki grabbed him tighter. “I was an asshole.”

Is he trying to apologize? Even if he was, Izuku didn’t know if he entirely forgave Katsuki, especially for one particular instance…or if he ever could. Todoroki wouldn’t hurt you like that—he’d never tell you to kill yourself—

“Deku, I—,”

“Remember that time,” Izuku interrupted, trying to get that thought out of his head. “After my Dad left, you invited me over for a sleepover and we looked through your All Might Collector’s Edition Book of his Greatest Saves and Fights?” Izuku felt the temperature in Katsuki’s chest rise. “That’s—that’s my favorite memory of us, Kacchan.” Izuku told him.

---

“Yeah, apparently, he left for the States.” Katsuki remembered his Mom saying at the breakfast table to his father.

“Who did?” Katsuki asked, reaching for some fruit on the table.

“Quiet, you!” she snapped.

“So, Inko’s alone?” his dad asked her, and she nodded.

“Wait, Deku’s dad left for America?”

“I told you to hush, Katsuki. I won’t ask again.” Mitsuki told her son. She turned her attention back to her husband. “Yeah, she isn’t sure when he’s going to come back.” Mitsuki smacked her son on the back of his head with the newspaper she was holding. “That means you behave yourself when you see him at school today, Katsuki.”

The smack stung, but the pain vanished quickly. He growled at her and when she snarled back. It wouldn’t change anything, Izuku’s Dad being gone. It just meant that he had more to leverage now.

But when Katsuki got to school, he was surprised that Izuku’s green eyes were completely lifeless and remained that way for the next few weeks. Katsuki tried everything to get a rise out of him, just to get Izuku to say something. But the boy’s eyes were bare and cold, but that didn’t stop Katsuki from using his untamed quirk on him. Still, Izuku said nothing. Did nothing.

“Did your Dad leave because you’re a quirkless loser?” Katsuki spat at him. “I bet he did. I know I would.” But Izuku just took it. He took the anguish. The bullying. Blast after blast of Katsuki’s quirk. “Dammit, Deku, what the hell is wrong?!”

Katsuki’d had enough. Katsuki held up his hand, holding so much heat, Katsuki didn’t know if he’d ever felt his quirk be that strong before. Dammit, Deku! Protect yourself! Run away! But Izuku said nothing. Did nothing. Katsuki cried out, pushing his explosion far to Izuku’s left.

It hurt Katsuki so badly, he thought he broke his wrist.

After two weeks of trying everything he could think of, he asked his mom if he could have a sleepover, “Can Deku come over this weekend, Mom?” Mitsuki just nodded, telling him he needed to get his chores done before having friends over.

Izuku came over that Friday. Katsuki tried to get him to play “Chase the Villain” but Izuku didn’t run away when Katsuki told him too. “Deku, you have to run away so I can catch you.” But when that didn’t work, the boys played video games, but it was no fun to play against someone who doesn’t care about winning. He tried making fun of the way Izuku played, but that only made him play worse. Then, an idea popped into Katsuki’s head. “Wait here, nerd.” Izuku said nothing, but nodded. Katsuki ran downstairs, yelling a couple things at this mother, who yelled back, but eventually Katsuki ran back to Izuku, holding a book in his hands. “Look, Deku!” Izuku looked up and his eyes lit up.

Gotcha! Katsuki thought, knowing full well the All Might Collector’s Edition would be just the thing to cheer up a fanboy like him. It had all the articles of All Might’s most famous saves and fights. Izuku smiled up at him, tears welling up in his eyes as Katsuki opened the book to his favorite All Might moment and the two of them cheerfully talked about it. They looked through all the pictures, recounting and reenacting the saves. They laughed, throwing fists around as if villains lurked in the air. It made Katsuki so happy to see Izuku—his Deku—was finally back to normal, but unknowing how to accurately portray his feelings, he threw the book at Izuku’s head, telling him, “Here, you can have it.” Izuku rubbed the red mark on his cheek where the book had landed, but Katsuki added quickly, “I have the more updated version anyway.”

A lie, but Izuku smiled up at him gratefully, “Thank you, Kacchan!”

“Kacchan, a-are you okay?” Izuku asked, waking Katsuki up from the childhood memory. They laid in his bed together now, Katsuki holding Izuku, trying to warm him from the cold air outside. Katsuki pressed wet tears into his skin with light fingers. Izuku held Katsuki’s cheek and brushed away a few of them with his thumb.

Katsuki sniffled loudly. “Shit, I—yeah, I remember that, Deku.” He remembered how lifeless Izuku had looked for those couple of weeks. Remembered how angry he’d been to see him upset, but how happy he was when he finally got Izuku to light up again.

Izuku climbed over Katsuki and jumped off the bed. “Wait here!” Izuku said.

“Where the fuck am I gonna go?” Katsuki started, but Izuku had already left the room and was gone for several minutes—Katsuki had almost fallen asleep when he heard Izuku land on his balcony and kick off his shoes as he entered Katsuki’s room.

“Sonova—!” Katsuki yelled as Izuku jumped on him, “Deku, you weigh a fuck ton—!” Izuku’s bright green eyes were wide with excitement as he held up the book that Katsuki had given him.

The book had definitely seen better days as some of the ink on the front picture was rubbed off, but Izuku exclaimed, “Look, Kacchan! I kept it!” he opened it up. “I haven’t looked at this in so long.” He laughed nervously, putting a hand on the back of his neck. “Sorry, I may have gone through it a couple times—,”

Katsuki looked at the book and back at his boyfriend and back at the book. Izuku gave him a quick kiss and they sat up in the bed, going through the book and discussing each save, each fight like they had, all those years ago. Katsuki wanted nothing more than to stay, locked in this moment of time. Stay like this. Here, with me, forever.

(previous)(next)

#bakugou katsuki #izubaku #bakudeku #bakugou x midoriya #deku x bakugou #kacchan #deku x kacchan #dekukacchan #izukatsu #izuku midoriya

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shadowthrone-ammanas · 5 years ago

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Ghost Kid Chapter Fifteen: Books

Surprisingly all Hat Kid had to do to get Snatcher to take her to the library again was ask. And even more surprisingly, he barely even complained before teleporting them there.

It was again very cool and fascinating to look around at the large books in their giant bookcases, lit only by the occasional magic candle. And it was a secret! She never would’ve even guessed such a place existed if Snatcher hadn’t told her about it and brought her here. It had to be underground somewhere, right? But what part of the rather large forest was it under? She’d probably never know and didn’t need to.

“I want to read the books you mentioned the other day about the Moonjumper guy,” she said, titling her head up to look at Snatcher. Moonjumper hadn’t appeared to her since that time but it was probably only a matter of time before she saw him again. “And then I want to find a good fiction book. … Can I borrow multiple books at once? You know I’m super careful and responsible with them now, right?”

Snatcher sighed as he moved them to different part of the library. “Fine.” He pulled three books off the shelf and handed them to her, shrinking them while he was at it. “Here are the books that mention that asshole. They’re not super informative so don’t expect much. One of them is particularly bad for other reasons but it’s whatever, I’m sure you won’t care.”

One of the books was a book about folklore, presumably Moonjumper was one of them. The other two seemed to be about powerful beings in general. The folklore book looked almost new.

“Thank you,” Hat Kid said, looking back up at him. “And now a fun book too?” She didn’t want to push her luck but reading the history book revealed to her that while nonfiction was good and informative, fiction was more fun and therefore better to relax with.

“Yes, fine, go find one. If I didn’t need to get it down for you, I’d let you run off but ugh… whatever, make it fast.”

Hat Kid smiled at him before running off, leaving him to follow.

***

It was dumb but Snatcher was glad to see Hat Kid so excited about books and reading. He’d converted her into being a book nerd, just like him. Not as much but given enough time perhaps so. Now if he could get her interested in law too…

Nope, that wasn’t something he should care about because he certainly wasn’t going to teach her law or anything else. Hat Kid was a nuisance. One he had to put up with because she was a ghost and ghosts weren’t tolerated many places outside of Subcon Forest. So he was stuck with her. He shouldn’t care that he’d got her into books and most certainly shouldn’t be considering trying to get her into other things too. She was nothing to him… or least that’s how things were supposed to be.

Maybe the thing she’d said Moonjumper had said about his feelings for her was right? He did use to want a kid one day, specifically a daughter. … Nope! That was when he was alive. He was barely the same person anymore. The only desire of his that was the same as when he’d been alive was the desire to rule over and protect his people. That was a princely/ruler thing though, all his personal desires were different. These days all he wanted on a personal level was more souls to eat and to be left alone by everyone else.

“What’s your favourite book?” Hat Kid asked, pulling his gaze back down to her. “Fiction book,” she added as he opened his mouth to name his favourite law book – the one he wrote because he was biased and not ashamed to admit it.

Coming up with his favourite fiction book was a lot harder. … He could think of a lot of good ones, some of the not suitable for a child to read though both in level and content so… “Are you asking out of curiosity or for a recommendation?”

“Both.”

“Hmmm…” He listed off a string of book titles that undoubtedly meant nothing to her. He didn’t even bother trying to come up with books that would be suitable for her, just listed all the good ones that came to his mind.

“You can go on about this for a long time, can’t you?” Hat Kid eventually cut in.

“I’ve read a lot of books kid, asking me for a favourite or a recommendation probably isn’t a good idea.” Especially since he didn’t yet know what kind of books she actually liked. “I could lecture you about the law for hours on end too if you want.” Or a myriad other things, he’d been an avid scholar back in the day and still was in a way. He had a lot of knowledge about a lot of different things.

“Um, as interesting as sitting through long lectures about the law sounds, no thanks. Give me a book with aliens in it though. I want to know what you guys think beings from outer space might be like.”

Snatcher shrugged and teleported the first book he could think of that fit that criteria to hover in the air in front of her, shrinking it down to normal size in the process. Her face lit up.

“It’s got a pretty cover,” she said as she grabbed it and placed it on top of stack of books.

“Yeah, it’s a collector’s edition so don’t you dare damage it.” If she hadn’t already proven herself trustworthy with his books, he wouldn’t have ever dreamed of lending it to her.

“I won’t, I promise. Thank you for letting me borrow your books.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He’d brought her mostly as an excuse to visit his library. His ability to just teleport the books to himself meant he didn’t have cause to visit it often. He should try to make a point to do that more just for the sake of it.

“But um… you can change your size and stuff, will I be able to do that soon if I eat enough souls? And what about changing the size of other things? Like you do with your books. Because if I have enough magic to do that then I can take my own books off the shelf and all you have to do is take me here and get me out.”

“I don’t know if I’d trust you alone in my library.” It would make it easier on him though. “But yeah, in theory after you eat enough souls you should be able to do those things. I don’t know how many so don’t ask. You have your books now though and it should keep you occupied for a while so we’re done here.”

Before she could protest, he teleported them back to the surface and into his large reading hollow. “Now shoo.” He made a shooing gesture towards her as he settled into his chair and teleported a book to himself to read.

“Okay, see you later. And uh… you still need to teach me how to snatch souls sometimes so don’t forget. Bye!” She waved before turning to leave.

He scowled after her as she floated off towards her ship. He hadn’t promised though, he’d said maybe. Even if internally he’d known that meant ‘yes’, she shouldn’t know that so she shouldn’t presume it to be so. Maybe he wouldn’t teach her after all. … Though really, it depended on how he felt when a teaching opportunity came up.

***

Without fixing the ship to occupy her anymore, Hat Kid sat on her bed to read. She was starting to take after Snatcher, huh? Reading because she didn’t have anything else to do and enjoying it. Who knew books could be so much fun? She would have to try to get her TV and game system working again soon too though. Maybe she could even convince Snatcher to play videogames with her. She couldn’t really imagine him doing it but it’d be tons of fun if he did.

For now though, she placed her stack of books on the bedside table. She put the pretty alien book aside and put the other three on her bed in front of her. She’d read all of them but for now, she was going to read the parts about Moonjumper.

A couple hours later

Snatcher had been right, they weren’t exactly the most informative. The sections on Moonjumper in all three books weren’t long and were almost entirely speculative in nature. There were only two things all three books agreed on. The first was that Moonjumper liked to cause mischief, sometimes very harmful and bad, other times just harmless confusion and mild annoyance. The second was that he interacted with the physical world by stealing a body from a dying person and that his presence corrupted the body until it was no longer inhabitable at which point he got a new one.

What he was exactly, where he came from and even whether or not he was native to this planet were all unknowns. The books didn’t even speculate much, mostly just stating that no one knew nor was anyone likely to ever find out because Moonjumper apparently talked to very few people and had never revealed that information nor did he seem likely to. It was dumb.

Hat Kid could possibly ask him and maybe get some information. But… after that first time she’d talked to him she really didn’t want to because he might start telling her things for the sole purpose of being upsetting again. She didn’t trust him one bit. So with an annoyed sigh she picked up one of the books again. While looking through the table of contents, she’d seen a chapter about Snatcher that she wanted to read. The folklore book had such a chapter too. It was unlikely that she’d learn any new information but whatever, it shouldn’t take too long to read anyway.

An hour later

She slammed the folk lore book shut with a scowl. She couldn’t believe how inaccurate it’s chapter about Snatcher was. It claimed that he’d worked with Vanessa to freeze the forest, killing everything so he could take control of it all. It was a disgusting lie, how could they possibly suggest such a thing? The other book had at least had the decency to say no one knew where the Snatcher – called the Soul Snatcher at one point before it had gotten shortened in part due to the fact that he occasionally snatched other things too – had come from.

It did call to mind the question of why no one remembered the prince, aka Lukas, anymore but Vanessa’s name was still well known. Of course part of that had to do with the fact that Vanessa was still alive – effectively anyway, it was hard to tell for sure, though it was possible with magic. But… why had Snatcher been so persistent about erasing his past as the prince? So much so that no one even knew his name anymore and people confused him for having allied with Vanessa when she’d killed an entire kingdom’s worth of people?

Well, his past wasn’t a good one. Maybe he was just… burying it because he wanted to pretend it never happened. Hat Kid wasn’t an expert on such things but she was pretty sure that that wasn’t a healthy way to deal with that kind of stuff. … She’d give him a hug later, maybe help him feel a bit better.

Previous / Next

#My Writing #Ahit #A Hat In Time #ghost kid #ghost kid fic #snatcher & hat kid #Dadcher

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vapormaison · 6 years ago

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2019 Best Press 3/4: カタカナ・タイトル + Kanji Title by TANUKI

While for many vaporwave vinyl is doubtless equal parts collector’s item and audio source, I don’t want to lose sight of the goal of this blog here: developing a canon of the genre for high fidelity enjoyment. That said, when I come across something remarkable or noteworthy about a particular piece of wax, even if it is not a “purely audiophile” object, I want to make mention of it.

And TANUKI’s カタカナ・タイトル + Kanji Title wax release is not only noteworthy, but contends for hi-fi consideration despite it’s status as a picture disc.

But let’s back up slightly.

Going back to the previous thesis on why we buy records, sometimes you just want to own a vinyl just because. Just because you’re a collector trying to compile a discography on wax — or, better yet, just because you truly love the album art. For me, カタカナ・タイトル + Kanji Title (Double EP) was undoubtedly all of the three “just be-causes”.

A while back, I noticed that the LP was going into its 3rd press, and decided to snap up a copy because I like Tanuki, I like Lum, and because of those other just becauses. Unfortunately the only format available was not the pink vinyl, but the picture disc. As I’m sure is well-known (because audiophiles are very loud about things they dislike), picture-discs are a big no-no in the audiophile community. This is because while a beautiful objet d’art, a serious listening session of a picture disc release will usually produce greater amounts of surface noise than any other type of vinyl. You can, of course, with the right system, neutralize and mitigate this process slightly, but true-blue hi-fi heads pursuing that elusive muse of “pure sound” would never give a picture disc a second look.

I’m not one of those people.

Tangentially, I’ve heard whispers of ghosts of rumors from when I was living in Shenzen, China — that various record suppliers (small batch Makers) are working out manufacturing and material processes that minimize these issues on pic discs to create appealing records that cover all the bases: hi-fi suitability, collector oriented visual esoterica, and price. I should also admit I have no idea where those companies are in terms of R&D and/or producing these. I end up catching a lot of very fast talk from extremely motivated enthusiasts, but Chinese is still as elusive a language to me at times as “pure sound” can be. With that in mind, however, it’s logical to surmise that advances in technology will eventually render the differences between picture discs and traditional black wax undistinguishable. So long as the world isn’t destroyed in some cataclysmic climate disaster (very real possibility), or -- as we are watching evolve now: World War 3. My view is that it’d be pointless to dismiss the format out of hand when there are active attempts to innovate it as we speak.

That all said, I know what to expect when a contemporary, big-label picture disc plays. During my college days, I used to spin wax at the university radio station. One of the previous catalog managers had a fetish for this “collectible” format, and was convinced he was doing the station a favor by purchasing all these vinyls, noting a pre-supposed resale value later. I remember throwing these on the well-worn Technics SP-10 we had as our main turntable, and listening to the occasional scratch, frequent popping, and constant surface noise, that for the uninitiated (bless you), sounds like a sustained “cracking” in your Rice Krispies — or for those born in the analog age, CRTV static.

So when I sat down with the Tanuki picture disc, I had this laundry list of preconceptions and prejudices about the format. I thought that I could listen to a moderately scratchy record once or twice, keep it as more a visual boutique item and then eventually include in an article where I bemoan the poor quality of the genre’s releases.

But then, I actually listened.

And it sounded… well, I won’t get ahead of myself. Here’s the full review:

THE MUSIC

BABYBABYの夢 — is doubtless the reason why many of us have bought the EP from a sonic perspective —especially if the band-camp reviews are indicative of trends. I still maintain that this is the Mariya Takeuchi sample/remix work par excellence. Tanuki hits all the essential notes here, a genuine respect and love for the sound-staging of its original source, Yume No Tsuzuki. I still get echoes of the original arrangement in my system, (ever so slightly) with a bright and dance-infused collection of unique sounds — particularly in that delicious, wide mid-range — that flesh out the track into its own sort of masterpiece.

何がGoin' On — the curatorial and conspiratorial side of my brain tells me that Goin’ On will probably go down as one the under-appreciated vintage bangers of this era of future funk. I can envision hipsters two or three decades from now sussing out a neophyte with pretentious questions about this track’s pitch-shifted sample draws from. It has that sort of vibe that you know hits with a certain subset of electronica fans — rich & vibrant, making the tweeters on your system work out in all the best ways — it’s just great.

がんばれ — Tanuki is at his best when he gets playful with brass samples. I firmly believe that the titans in this genre each have their go-to piece in their best arrangement — like Dan Mason’s creative vocal array, or greyL’s manipulation of micro-samples. For Tanuki, it’s whenever her gets a horn — synthesized or otherwise, into his production workflow.

ファンクOFF — continues Tanuki’s magic act, taking another city pop track more iconic for its soulful electric guitar riff and turning it into the most slap-worthy single on this EP. I prefer it when Japanese pop samples are fundamentally re-imagined, although I can see how the perfectionist tweaking of someone like Yung Bae is more appealing for some. Tanuki is undoubtedly one of the innovators of this genre, and there’s no more solid evidence of that talent than this track.

腕の中でDancin’ — if I ended up hosting a sort of mythical vaporwave grammies or something like that, (I’m available, folks!) I would probably go off on a Ricky Gervais style rant on how artists aren’t in touch with “the people” (read: me) because all we really want are more remixes of Meiko Nakahara songs — who given her impact on City Pop should have way more play in this genre than she does. This one, like most of the Meiko mixes I’ve heard, is a banger with an absolute fire bass riff punctuated throughout.

Radiant Memories — this might be my first certified “hot take” in the publication (they’ll be many more, I imagine) — but as far as I’m concerned this is the superior Plastic Love edit. I’ll just leave my thoughts there, so they can soak in with a portion of the fanbase who split my reddit account on an open fire of downvotes for suggesting that other artists than Macross 82-99 (Praise be upon him!) are allowed to touch this song as well. While Macross’s mix is definitely the more up-temo of the two, and that for some is the very essence of the genre, this slightly down-mixed version is both the perfect conclusion for the EP and ideal antithesis.

THE LISTENING EXPERIENCE

Signal to Raise ratio on the following albums:

カタカナ・タイトル + Kanji Title: ~61.9db (1 db MoE)

Tron Legacy, Daft Punk: 58.4db

Love Trip, Takako Mamiya, Kitty Records Press: 65.8db

(ratings based on averages 5 minutes of sustained play on the testing unit, the machine actually complied this data on its preset, which is another fascinating part about this sort of vintage press-testing tech). The margin of error is because the machine, according to my mentor Dr. Juuso Ottala formerly of Harman International, informs me it was never meant to give accurate readings of picture discs, and to add about a dB of error margin.

One of the benefits of growing up in New England and, subsequently, New York, is that there are no shortage of heritage professional audio brand HQs in operation around a 200 mile radius from Manhattan to Boston. Off the top of my head, there’s Harman/Kardon, Boston Acoustics, Bose, NuMark, Marantz, and Rane headquarters within an hour’s drive from my two hometowns. Early on in my audiophile quest, I got my hands on some cool vintage gear — vinyl lathe testing equipment that has collected dust in both an old Harman technician’s storage unit, and now my parent’s basement. Over the holiday, I recently brought it out to do some surface noise testing on it to get a rough confirmation of what I was explaining in yesterday’s hi-fi guide. The innards of the machine looks eerily like a plinth-less linear tonearm and plate pair attached to a monitor. After making sure I’m not violating some kind of Harman International trade secret, I’ll post it on instagram.

Wanting to also get a firm idea on just how good my ear-test sounded, I grabbed another picture disc vinyl I had received as a gift a few years ago from my brother — the Tron Legacy OST. While I found the film passably enjoyable, my own preconceptions about pic discs, and a general exhaustion with french house — left me with no discernible desire to spin the thing. I hadn’t even broken the seal on the plastic wrap, so it seemed like as good as a blind test as any. I also grabbed what my ears tell me is a “good”, “heavy” press, a 1982 original dead-stock copy of Takako Mamiya’s Love Trip LP pressed by Kitty Records Japan. I’ve played it maybe a half dozen times since I bought it, so it’s as close to “new” 80s audiophile pop record as you can get. The Japanese are infamously anal about low SNR on their vinyl.

And, well, the results speak for themselves. The sweet spot for most black vinyl records is between 60-70db depending on age, weight, and a host of other frankly uncontrollable factors that aren’t worth getting into detail here, as I’d go on forever. The main takeaway here is that Neoncity’s and Tanuki’s record sat at the low end of the audiophile vinyl reference spectrum. Which in itself is a remarkable achievement for a pic disc. It’s worth taking a look at Tron Legacy, which just barely scratches 8db above a cassette tape, and 7db a Japanese vinyl from 1982.

This is all in an effort to say: damn, this is pretty good.

This also somewhat counters the usual “picture discs sound like shit” narrative that’s prevailed pretty consistently in the audiophile community. Tron Legacy? Yeah, that probably sounds like shit if I could bother to suffer through a listen. But whoever Hong-Kong based Neoncity is using actually makes “good” — if such a qualifier needs to be attached — image-pressed records. And that devotion to audio fidelity should be rewarded.

It might be time for me to re-asses picture discs on the whole, and that mind-expanding moment is something I owe to the fine folks at Neoncity.

#bestof2019 #bestpress

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shipmistress9 · 6 years ago

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FTLOAP - 40.5: Interlude 5: The Ride

Fandom: HTTYD

Theme: Hiccstrid - Medieval-style AU - Romance - Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Reduced to little more than a stable boy, Hiccup, despite his noble birth, has few prospects for more in life. But when he meets a girl who came to look at the horses, being a stable boy might not be enough anymore. Together, they have tough choices to make and great risks to navigate if they want to survive and be together.

Rating: Explicit

FF-net - AO3 -

Discord-server for discussions and questions

Part 1: Prologue; Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6; Chapter 7; Chapter 8; Chapter 9; Chapter 10; Chapter 11;

Part 2: Chapter 12; Chapter 13; Chapter 14; Interlude 1; Chapter 15; Chapter 16; Chapter 17; Chapter 18; Chapter 19; Chapter 20; Chapter 21; Chapter 22; Chapter 23; Chapter 24; Chapter 25; Chapter 26; Interlude 2; Chapter 27: Chapter 28 ; Chapter 29 ; Chapter 30; Chapter 31; Chapter 32; Interlude 3; Bonus 1; Chapter 33

Part 3: Chapter 34; Chapter 35; Chapter 36; Interlude 4; Chapter 37; Chapter 38; Chapter 39; Chapter 40

Alpha/Co-author: @athingofvikings

. – * – _ . o O o . _ – * – .

AN: Ah, yes, this is why I don't like posting too long chapters... Judging by the reactions, the points that were important to me seemed to have drowned in everything else. Ah, well... Splitting the previous chapter and drawing it out longer wouldn't have been a good choice either, so I'll have to live with this now.

This week, the summer holidays started here. That means that I will have even less time to write, but I'll try to stick to the schedule nonetheless. I can't make any promises though, especially with me and my family going on vacation in the week before the next planned update. All I can promise is that I will try.

But! Chapter 41 is one of the most important chapters of this entire story to me and I want to get it right! Meaning, I won't update in two weeks if it's not in a state I'm satisfied with. Sorry.

. o O o .

With a tired sigh, King Osmond of House Hofferson, ruler of the United Kingdom of Volantis, took a moment to rest his head in his hands. Sometimes he wondered just how much time exactly he spent in this room, sitting at his desk and brooding over reports, lists, and requests. But then, did it matter? Someone had to do this and as King it was his duty to make decisions. And if he made the wrong decision, or even let anyone else make these decisions, thousands could and would suffer. No, it was his responsibility to make sure the right decisions were made – or at the very least the ones that offered the minimum amount of harm…

However, it looked as if his recent decisions were paying off positively. Going through the reports of the last two weeks helped bring a grim smile of satisfaction to his face. He still wasn’t happy with the solution he and his friends had settled upon some months ago, but he couldn’t deny that it was working. Before they’d begun these festivities, he’d compiled a single list of the men they knew were in the conspiracy, and another list of those they reasonably suspected of being in it by association and personal reputations. Those two lists had composed the core of the guest list. And now he was crossing off names from both. Nearly two dozen dead so far, and nearly all of them were on one of the two lists. From what it looked like, the greedy agitators were even murdering each other for their chance at the prize, presumably getting rid of their most dangerous competitors first, and making the upcoming work of the King’s Guard that much easier. Indeed, aside from the incident with the boar, where his huntsman had deliberately set a group of the known traitors after a boar – when they had only been prepared for hunting deer – every other death had come from their fellow men.

The next report listed the injured and the maimed. Here, the divide between the innocent and the guilty wasn’t quite as favourable, but he knew the patients would get the best possible care, which was all he could do for them. Injuries were a common risk, after all.

Yes, as much as he detested having to use this approach to get rid of the traitors, he had to admit that it was working out splendidly. The highest priority target, Duke Thuggory, might still be alive – and had, annoyingly, been the one to finish off the boar – but there was plenty of time to remedy that fact.

He put the list aside, took a sip of his wine, and reached for the next report. It was the account of the guards that had been sent out to look for the missing tax collector. Neither the man nor his coach had been found by now, so the question remained whether he’d been attacked or had gone into hiding himself. Osmond’s gut told him that it was likely the former, as the man had been loyal for many years now, but that wasn’t why this report made him grimace. This incident wasn’t directly related to the current events at the castle, but... The money and goods this specific man had gathered had been meant to pay for Astrid’s wedding, both for the celebrations and also her dowry. And while the castle’s treasury was filled well enough to compensate the loss, this report only reminded him of what he tried not to think about too often – that this entire charade was being paid at the expense of his beloved daughter.

Osmond leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face, but then stood up and, almost without thinking, walked over to a large painting that hung in the more comfortable corner of his office. With tired eyes, he looked up into the face of his beloved Brenna; it was so similar to Astrid’s that he sometimes, when she entered a room or they met in the corridors, thought it was her.

“I wonder what you would have to say if you were here, my love,” he murmured, reaching out to let his fingers glide along the gilded frame. “I assume you’d scold me for using our daughter as bait, especially after the price you paid for her life. But that’s the lot of the royal family, isn’t it? To make sacrifices for the good of the people. And from what it looks like, she’s going to marry Eret’s son; that isn’t too bad, right? Not what you and your best friend had hoped for, not her marrying her son but only her nephew. But given the circumstances, this is the best option for her. I just wish I could already tell her why all this is necessary, but I promise that I will do so eventually. I hope she may forgive me one day, and… and I hope you can, too.”

But, of course, he got no answer. Brenna just kept gazing down at him with those beautiful deep blue eyes and that slightly cheeky smile of hers. Gods, how much he missed her...

For a little while longer, he stayed where he was, gazing up at the painting, before he returned to his desk. He knew that Astrid wasn’t thrilled about any of this, but at least she seemed to be better now that she’d apparently made her choice. All he could do now was hope that, over time, the close friendship she and young Eret shared would turn into more; that was why he’d instructed to grant her more time with him and Oswald’s boy during the weeks before her birthday, after all.

Although… given how much pain love had brought him, he wasn’t so sure whether that was really something to wish for. Losing Brenna, the love of his life, had nearly killed him too. It had certainly maimed his heart for many years. Only reluctantly, he’d agreed to marry again ten years later, and it had taken three more years to overcome his aversion against the woman his advisors had picked for him. And just when his heart had started to love again, she’d been taken from him, too. Logically, he knew that the bad days were only bearable because he could remember the happy ones… but he also hoped that none of his children would ever have to suffer the pain of burying their loved ones way too early.

. o O o .

“Ah, there’s nothing quite like a good ride through the countryside, don’t you agree?”

Osmond glanced at his friend Eret II from the corner of his eye, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I do. But you do remember that not everyone feels the same way, yes? There’s no need to tease Oswald tonight for not wanting to come along.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Eret pouted.

From the side, Spitelout approached them on his white stallion. Out of the four of them, he was the only one not riding one of the Jag’r horses, as he’d never had the patience to learn how to deal with one of the demanding beasts. “No, really, Eret. You shouldn’t tease Ozzie; he gets enough riding of another sort, after all. Grapevine has it that he and his mistress are expecting again.”

“Oh, is that so?” Eret laughed. “You really do have your spies everywhere, don’t you?”

Spitelout shrugged with a wide grin. “I like to be well-informed.”

Osmond joined in into the laughter that followed, though only half-heartedly. His eyes had fallen on someone dressed in a wide flowing dress of blue and turquoise, and after a murmured excuse to his friends, he led his horse to her side.

“Good morning, Astrid,” he greeted her, smiling warmly, but just as he’d feared and expected, she barely even looked at him in return.

“Good morning, Sire,” she replied obediently, making a perfect bow on the back of her broad gelding.

Her formal address pained him, but he didn’t let anything show. He was aware of her current opinion of him, and as much as he’d liked to explain and maybe redeem himself in her eyes – he knew that this wasn’t the time, not yet. Maybe it would come one day – when the traitors were dealt with and secrecy wasn’t as crucial anymore – but for now, it was better she focused all her anger on him. It hopefully meant that her heart was otherwise free to find warmth and comfort in young Eret’s arms.

“I hope this ride is to your liking,” he tried nonetheless. “I know how fond you are of riding, so I hope this is a welcome diversion to the latest events for you.” The necessary hunts and tournaments might be supposedly to her honour, but Osmond was no fool. He knew his daughter well enough to know that she wasn’t enjoying those, which was why he’d done everything in his power to follow young Eret’s suggestions and squeeze in this ride between the other planned events.

Astrid, however, merely shrugged. “I’ll try to enjoy it if that is your wish. With this saddle, this company, and the expected pace, I can’t make any promises though.”

With these words, she directed her gaze to the side to where now the last members of the party, young Eret and his squire, Stoick’s boy, came to join them. Her turning away without a word in public was borderline discourteous – he hadn’t dismissed her, after all – but she hadn’t turned her back on him. So, Osmond didn’t reprimand her. He wanted her to focus on the newcomer, after all.

Instead, he simply gave the signal for the group to get started. He rode at the front, with Astrid at his side and a few guards loosely around them, but soon the formation shifted and changed and he could only watch her from a bit of a distance as he made way for the young men around them to talk to her. For a short while, young Eret rode next to her and it was obvious how much more relaxed she was around him. But soon, voices got louder that demanded their share of the Princess’s time as well, and so her attention was taken up by the ever-changing and increasingly desperate conversational partners.

“They haven’t given up just yet, eh?” Eret II muttered as he rode next to Osmund and shook his head.

Spitelout snorted. “Of course, they haven’t. Many of them came a long way to court her, and so far, nothing is official. I doubt even tonight’s ball will change that.”

They all watched as young Snotlout took his place at Astrid’s side next and it didn’t escape anyone’s notice how she pursed her lips at that. Osmond threw Spitelout an inquisitive look, interested in how his friend would react to the obvious rejection, but either he didn’t care much or he was way better at hiding his opinion than he’d thought. There was no reaction in his friend’s face whatsoever, so Osmond just shrugged and for a while, they rode on without much in terms of conversation. It really was a lovely day, and spending it outside with a leisure activity like peacefully riding along the shore of Lake Vola instead of brooding over even more reports was a great diversion.

“Oh, I can’t believe it!” Eret exclaimed after what had to be nearly two hours into their ride. Soon, they would take a break to eat the picnic the servants riding with them had brought along before they would return to the castle.

Curious about what agitated his friend so much, Osmond followed his eyes to the young man who now approached Astrid – and gritted his teeth. Duke Thuggory of Meathead. If he could, Osmond would have forbidden him to come close to his daughter. But he had no legitimate reason to do so, nothing but assumptions, suspicions, and secret information. No, all he could do was watch and silently apologise to Astrid for making her endure this.

But apparently, his friend’s agitation had another reason.

“I wonder how that piece of filth got his hands on one of our horses,” Eret hissed. “Because he certainly didn’t get it directly from us. I’d rather take a good stallion back to our farms again before I hand him over to someone who wouldn’t treat him right. But with his influence, it probably wasn’t difficult for him to find a middleman. Odin, I wish I could demand the poor beast back from him. See? He can’t even control him right!”

Osmond’s eyes narrowed to slits as he watched the hated nobleman. Eret was right, the stallion the duke was riding was barely under his control, prancing left and right and throwing his head around. The sight wasn’t exactly reassuring – although it did come with the hope that the Duke would get thrown from the saddle and break his neck, thereby removing the biggest threat to the realm, as Thuggory’s lands were a knife poised at the heart of the kingdom, only a day’s ride from Lake Vola. But there was the fact that he was so close to Astrid, and riding so haphazardly. It was only his knowledge about Astrid’s exceptional riding skills that kept him from interfering then and there.

A decision he regretted only seconds later – and probably would for the rest of his life.

It happened in an instant, too fast for him or anyone else around them to react. When Thuggory rode closer to Astrid, his stallion threw its head up and tried to bite Astrid’s gelding without warning. Astrid’s horse shied away from the aggressive stallion with a distressed whinny. She tried to reign him in, but couldn’t hold him when Thuggory’s stallion attacked again, his jaws snapping with a harsh click! that Osmund could even hear from his place yards away. When Markor bolted away from the attacking stallion, his panic infected many of the horses around him, but Osmund was less concerned about the sudden stampede than he was about the fact that Astrid was at the head of it, barely able to keep her seat as Markor ran for his life.

“After them!” he bellowed, unable to get to his daughter himself with all the jumbled horses around him. But his words drowned in the general uproar, all men around shouting over one another. It was chaos, and he barely managed to keep sight of Astrid and her horse as they set off across a field and toward a nearby copse of aspen. Again, he tried to push through the chaos, but to no avail. Thor, keep her safe! he prayed desperately, helpless to do anything.

Then he lost sight of her completely and only a few moments later, a bloodcurdling scream thundered over the plain. The chaos grew as even more horses panicked at the noise, running off in all directions. But Osmond froze even as his steed beneath him pranced left and right, his heart stuttering painfully. No… No, he couldn’t lose her too!

Frantically, he tried to push through the mass of milling horses and riders; most of the mounts weren’t battle-trained and were running wild, resulting in utter chaos. He kept having to halt and turn or risk a collision, but he didn’t dare stop; his eyes were darting to and fro, looking for that patch of blue and turquoise that would tell him where his daughter was. He couldn’t find her, but a moment later he spotted something else that, while still telling him nothing about where Astrid was or whether she was alright, at least somewhat eased his mind.

There were two riders darting past the general throng, one on a big black stallion and the other one astride a smaller chestnut mare. But unlike most of the others on this ride, they were clearly still in full control of their horses, heading in the direction Astrid’s gelding had disappeared to.

With knowing that young Eret was already coming to her help, Osmond was able to calm down somewhat, enough to concentrate on his own surroundings again. It took him a few minutes, but eventually, he managed to find a way out of the chaos as many men got their horses under control again.

When he and a group of other men reached the copse, it took them a minute to find Astrid and Eret, the sounds of her wailing and of soft whispers leading their way. The sight that greeted them was reassuring – but still bad enough.

From what it looked like, Astrid was unharmed with only her hair and dress ruffled from the fall. He couldn’t be entirely sure though as she was largely hiding from everyone’s view, encased in Eret’s embrace and her face buried against his chest. The same couldn’t be said for her horse though. The gelding lay a few steps away from the couple, unmoving, and with Stoick’s boy kneeling near his head.

“Oh, by Thor’s hammer!” Eret cursed as he reached his side a few moments later. He’d apparently seen the obvious too – the unnatural angle in which the gelding’s left hind leg dangled, a bloody splinter of bone sticking out from the skin, the bloody dagger lying next to his head, and the equally bloody hands of the boy stroking the dead horse’s mane. From the looks of it, the horse had stumbled, possibly in a burrow or on other uneven ground, and thrown Astrid off, who had miraculously landed uninjured... but Markor had broken his leg, and badly. Stoick’s boy had given the only mercy available to the poor beast.

During the next minutes, more men appeared around them, taking in the scene with gasps and hushed whispers. Some offered their sympathy even though nobody dared to get any closer, and Osmond doubted that Astrid heard any of that between Eret murmuring into her ear and her own sobbing and wailing. It was a strange sight and it took Osmond a minute to understand why.

Astrid was crying.

He tried to remember when he’d last seen her in such a state but came up empty-handed except for very early memories of her toddler years. No matter how dreadful an occasion, be it her stepmother’s funeral or the assaults on her during the past year, she’d always kept up her facade when in public, had always shown nothing but strength. For her to break down like this now… His eyes wandered back to the dead gelding, and only slowly did it dawn on him how hard this must have hit her. He wanted to go to her, too, to take his daughter into his arms and comfort her. But she wouldn’t appreciate that – even her warder kept his distance, leaving her the space she needed – so he held back.

Instead, he ordered to no-one in particular, “We will return to the castle immediately.” That would give her at least a little privacy.

Around him, the men hustled about, delivering the message to those standing farther away. Young Eret tried to pull Astrid away from the site of the accident, and Osmond heard him murmur “Come, there’s nothing left we can do for him,” when she weakly fought against him. Eventually, she gave in though, and let him lead her toward his own horse. She was already on the stallion’s back, young Eret about to climb up behind her, when a highly unwelcome voice spoke up near them.

“Isn’t this an unfair advantage to Sir Eret if the Princess rides with him? It’s not as if her choice is official yet, she could still change her mind.”

Osmond gritted his teeth but kept his expression neutral as he turned toward Duke Thuggory. There was no hint of remorse on his face, even though he and his lack of control over his stallion were to blame for this accident. If only he’d interfered sooner – or had gotten rid of the traitor already.

He was about to form an answer when he caught sight of his friends’ expressions standing nearby. Eret was grimacing, clearly as enraged as Osmond was about the Duke’s behaviour, but Spitelout looked more cautious, and when he caught his eyes, he shrugged apologetically. “He has a point.”

Osmond pressed his lips into a thin line. Of course, he had a point. Not only about giving an advantage to one of her suitors, but letting her ride on a stallion was also highly inappropriate. Letting out a low sigh, his shoulders slumped down. As much as he wanted to grant her the comfort of riding with her soon-to-be-husband, he couldn’t allow it yet. His eyes wandered around, pondering the alternatives. If it were only about not giving an advantage, she could ride with him or one of the Grand Dukes, but they were all riding stallions, too, and it wasn’t really becoming of their status anyway. Her warder would be a better option, but Osmond doubted the old pony the man was riding could carry two people over such a distance. His eyes wandered on, over the guards who also all rode stallions and the servants with their full picnic baskets. None of them were suitable options either and he wasn’t sure whether to trust them with Astrid in her brittle state right now anyway. He was at a loss as to what to decide – until his eyes fell on the lonely figure still kneeling next to the horse’s corpse.

The boy rode a mare, didn’t he? In addition, he had no further weight to carry, and hadn’t he become something of a friend to Astrid, too? Also… he didn’t know the boy at all, but with what Osmund remembered about his parents, how his upbringing must have been, and how highly Daniel was thinking of him – he couldn’t help but trust in the boy’s character.

Being satisfied with this decision, he declared in a voice which clearly didn’t tolerate protest, “The Princess will ride with Sir Eret’s squire.”

. o O o .

Here again the reminder that I can't promise there won't be a new chapter in two weeks! We're on family vacation and the next chapter is too important to be released in a half-finished state.

Next chapter

#For The Love Of A Princess #FTLOAP #Hiccstrid #Hiccstrid fanfiction #fanfiction #httyd #httyd fanfiction #Romance/Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Fluff #Hiccstrid Medieval AU #medieval au #hiccstrid royal au #royalty au

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 6 years ago

Photo

Congratulations, Meghan! You’ve been accepted to play Zoey Everett. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: This was such a hard decision to make because there were three other perfectly written auditions. I’m not even exaggerating, they were all perfect, spot on, flawless. In the end, I think you did such an amazing job at portraying Zoey. Everything felt so fluid in the samples, I could tell that you really connected with her. I can’t wait to see this character fleshed out even more! - Admin V

IC INFORMATION —

CHARACTER DESIRED

Zoey Everett.

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS

No need to rewrite the biography - but who are they to you? What are their goals, ambitions, or flaws? Here’s your opportunity to show us who this character is to you.

I think Zoey is someone who is a complicated balance of strength, belief, and a sensitivity that borders on vulnerable. She had always been innately strong— however, shouldering the abuse meant for both her and her mother created something unbreakable inside her at a young age. She wouldn’t be cowed by intimidation. She wouldn’t retreat inside of herself when confronted. As a child, Zoey could do nothing to change her situation— but there wasn’t a single force in the world that could dictate how she should react.

Bruce’s hair-trigger temper was as fragile as tripwire, and Zoey learned quickly nothing would please him. It was better to retain every inch of her resolve instead of folding, better to keep a tight grip on her kindness in favor of becoming hard. These things couldn’t be beaten out of her— not even when she felt abandoned by her mother, or when the weight of hiding the abuse sat on Zoey’s chest like a weight.

Strength was a necessity, a survival tactic.

She was young, yes, still knobby-kneed and freckled, but she was firm in her sense of self— Zoey reacted to things on her own terms.

It would have been easier to harden herself, as a way of protection. Many children would have. But Zoey let herself remain sensitive to a full spectrum of emotions, let herself be moved by beautiful things, by new people, culture, something as simple as trying Italian ice for the first time, or something as grand as seeing La Pieta during a college trip.

Her warmth and sensitivity was not naive; instead it was incredibly purposeful. It was this strong sense of identity that helped her to endure. She wouldn’t lose herself to trauma.

Because of Zoey’s resolve, and her strength, as an adult she has an incredible capacity for sensitivity—allowing herself to be vulnerable in the most human of ways. Her job demands vulnerability. Reacting to art requires vulnerability, particularly abstract modern art, where so much of its meaning is dependent on what the viewer brings to the table.

You react to art; art reacts to you. It’s impossible for Zoey to harden herself to emotion and do her job well— she curates based on intuition, on what she anticipates others will feel from a particular piece. She can’t look at a Kandinsky with any less emotion than a Monet. Art, every medium it belongs to, moves Zoey with a profound intensity— the intention behind it, the history —and it’s in those emotions she feels closest to her father. To an alternate life she never had.

Six years old and gap-toothed, she would often park herself in front of her future inheritance; a collection of art so extensive it would make any collector green. But Zoey never saw it as the sum of its price tag.

The love she had for it was something innate.

Which is why I think her gallery is a representative of so much more for Zoey: a connection to the father she could never meet, concrete proof she had been able to escape her childhood. It’s symbolic. She could outgrow her past. Settle into her own interests and ambitions outside of her family, outside the trial that had consumed her life, the relationships that had been ruined by it.

The freedom in her life had always cost something.

Look what Bruce’s death had.

Which is why she has to move forward; Sonoma was the dream that propelled Zoey out of the pain of her childhood, and now it’s become everything to her.

Every cent of her money has been invested in this gallery. Partnering with the Costello’s may have been reckless, desperate, but she’s come too far to let give up now. The same strength that fuels her determination is the same thing that makes it impossible to let go.

She’s no idiot— she’s not unaware, either. Zoey is just someone who is determined to stand her ground, at the possibility of exposing herself to danger, to an uncertain future that risks bringing her face-to-face with things she once left behind.

Running away from fear isn’t in her blood, nor does she see it as an option.

WRITING SAMPLE

Provide as many IN CHARACTER samples as you like. At the very least, we expect three paragraphs written in third person. Aside from that, there are no rules. Please include anything you deem necessary.

The lock is clicked firmly on Zoey’s door. The line of her shoulders slacken. She can feel an ache in her upper arm; four red dots, the rough outline of fingers that will surely blossom into bruises the next day. She shrugs on a sweatshirt, unfolds the heavy book in her lap.

Her heart-rate slowly ticks down to normal.

The house is unnervingly silent now, and her eyes flicker down to the first open page, eager for distraction, and— oh.

Oh.

Of course it opens to this—Helen Frankenthaler. Jacob’s Ladder.

The art book had belonged to her father. Her real father, of course— not the monster that had done this to her arm — and the sight of his favorite painting makes Zoey’s eyes smart with tears, makes her throat tightens in a way it hasn’t in years.

Tears for the father she’d never gotten to meet.

They plop down onto the book with each deepening exhale, warping and wobbling the page beneath it.

This sadness for him feels fitting— but Zoey won’t give the other man her tears. She never had. She bore his anger with a set jaw, a firm determination that outstripped the usual maturity of a fifteen-year-old. He would never see her cry.

Not ever.

Letting her hand drift down the glossy pages seems to center Zoey’s mind. She clears her throat, quiet and purposeful, flips through the rest of the book with a growing calm.

There’s a peace that settles in around her, despite the situation.

She isn’t in this house anymore, with her stepfather fuming dangerously in the next room. Not entirely— Zoey is elsewhere. Standing next to saints and apostles on grassy hillsides, heads illuminated by gold leaf; lost in the reverence of the Middle Ages. She’s in a Friedrich next, peering over an imposing cliff. Southern France, Van Gogh, surrounded by yellow flowers.

It isn’t escapism as much as it’s inspiration. What had all these artists endured? What had the subjects of their paintings? Zoey sees herself reflected in these works, and there’s something fortifying about it, something that clears the mind and stokes determination. There was so much beauty, in the face of pain.

It’s only the buzz of her phone that pulls Zoey from her musings.

She reaches over with a reluctant hand, slow to answer until she sees the name flashing across the screen. Kai.

She smiles.

Patches of light in her life, patches of warmth— proof that it was not all bad, not simply storms and monsters.

She answers the phone without a trace of her leftover emotion. Kai can’t hear any lingering hurt her voice, not him; there are some thing she wants untouched by the pain at home.

Her step-father caused it, and her mother ignored it.

Zoey simply endured.

Somehow, eventually, it would be her that outlasted them all.

———-

Sunlight falls through the windows like tall patches of amber, and Zoey Everett steps into the building’s doorway, the ties of her green coat knotted loosely around her midsection.

It’s cold for this time of year.

The smile she gives the approaching man is almost sunny enough to compensate.

“Hi, Mr. Addams—we spoke on the phone earlier, I—”

“Yes. You’re Zoey?”

Crisp. Quick. To the point. She wonders why all of these artistic managers have to follow the same brusque script.

“That would be me.” A half-beat later. “I’m here about the possibility of curating few of your client’s pieces at Sonoma. Given how often the—”

“Yes.”

Another interruption, but not even to agree to her proposition; that much Zoey can tell. He’s simply cutting in to control the conversations run-time.

“I remember. You’re a representative for the own—”

This time its Zoey who cuts in with a firm, polite smile. Best to clear up any confusion now.

“I am the owner.”

There’s a weighted pause as the man considers this. It’s shock, mostly— there’s few, if any people who expect a gallery owner to look like her, and Zoey simple smiles in response, tries to re-direct the conversation as she glances at the art displayed inside the office building.

“We’re going to be exhibiting a few pieces from El Lissitzky soon…”

She walks idly along the row of oil paintings, allowing for a pause. He would’ve heard of this artist before. Zoey was proud of acquiring those, of the effort it took— Sonoma wasn’t some no-account gallery. It was smaller, and it was new. But it was going to be successful. She would give anything to ensure that it happened.

“Along with some contemporary pieces from a Chicago native. Really amazing stuff— similar use of geometric design, strong influence from 20th century typography…”

She has his attention now. There’s no script Zoey needs to follow for this—just the truth, the passion that bubbles up naturally.

“We want to be the future of Chicago’s art scene. And we’re going to be. There’s too many incredible artists in this city getting passed over for recognition because they fail to meet an incredibly specific criteria; because they’re not discovered by the same ten people who dictate where trends go.”

Zoey runs her thumb along the inside of her palm, smiles.

“Good art is good art, no matter who finds it.”

She thinks she can see a shade of agreement in the man’s eyes; his client had earned his recognition in ways that many in the art community deemed showy, too mainstream. But now he’s being lauded for it.

Mr. Addams makes a noise of vague approval. She takes it as a cue to drive this point forward.

“Your client’s work would fit perfectly with this season’s exhibit— particular his most recent pieces, the mixed-media? All that red? It would look incredible next to New Man.”

Something shifts on his face. There. That’s what she needs— even a glimmer of willingness to imagine with her. Just the smallest amount. Her voice grows warmer.

“It would be the perfect home for it. Along with all the other new pieces.”

“I want Sonoma to be a place to display some colleges student’s visual thesis alongside a Pollock. Old and new.”

“Pollock?” She can hear the skepticism in his voice, but it sounds friendlier now. Less brusque. “That would be near-impossible to acquire, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Zoey agrees, shouldering her bag with an easy smile. “But I’m going to.”

#accepted

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tysonrunningfox · 6 years ago

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Ripped: Part 12

So I was going to write more sacrificecup before this but I woke up yesterday morning like like...18 jokes in my head and had to get them all out before I lost them, so here is this.

Ao3

Hiccup tried valiantly to talk Mr. Grisly into a Grimborn book containing actual information but all attempts were brushed off repeatedly with the insistence that he’d been given a budget to hire experts for that.

Hiccup didn’t miss the dig that he is not considered an expert at the level of A. M. Mildew, but he wanted Grisly out of the library more than he wanted to argue. He knows Astrid doesn’t need his protection, but the way Grisly looked at her was uniquely sinister and the lopsided kind of glee in his voice when he talked to her is stuck in the back of Hiccup’s mind like a popcorn kernel in his teeth.

By the time he finally gives up and watches Grisly leave the library with a single beloved but largely sensationalized book, the archives are closed, and Hiccup finds himself suddenly completely underwhelmed. Given that he has not shifted his schedule back while his tours are…temporarily postponed, he texted Astrid pretty soon after waking up.

All in all that was a pretty landmark start to the day.

He starts the long walk home, glancing wistfully into alleys as he crosses them. He can’t help but feel disconnected and exposed on the main streets, surrounded by false modernity made out of plywood with a million percent markup. He knows Snotlout is right. He does look suspicious and he’s hiding enough by not telling Eretson where Dave’s prosthetic came from, but he’s sick of it taking so long to get everywhere.

Plus, assuming a Grimborn copycat working backwards, doesn’t he just have to stay away from the second murder site?

Unless the order of the two murders was a fluke and he should be staying away from the first site, a stomach clenching thought that’s categorically impossible. He couldn’t stay away from Astrid now if she lived in a volcano or had a loft in Atlantis, not after she told him that she likes him. Him. She likes him. Astrid. The beautiful, violent toothbrush assault artist who makes sure he sees what she does likes him.

His phone buzzes with a slow to download text message, lagging from the library’s thick brick walls.

Astrid (5:21pm): how’d that go?

He stops short and a man in a suit slams into his back, glaring at him for interrupting the flow of pedestrian traffic. Hiccup would thank the guy for restarting his heart, except talking is a little hard with it pounding in his throat.

How’d that go? Does she want…a review of some kind? Should he inform her of her 10.0 perfect score kissing skills but deduct a half a gold star for startling the hell out of him? Not that he minded being startled, really, but Astrid seems like a tough love type.

“On your left,” a bike whizzes by and he stumbles, still staring at his phone and barely snapping out of the haze with the insult that follows, “fucking tourist!”

“No bikes on the sidewalk, asshole!”

If he critiques her, does that mean she’s going to critique him? She doesn’t let him get away with anything else, after all. If he weren’t so giddy about her kissing him, he’d be more confused that she still wanted to after all that murder site sex idiocy that fell out of his mouth at Gruff’s.

Hiccup (6:04pm): I thought it was nice

He settles for neutral or something like it.

Astrid (6:05pm): I meant the creepy guy making you find a book for him

His heart drops. Of course she meant the whole Grisly thing, not—why would she be asking him how kissing was? She was there.

It’s a twisted kindness that he knows he’s said and done dumber things to and around her, so this probably won’t be the instance that scares her off.

Hiccup (6:06pm): right that makes more sense than you asking me to critique your kissing Hiccup (6:06pm): which was top notch by the way no comments, don’t change a thing Hiccup (6:07pm): so I do it anyway, fuck, anyway grisly is creepy as hell and I really hate that he’s investigating murders, it’s not fair because his breath’s death count is probably higher than any small time grimborn copycat

None of that made it better.

Astrid (6:07pm): I thought it was nice too Astrid (6:08pm): so you really think it’s a copycat then?

The morning’s roller coaster of emotions repeats in miniature and Hiccup pauses to unlock his front door and set his stuff down inside. Maybe his dad’s old chair has enough common-sense energy left to keep him from making more of an ass of himself and he flops into it.

Hiccup (6:11pm): no, we aren’t talking about grimborn, I forgot sorry

Astrid (6:12pm): it’s fine

Hiccup (6:12pm): no, we said we weren’t, let’s…talk about the next time we can not talk about grimborn

Astrid (6:14pm): is that a euphemism?

He blinks at that text for a second, trying and failing to shove his comprehension of it back into a neat little cube that will let him think or breathe or do anything but burn remembering how she felt against him.

Hiccup (6:15pm): Tomorrow?

And he has no money. Very minimal money at least. Not the kind of money that adults have for dates when there are euphemisms involved. Not that he’d pay for them like Viggo Grimborn luring some unsuspecting woman into an alley—this is why he’s single.

Astrid (6:16pm): Sure, what do you want to do?

Everything. Nothing. Ask questions and actually let her talk, for once, but that would require a personality transplant apparently and he doesn’t have time for one of those. Plus those probably cost money. Maybe he could pay for it with that frozen yogurt gift card, hell using a frozen yogurt gift card would practically be a personality transplant in and of itself—

Hiccup (6:16pm): frozen yogurt!!!

Astrid (6:17pm): so you’re…adamant about frozen yogurt, alright

Hiccup (6:17pm): oh no, I hate frozen yogurt, but I have no money and a gift card

Astrid (6:18pm): you know I can pay, right? This isn’t the middle ages, you don��t need to demonstrate your chivalry to me.

Hiccup (6:19pm): oh, I know, plus I’d cry if you expected me to put my hat down on a puddle so you could cross it Hiccup (6:20pm): I guess…this sounds weird but bear with me

Astrid (6:20pm): I think you just defined every interaction we’ve ever had

Hiccup (6:21pm): In a roundabout way, getting frozen yogurt sounds like a good idea because taking you places that I love has had really weird and complicated results, so maybe the answer is to take you somewhere that I hate

Astrid (6:22pm): it’s a date

00000

“Anything for me?” Hiccup yawns on his way out of his bedroom the next afternoon when they wake up, watching Snotlout juggle a shoebox sized cardboard box and a handful of envelopes through the door.

“Looks like a credit card offer and a student loan notice,” Snotlout holds out the box for Hiccup to take his mail.

“Two of the four horsemen of the adult apocalypse,” he tosses the credit card offer and opens the loan statement with a grimace.

“You know you can get those online right?” Snotlout sits down on the couch with the box in his lap, using the butter knife from his morning toast to open it.

“Hey, I sold my soul to the devil for an Art History degree, I want the hard copy receipt.” The number on the notice looks worse than normal though and it takes Hiccup a second to put together why.

It’s not about being able to pay for Astrid, she’s obviously not someone who cares about stuff like that. It’s about not…dragging her down. It’s different when Snotlout is the only one who sees him survive on ramen in the summer when tour interest goes down, Snotlout has seen worse. It’s different when he has a pocket of cash too.

He started doing tours for his own entertainment, he helped Heather start her company when it was all about the mystery for both of them. It was the notoriety that bugged him and that only amped up when the crime scenes got a fresh coat of caution tape.

But right now, staring at that number that really does keep growing when he doesn’t pay it, he’s reminded full force that he also does tours for the money.

“I’ve been thinking, I should start tours up again,” Hiccup sticks the mail to the fridge and nods to himself, “yeah, that’s a good idea, Berserker tours must be booking months out by now, I could get full share of the spontaneous customers. Any idea if there’s any issue at the crime scenes?”

Snotlout doesn’t mock him, which should be his first clue that something isn’t right, and when he turns around, Snotlout is staring into the open box on his lap with a pale face and wide eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t my self-tanner.”

“You ordered self-tanner?” Hiccup raises an eyebrow and crosses the room to see what is so offensive to receive in self-tanner’s stead.

It’s not skin bleaching cream, which would have been apt.

It’s a foot.

A foot standing disembodied in the shabby cardboard box, almost waxy in appearance, harmless except for the dread emanating off of it. Hiccup’s never seen an unattached right foot before, and he can’t say it was on his bucket list. There’s a note taped to the lid of the box and smeared with streaks Hiccup doesn’t want to think about, so he tries to focus on the letters. They’re blurry either from damp paper or his struggle to keep his eyes still on them, but he can see they line up in neat rows.

It reminds him of a letter he saw in glass in a collector’s museum. A letter that had been delivered wrapped around a victim’s finger and sent to Deputy Detective Ryker over a hundred years ago. A letter that had led to his eventual stint in custody.

“Is that a poem?”

“It’s a foot!” Snotlout jumps up, holding the box at arm’s length and shuffling towards the kitchen, “I know you only have one but you should still recognize it!”

Hiccup leans over the box when Snotlout sets it down, squinting at the writing and willing his heart to slow down enough to let him read, “is that in comic sans?”

“It’s a fucking foot,” he starts pacing, pulling his phone out and presumably dialing the station. “Yeah, I’ve got human remains in a fucking box—no, they were shipped here, are you crazy, Johnson? Yeah, maybe send a car, that’s a fucking brilliant idea, great job!”

Thoughts of Grimborn letters, fingers, Snotlout’s badge, and disconcertingly, of Astrid wondering what he’d do if the murders continued rush through Hiccup’s head as he fumbles with his phone, snapping four or five quick pictures of the box, as close as he can to the message.

“What are you doing?” Snotlout snaps as he hangs up and Hiccup holds his phone up.

“Oh, you mean—”

“Yes, I mean, are you taking pictures of evidence for your creepy collection? Because it’s bad enough that I touched the box,” he shudders, “oh shit, I set it on my lap, did I get dead foot juice on my junk?”

“No—”

“Are you sure?” Snotlout is more preoccupied with his lap than Hiccup’s phone now, but it’s still better to pad the lie.

“No, I’m not taking pictures of for my creepy collection.” He’s taking pictures for another reason, so it’s not technically a lie, “I’m texting Astrid that I doubt I’ll be able to make our date today.”

Hiccup (4:00pm): I don’t think I’m going to be able to do anything today, do you want actual reason or wild excuse?

“Yeah, they’re sending a car over,” Snotlout huffs, “goddammit, I thought I had one day without Eretson’s smug face—but no, some creep had to send us a hacked off foot, great.”

Astrid (4:02pm): actual reason

Hiccup (4:02pm): snotlout received a package that he thought was the self-tanner he ordered, but actually was a disembodied foot, and there’s a blurry message with it in a font I believe to be comic sans

Astrid (4:03pm): I had to read that three times to make sure I didn’t accidentally say wild excuse

Hiccup (4:03pm): raincheck?

Astrid (4:04pm): Don’t go spending that gift card without me

“Dude, put your shoes on,” Snotlout throws Hiccup’s shoes at him, one of them hitting him in the side.

“Hey!”

“They’re outside,” he points at Hiccup’s plastic left foot, “that’s a secret, remember?”

“Shit,” the rush to yank his shoes on is a perfect capsule of the anxiety that multiplies over the next hour or so as a forensic team takes the box and swabs what feels like every inch of the apartment. Snotlout isn’t happy to be in the back of a police car, even if he knows the officers in front, and he’s less happy to be plopped in Eretson’s office on the wrong side of the desk.

It doesn’t help anything that they’re both still in pajamas.

“About the self-tanner, dude,” Snotlout clears his throat, looking out the office window and presumably checking if Eretson is on his way, “it’s going to be really natural and gradual, you weren’t even going to notice.”

“That’s what you want to talk about right now?” Hiccup’s phone burns a hole in his pocket, and he hates how much he hates Heather. He needs to show it to someone. Then again, Heather wasn’t trustworthy when he trusted her.

“I watched a video on how to apply it—”

“Yeah, did it include directions to the jersey shore?”

“You mix it with your moisturizer for the first week and the color grabs slower, plus I have black chest hair, it was going to blend!”

Eretson opens the door somewhere between jersey shore and moisturizer, as stony faced as Hiccup has ever seen him.

“Mr. Haddock, Jorgenson,” he sits down and starts typing efficiently, not so much avoiding eye contact as metering his attention where he sees fit.

“It’s Officer Jorgenson to you, thanks,” Snotlout crosses his arms, flexing too obviously, and Hiccup elbows him. Officer doesn’t make anything seem better right now. The whole reason Deputy Detective Ryker spent two months in custody as Grimborn was because they could blame the bungled case on him.

“You’re not on duty, Mr. Jorgenson, in fact I believe I overheard you planning a beach vacation, don’t let my investigation interrupt it.” When he does look up, it’s at Hiccup in particular, “at five o’clock this time?”

“I know how you love your job?” Hiccup shrugs and Eretson sighs.

“So, Mr. Jorgenson, you received a package of unknown origin—“

“I thought it was from Amazon,” Snotlout tries to kick his feet up on the desk but they don’t quite reach and Hiccup rubs his eyes to avoid seeing Eretson’s reaction.

Hiding his eyes doesn’t help, every ounce of repressed irritation comes through in the detective’s pinched voice.

“Was the package addressed to you?”

“I was expecting a package so I opened the package,” Snotlout scoffs.

“You didn’t check if your name was on it?” Hiccup hisses at him and he flings his arms up, still trying to look bigger.

“I ask the questions,” Eretson doesn’t quite pound his hand on the table but the intent is there, and Hiccup tries to mentally will Snotlout to behave but his skull has always been too thick for that. “The package was addressed to an SG Jorgenson, is that you?”

“Those are my initials.”

“And they stand for?” The detective readies himself to write it down.

“My names,” he deflates, “Snotlout Gary Jorgenson, but—wait, someone sent me a cut off foot? That’s super fucked up.”

“Yes, you’re getting it, murder is fucked up” Eretson sets down a picture of Dave, or his body, coroner sheet thankfully pulled up directly under his chin. “The foot was an exact match to Dave Ralston.”

“Well I don’t know that guy,” Snotlout lies semi-convincingly, “I definitely don’t know why anyone would send me his foot.”

Eretson turns to Hiccup, “I understand you knew Dave Ralston from the homeless shelter.”

“Are you saying I mailed Snotlout a foot of a homeless man I knew in passing?” Hiccup’s fear manifests as it always does, a reason to be indignant and loud. He thinks of that leg and how he can remember having it fitted, learning to hobble on it and imagining toes. “Because no, that didn’t happen.”

“Your alibi for—“

“I was at the archives, you can talk to Astrid, you can talk to Fishlegs—“

“The package was mailed from the archives yesterday in the last package pickup at 4:30,” Eretson glances out his office window and Hiccup does the same, trying not to wince when he sees Mr. Grisly, talking to someone he can’t quite see.

He can’t lie.

“I was—“

“With Astrid,” the detective fills in, “of course.”

“I have texts,” he fumbles with his phone, but of course his camera is still open, the bloody note tiled in the corner as the last picture he took and he shoves it back into his pajama pocket. If he starts tapping his foot, it might creak, he didn’t fully tighten it down before they had to leave. “I can send them to you or something. To keep the um…encrypted dates for official—“

“Well Grisly was there too, right?” Snotlout trusts the office’s soundproofing far more than Hiccup would. “Who says he didn’t do it? It seems like the kind of creepy shit he’d do—“

“That’s enough,” Eretson booms, the sound reverberating like a ghost off of the walls. Snotlout opens his mouth to continue and Hiccup smacks him in the arm, shaking his head.

“Guess that beach vacation is cancelled, huh?” He nods at Eretson in understanding, “good thing you can get the same golden glow from a handy bottle that won’t take us out of town.”

“I’ll be following up.” Eretson gestures at the door and Hiccup leans carefully on Snotlout’s shoulder to stand, making sure his leg doesn’t creak or buckle or give itself away when it takes his anxious weight.

“Sure thing,” Hiccup drags Snotlout from the room before he can decide to go back onto tiptoes or something equally stupid. Of course, that means it’s Hiccup’s turn to be stupid and he balks outside the door, eyes widening when he sees who Grisly is talking to, “Heather?”

“Hiccup,” Heather cocks her hip, holding a thick, official looking file that isn’t labeled with her usual red sharpie. Someone else’s file. A police file. “Nice…jumpsuit.” She looks down at his plaid pajamas and he knows her too well to ignore her concern. It’s deeply buried but there and he glares at Grisly. Not even Heather deserves to deal with Rasputin’s mangy ghost.

“Miss Berserker is the Grimborn expert we hired, she’s already been explaining the concept of Trader Johann to me,” Grisly grins and maybe he’s exactly what Heather deserves, “very concise and articulate.”

“Yeah, easier to feed conjecture in small bites—“ Hiccup starts, but Snotlout grabs his arm. “I don’t know though, ‘Zombie Trader Johann’ is a little hard for anyone to swallow.”

“When solving a mystery of this magnitude,” Grisly chuckles, “we must consider all angles. Right down to resurrection.”

“Hiccup, let’s go,” Snotlout tugs and speaks a little too loud, clearly for Heather’s benefit, “don’t you have that date to get to?”

“Are you still doing tours?” Hiccup ignores him.

“Dagur’s taking over some of them,” she tries to sound professional and he remembers her wide grin when he showed her the ‘All Safe’ wall for the first time. Astrid’s picture is a piece of proof she doesn’t have, and it doubles his compulsion to get it out there. “Are you still—“

“I will be,” he nods, “I’ve got some new evidence.”

“I’m sure you do,” Grisly cuts off the conversation and points at the door, “official police business, I’m sure you understand.”

“He does,” Snotlout grumbles, glaring up at Grisly as he shoves Hiccup along, either barely remembering to mind his leg or getting lucky that he’s not causing a limp. “When we get home, I’m going to take a shower, because I swear I got dead foot juice on my lap, and then I’m going to look up ‘how not to be weird and morbid’ in your freaking office, and shove whatever book I find that definition in up your—“

“Gobber?” Hiccup once again stops short as Snotlout tries to forcibly drag him from the police station yet again. Eretson must have snuck around while they were talking to Heather, because he’s at the front desk with Gobber, discussing some notes.

“Can’t say I’m glad to see you here,” Gobber chuckles, “but I’m always glad to see you. And oh, you have Snotlout with you.”

“Yeah, I know, you must be thrilled to see me too,” Snotlout grins, apparently finding a new thing to hold over Eretson.

“Eh.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m glad to be here, not really my choice,” Hiccup glances at the detective.

“Oh, I’m sure you look guilty for something,” Gobber leans sideways and whispers loudly to Eretson, “it’s his specialty.”

“No, assuming I’m guilty is everyone else’s specialty,” Hiccup crosses his arms, leg feeling shaky like it never does.

“Aye, cops especially, so it’d be fastest if you let the handsome detective do his job—“

“Handsome?” Eretson isn’t used to being caught off guard and it doesn’t last long. “Of course, you were making a pass at me, and here I thought you were the only one in this damn town trying to help.” He collects his files, mumbling under his breath as he stalks back towards his office, clearly further from leaving the office than ever.

“Can’t it be both?” Gobber shrugs and Hiccup shakes his head.

“Twenty five years of friendship and you sell me out for a hot piece of ass?”

“I don’t think it counted as friendship when you were a baby.”

Snotlout scowls back towards the offices, “who cares about friendship? I’ve been working out just as much as he does, why does he still get everything?”

“For the best probably,” Gobber shakes his head, “you couldn’t handle me.”

Hiccup blinks at his father’s best and oldest friend, “you know, Gobber, thanks for that. Now I won’t have nightmares about mutilated body part mail.”

“Anytime.” He nods and this time it’s Hiccup dragging Snotlout outside.

Snotlout wasn’t kidding about the immediate shower, and he must have been serious about the ‘dead foot juice’, as he put it, because he throws his pajamas in the kitchen trash on the way back to his room to get dressed. Hiccup doesn’t like thinking about them in there and Snotlout agrees as he ties up the mostly empty trash as soon as he’s dressed, looking around at the ghost of forensic swab marks on almost every surface.

“Yeah, no, I don’t want to hang out in the foot-mail apartment right now,” he shudders, “Gruff’s?”

“Uh, sure,” Hiccup glances at his dad’s office door, wanting to print out one of the pictures he took and start deciphering it, but knowing if he wants to research right now it’ll be suspicious.

“I’m sure a girl as hot as Astrid already has another date lined up, you can talk to her tomorrow.” Snotlout sighs, “just put on some actual pants and come hang out until I stop thinking about…saw marks and—”

“Yeah, ok,” Hiccup doesn’t make him say it, swallowing hard against his own repressed memory as he changes. For the first time ever, he avoids looking down at his right foot and trips a little getting into his jeans because of it, but he shakes it off to engage full scale Snotlout distraction mode. “So, did you notice Eretson had a mustard stain on his shirt?”

“What? Where was it? Was it on his tie?” Snotlout snorts, “I bet he eats sandwiches like an idiot.”

Hiccup makes up enough details about the imagined stain to preoccupy Snotlout the entire walk to the bar, even throwing in a few fake laughs at a very bad impression of a British accent. He’s not quite cheerful by the time they’re sitting at the bar, but he’s cheered enough to start his version of the standard cop lecture.

“As little as possible actually means as little as possible in this situation,” he gives Hiccup a disappointed look, “like if you want to make Heather jealous, just tell her you have a date like a normal person, don’t say you’re going to start your creepy tours back up, especially at a time when that Grisly dick thinks Venison Greenland has something to do with the murders.”

“Ok, I’ll work backwards on that,” he numbers on his fingers, “Venison Greenland isn’t even clever, I am going to start tours back up, and I don’t care about making Heather jealous. And my date was cancelled by a surprisingly efficient postal shipment, which makes me wonder—”

“You can’t start tours back up right now, dude.”

“As I was saying, it makes me wonder if the person behind all of this has some sort of government sway,” Hiccup nods importantly.

“I can’t tell if you’re bullshitting me to avoid talking about Heather or not.”

“I don’t know why you always want to talk about Heather.” Hiccup stares at the row of dusty bottles above the bar and tries not to think about their comfortable nights at the Ripped Tavern, before things got contentious. Heather’s pet theory was Ryker before it was Johann and it makes his stomach churn.

“Because she was my friend too and I always thought shit would get weird in the group because you two paired off to have a murder themed wedding or something,” he shrugs, “not because you disagreed about research.”

“Snotlout, my issues with Heather are with her, if you want to be her friend that’s between you guys.”

“Are you kidding?” He snorts, “even before she teamed up with Mr. Grisly she screwed you over. Not a chance.” It would be sweet if Snotlout didn’t punctuate it by punching him in the shoulder so hard he almost falls off of the stool.

And if that package didn’t neatly line Snotlout up with Ryker.

“I’d have way better luck getting back at her by restarting tours than by making her jealous with some cancelled date.”

“You know what sucks? I used to be able to explain to you that girls care more about you moving on with another girl than they do about hundred-year-old murders, but now you’ve got Astrid whispering Grimborn in your ear—”

“Oh god, don’t go there,” Hiccup winces, “not today, haven’t I been through enough? Didn’t you hurt me enough by hitting on Gobber—”

“I wasn’t hitting on him, I just don’t know why he was hitting on Eretson when I was right there.”

“Probably because he’s known you literally your entire life.”

“Yeah, and so has your mom—”

“I’m restarting tours,” Hiccup cuts that off, “I need the money, for one—”

“Amen to that, Hiccup,” Gruffnut leans on the other side of the bar and glares at Snotlout, “it’s tough not being employed by the government to be a narc, isn’t it?”

“Just because I’m the only one with a job that makes money doesn’t make me a narc.”

“Oh, I do plenty for money,” Gruffnut numbers off, “I dress up as my dumb boy cousin and scam people, I wipe the counters, I pour beers for people, I sell alcohol for way more than I pay for it—”

“Except for the first thing, those are all just part of being a bartender,” Hiccup points out and Gruffnut shakes his head like it’s heavy with exhaustion.

“I know, right? I go above and beyond and I still barely make rent,” he whispers conspiratorially, “all the toilet paper in the bathroom is stolen from McDonalds.”

“I can hear you,” Snotlout shoos him, “so if you don’t want me to tell McDonalds—”

“See? Narc.” Gruffnut shuffles off to the other end of the bar.

“You could get a job, you know, with a boss and a paycheck and insurance that you don’t have to pretend to be my domestic partner to get.” Snotlout doesn’t need to know how much he sounds like Hiccup’s dad sometimes, it would go to his head.

“Yeah, I’m sure the five-year gap in my nonexistent resume would be great for that.” He sighs, “I guess I’m worried about…if I’m not giving tours, Heather’s basically controlling the whole Grimborn narrative in Berk and now she’s apparently working with Grisly, who—I didn’t tell you this because I didn’t think it mattered but he came by the archives yesterday—”

“I know,” Snotlout rolls his eyes, “Astrid told me.”

“Anyway, Grisly wanted a copy of that Admiral Haddock book, which means that the so called ‘experts’ at the station aren’t exactly people I trust with the truth.”

“Just a couple of weeks ago you were saying how shitty Heather was to be giving tours to active crime scenes.” Snotlout orders another beer, foot tapping against the rung of his stool, and Hiccup still never knows how to act when his cousin is worried about him.

It’s even harder when the feeling is mutual.

“I guess I was really hoping that this wasn’t connected to Grimborn,” Hiccup shrugs, “but now with the modern equivalent of the Ryker finger showing up at your—our door. Our door. I guess that me not doing a tour didn’t prevent the body part mailing, but maybe I could calm down the hysteria a bit while Heather is too busy to dump gasoline on the flames.”

And he can see what kind of information is spreading. Call him paranoid but this is all starting to circle a little too close to home.

“That’s stupid.”

“Well, I’m stupid,” Hiccup is at least keeping his promise to Astrid with that one.

“Yeah you are, given you’re actively deciding to harass Astrid’s apartment nightly when she’s your alibi for a bunch of sketchy shit.”

Hiccup opens his mouth to tell him that Astrid doesn’t mind, but then he remembers something she said when he thought she wouldn’t read a book, let alone go on a private tour with him.

“Can I borrow fifty bucks?” He stands up, “and I mean borrow, I will pay you back when this all works out.”

#ripped #httyd fic #modern au #hiccstrid fic #serial killer tour guide au #tw mild gore #tw comic sans #coplout #coplout is my life

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lunacanis99 · 7 years ago

Text

Mantle Half Angels

Let's 👏 talk 👏 about 👏 half angels! 👏

Gods I love what I've done with half angels in my world. They're another one of those things that originally wasn't going to be as important as it later became, but boy am I happy they became this important.

I suppose I should start with why half angels are so big in my world, and I suppose the big thing is: they're rare. Like really rare.

See, when the gods sealed away Tiamat and Tharizdun they decided they were too powerful to interact with the humans and thus created the Devine gate, this included the overly powerful half angels and Demigods. So they were wiped out then and the trend continued, any angels that did dare to have half angels were highly punished and ostracized and their children were seen as abominations to be hunted down by any holy person. Not only that but a lot of a half angel's bodies (their blood, feathers, excetera) are strong spell components and thus the half angels also end up hunted down by wizards and collectors. So most half angels don't live long, either because they're hunted down or because they're never taught to control their abilities.

So, the main half angels we'll be talking about are:

•Neer: Son of Aiden, head angel of Bane and angel of fear.

•Jet: Son of Shadow, head angel of The Raven Queen and angel of shadows.

•and Robin-Rivers: Child of Sage, angel of Vecna and angel of whispers and the unknown.

An though they'll be the main ones we're talking about there are 4 more in the world. And yes, they are the only other 4 currently in existence.

•Ruby: Daughter of Twist, head angel of Zehir and angel of Toxicity.

•Shimmer: Daughter of Darcey, head angel of Melora and angel of the wilds.

•Callisto: Daughter of Shine, head angel of Avandra and angel of luck.

•Stella: Daughter of Avery, angel of Sahanine and angel of trickery.

Now: currently Stella is a baby (less than a year old) still living with both her parents (as Avery fell to have Stella), Ruby Callisto and Shimmer are living together in a mountain hide away as a makeshift family, Robin-Rivers is living on the Shepard farm under the adoptive protection of Canary, and Neer and Jet are at each other's sides fighting alongside Church and State (the party).

But let's really talk about half angels, starting with those two fighting boys: Jet and Neer. And let's start with their parents:

•Aiden and Vitani: Aiden is the head angel of Bane and the physical embodiment of fear. But he wasn't always Bane's head angel, he used to be head angel to Tharizdun until Bane won a bet and thus won the ability to switch head angels and claimed Aiden as his own. This led to Aiden coming to head with his new companions Sloane and Tamara and often found him in the mortal realm, where he met Vitani. Vitani was a lion hybrid and a skyrate who caught the angel's eye with her recklessness, being too brave and or stupid to have any caution even when making fun of literal fear incarnate. Their connection grew strong and fast and Aiden continued to defy his god's wishes to see her, and continued to do so even after he was found out, especially after he learned of Vitani's pregnancy. Only barely a year after Neer's birth did Bane put his foot down and keep Aiden in the Devine plane under strict guard and stricter punishment, tearing off one of his 2 sets of wings to do so. Around 5 years later a collector Skyrate called Captain Hunter rolled through and learned of Neer, and wanted Neer. Killing Vitani to steal him.

•Shadow and Talon: Talon, a dark skinned teifling, grew up with his friend Meralith. And while Talon found his specially in the wilds with a bow Meralith had an incredibly strong penchant for magic. Too strong in fact. As as he grew older and more powerful he turned his eyes to immortality, and thus to lichdom, and grew a cult-esk following with Talon as his right hand. But Talon still had morals and eventually decided his childhood friend went too far and turned traitor to side with the followers of the Raven Queen trying to prevent Meralith's ascent to lichdom. Only to find Shadow, the head angel of the Raven Queen already helping the clerics and paladins. There was an instant connection between the two that only grew as they fought side by side and risked their lives together. And, when Talon nearly fell to a spell of Meralith, Shadow felt real fear for him and knew she'd fallen in love. It wasn't long after that that Shadow brought Talon his son and her predicament. The Raven Queen obviously found out and told Shadow she was either to give up the child and have no interaction with him or Talon and serve her loyalty, or fall; basically be kicked out of the devine plane with no chance of return and a loss of purpose. And Shadow chose loyalty to her god. Talon raised Jet in secret as long as he could, but the Raven Queen's temple was still after him seeing him as the last member of Meralith's cult and Talon knew they would kill Jet should they find him. So when he found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place he chose to get captured by the ravens instead of letting them find Jet.

But these stories don't end here! (Obviously) So let's move on to their pregame lives-

•Neer: Our favorite half lion half angel boy spent about a year as a basically pet (abused pet) to Captain Hunter before another Skyrate captain: a raccoon hybrid named Captain Reginald saw him and choose to steal him to free him. Only, after he got Neer away from Hunter Neer told him he had no home to be taken back to, so Neer got adopted by Captain Reginald and was raised alongside his own children Sam and Lynn. He was raised strong, being prepared to survive life as a Skyrate and raised proud, to embrace his angel half and learn to master his abilities. As well Aiden eventually defied his orders again to help train Neer, despite Neer's strong hatred for his own father that he saw as abandoning him and his mother. But he still grew up to be an incredibly strong and joyful first mate to his adoptive sister Lynn when she became captain of the ship (after Reginald was killed by the very same Captain Hunter), even if he inherited his mother's ridiculous recklessness.

•Jet: Meanwhile the blood angel was found not long after his father's disappearance and captured by a wizard named Mercury that kept him as a pet and a source of spell components. After many many years of this, while Mercury was moving towers once again, Canary Shepard came across Jet in his cage and unlocked him, taking him with her for a few years before they split paths as well. Jet eventually found his way to a monastery where he learned his penchant for fighting and found an adoptive younger sister named June. He also became a follower, or at least found a respect for the Raven Queen and actually managed to talk to his mom a few times do to his loyalty.

Now you can see obvious differences in how they were raised. The biggest difference being how Neer was raised embracing his angel side and Jet was raised hiding what he was at all costs. Jet is terrified of his own shadow and keeps his wings constantly bound and covered to hide what he is while Neer has no fear and usually just faces any threat that comes for him.

Eventually these two met when Neer tried to lure Captain Hunter in and got himself captured, and Lynn contracted Church and State to help her free him. They both ended up captured and worked their way out of Hunter's lair together, finding themselves well equipped to fight side by side and growing rather close before finally facing Hunter down on the deck of his ship. At which point Jet manages to kill Hunter's first mate, who also happened to be Hunter's fiancé, which means Jet did what he has come to do best and got Hunter to aim specifically for him. Which, considering how much damage Hunter could do in one round, meant Jet was very quickly on very low health. But Neer was after Hunter and (because he's a protection fighter) he was able to shield Jet from many of Hunter's attacks before finishing off Hunter himself. (Adorable right?)

But let's talk about Hunter for a second because he's also important in this. As much as I tried to coax the group into it they never really took an interest in what he was enough to ask the right people (which would have been Ressa or Erabus mind you guys) which is a shame because he's actually really interesting. See when Jet killed his fiancé Kraven Hunter absolutely freaked out and completely changed, he dropped his shield and started floating with sudden golden wings of pure magical energy as well as glowing golden eyes and started doing a crap ton more radiant damage with each hit. These obviously aren't normal abilities especially since Hunter had looked human before but obviously he wasn't. In fact he was a race I called a BrightBorn. Meaning he's the direct descendant of a demigod and a half angel. Because there actually are demigods left in the world since they don't actually age, but they are about ten times as rare as half angels with maybe one or two in existence. However they don't have physical tells like half angels so keep themselves completely hidden away. Which is all very interesting information the group is just now figuring out. (Hi guys)

But anyways, back to what we were talking about and our last important half angel:

•Robin-Rivers. Robin-River's father was an elf and mother an angel of Vecna but other than that not much is known. Robin-Rivers told Canary they never met their mother and though they traveled through the Forbidden Sands with their father for a few years he eventually sold Robin-Rivers to a skyrate captain (surprisingly not Hunter). However, it wasn't long after that Lynn and Neer raided that very same ship and Neer took Robin-River's in as his own. But how Robin-Rivers is different and how they're important is their mother, and how unlike the others she wasn't a head angel. Because of this Robin-Rivers grew up weak and underdeveloped: their wings aren't big or strong enough to carry them and even if they were their lungs are to small to let them fly without provoking an asthma attack. They're even somehow shorter than Canary (who I believe is 5 nothing). Not only physically affected because of this and because they can't strengthen their wings (which is the only way to gain better control of half angel abilities), they also have no ability to control their half angel abilities. Each half angel does inherit some of their parent's abilities: Neer has an aura of fear and Jet will eventually be able to wield shadows as weapons. Robin-Rivers has the ability to hear secrets, hear what others keep hidden. But because they can't control this it manifests as voices in their head, voices that constantly whisper to them things that they don't want to know, more voices the more people and louder the more they want to keep it secret. These voices also only get louder when they try to tune them out, try to not listen. They don't have a choice but to listen. In cities this can be deafening and often painful, in bigger darker cities can even lead to them taking actual damage as their ears and sometimes eyes start bleeding as there's not quite a set radius to this ability, not one anyone knows yet at least. It's a dangerous and powerful ability they wish they could get rid of as it has multiple times led to them getting in trouble for knowing things they shouldn't or confusing what people told them and what the voices told them. This ability is so powerful they can actually know things the others don't sometimes. When they asked Canary what happened to her engagement ring she told them she threw it in the fire, and to her that was the truth, but Robin -Rivers could tell it wasn't. In truth she had given the ring to Aiden then had a modify memory spell (willingly) cast on her to keep her from remembering it. (Just a fun fact) Robin-Rivers currently find themselves most comfortable around people like Canary Tazd and Mairon, people who are open books and don't keep anything hidden, because they're quiet to the half angel, the voices don't scream around them. Meanwhile they're often found complaining each time Alistair and or Althaea are within range because "They're loud..."

Alright. One last tidbit of information about half angels! Angels of different gods actually can't touch each other without both being hurt by it, this was put in place by the gods to try and prevent fighting (which didn't work) and half angels inherited that. Sorta. In truth it's all about connection and intent. If they are fighting it will hurt or burn both of them. But if the half angels are close and trust each other and have no intent to hurt each other with the touching then it won't. Jet and Inari have been looking into this phenomenon recently but here's the answer.

And that's that! Half angels man. This was so much longer than I was planning... whoops. I just... I really like half angels.

#dnd #dungeons and dragons #mantle of flames #mof

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dylodandria-blog · 8 years ago

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HGP Ch. 4.2

Ch. 4.2

****WARNING 18+ only recommended – mentions of abuse and bodily harm! You have been warned!****

*FLASHBACK*

THE NEXT MORNING

You were utterly exhausted after finally having a real full meal you passed out like a light being turned off. You wake to hearing Bear talking with Hell who you learned last night her name was Rachel.

Bear: “I think I understand now why General Bates did nothing now, even when we told him we had to the leave the island that too many of the dead had made it pass the defenses. If what you told me is in those journals is even half true, that sick bastard would have never let her leave; I think General Bates knew it too. I need to ask Lionel what happened in that room when he killed Dr. Harris. I need to know if that fucker tried to take her with him.”

You crack your eyes open and see Lionel against the other wall asleep. Propped up on his rifle. You learned a great deal of information that sick bastard kept from you or just lied about. You had been told there were only military personnel there, no civilians. You had assumed all the “volunteers” were like you veterans or military personnel. Not that you had bothered to talk to them.

It was weeks maybe a month or a little more when you stopped talking altogether, after he put you and the others into that room. That’s when you changed irrevocably for what you assumed would be the short rest of your life. Still remembering the pain from the bites and scratches. The bones chilling cold that made you feel like you were being scrapped against broken glass every time you moved, from the fever afterwards. Flashing in and out of conscientiousness’ and seeing that sick f*cks face with that shit eating grin when you finally woke up. Like he had done the impossible.

Technically; you begrudgingly had to admit he had done the impossible, but only with you. It drove him even more insane as he could not make everyone immune like you. He would take too much blood, even started taking “samples” he called them of tissue he would either take from your legs, he even performed surgery on you a few times to take biopsies of your liver. You lost count of all the scars. Didn’t matter anyway, you knew you would never get out of there.

It seemed too good to be true like a dream almost that the sick f*ck was finally dead.

*A shot rang out*

*Beep* the radio on the table pings. “This is Bear who took that shot? Over.” *Beep*

*Beep* “Sir, wasn’t one of ours,” came a whispered reply; “I think we should move out we’re not alone out here anymore; I can hear some screaming to the east, it doesn’t sound good Sir. Over.” *Beep*

*Beep* “This is Bear to all personnel, pack up we leave in 5. Over and out.” *Beep*

Multiple beeps on the radio all come in affirmative or acknowledged. “Wilco”

Hell shakes Jacobsen awake, Lionel had already gotten up and grabbed his bag; he started to make his way to you, but you stand before he can get to you.

They all freeze and wait for you to move, do something…

After a few moments of silence, you try to speak…

“Th__…” Your voice cracks with disuse, you look at them each and try again. “ _he..” It’s no use, your throat is already beginning to throb with the small effort you already made. Hell moves towards you and you back away until you realize she’s holding a notebook and a pen.

Hell: “Here, use this...” She hands you the note book.

Taking the note book you write as quickly as possible – “the sounds are from the east, right? We need to go North, North East; the logging trail will take us to top of the mountain here. But from there it is hiking and game trails only down the other side, until you reach the river.”

You hand it back to Hell and she reads it aloud to everyone.

Bear: “So you do know where we are?” He looks at you with interest. “You don’t know us, and you’re taking our word for everything we told you last night. Why help us? We could be lying to you.”

Hell hands you back the notepad, you sigh in frustration and your hand begins to cramp up from disuse – “Because I have no choice, and you can’t be lying about that f*cker being dead. There hasn’t been a time he didn’t come to see me before I passed out or a time he didn’t wake me up himself. He must be dead or he’d be here now; besides if I don’t help you I will most likely die here on this mountain.” You give her back the notepad.

As she reads it aloud she hesitates when she reads about him seeing you to sleep and waking you every day. Bear nods his head and everyone piles into the food truck and a head count comes over the radio.

*Beep* “Sir, it’s Bane, we lost a few of the civvies last night. Looks like the 3 of them, they took off and took one of the pistols with them. They told Sarah they would head East, wanted her to go with them. Over.” *Beep*

*Beep* “Understood Bane, the shot we heard must be them then.” *Beep* ~” Fucking idiots the sound only attracts them.” He says aloud to no one in particular.

*Beep* “Alright take inventory of all your gear and see what else is missing, when we next stop, I want a report. Over and out.” *Beep*

*Beep* “Roger, wilco. Bane over and out.”

*END FLASHBACK*

High up in your tree you quietly chuckle to yourself. *Still can’t believe Bear took a risk and believed me* You shake your head.

Lionel or “Angel” as you finally came to call him; which he liked to pretend he hated. You gave him the nick name after you heard his call sign from the other’s, “Silent Angel”. He nudged you and nodded his head at you. *He wants to know what made me smile, since you rarely do so.*

You tap your head and point to the clouds above you and tap your head again. He nods his head in understanding. He knows you were just remembering something from before. It’s happened a few times, while you sit in a blind quietly taking your turn at watch while hunting game at the same time.

You’ve gotten to know one another well, neither of you talking much to the other, mostly hand signals, rolling eyes… usually was enough communication between you, which meant words really weren’t necessary. They all tried to get you to talk Hell, Jacobsen before he was lost and Bear too. Even Bane took a crack at it a time or two.

They all just kind of dealt with you not being a talker and staying to yourself most the time. Which didn’t bother you any really, it was a relief after all that time not needing to talk yet being understood. Your voice still cracked on the rare occasions you did say something, but when you did everyone listened.

It still unnerved you every time, anyone in hearing reach would hear you they would stop what they were doing to listen. You hated being the center of attention.

Ever since it spread through your small group what happened to you and what you had become. People stopped trying to leave the group, they no longer felt that the marines weren’t capable of protecting them. Because they knew they had to protect me. And they thought then I was their best bet at a cure.

Bear however, saw to it though that all were trained with weapons, knives, sticks it didn’t matter. He told everyone that it would take us all if we were to survive now; that no one person could sit out, that was not an option. Everyone helped, everyone took turns hunting, scavenging homes; apartments, cars even…

You look down at your weapons you scavenged over time; throwing blades attached to wrist holsters, your Kodachi that was typically on your left hip was absent today in favor of the 2 wakizashi, one on each hip that you found in the basement of a house mounted on the wall with several old riffles. You and Angel a few weeks back found them when you had gone scavenging; the dead man Angel found upstairs must have been the owner; had killed himself, he must have been a collector of sorts.

Hell taught you how to use them, she apparently had taken sword lessons when she was in her 20’s. Turned out everyone in your group that had become your new family; had something they brought to the table. They took Bear seriously, no one slacked off. Everyone pitched in and we all learned how to use a variety of weapons. We lost people along the way despite all the training and effort the marines put into it, Jacobsen was one of the first just a little over a month after getting you out of that hell hole, he was bitten during a run. We tried to give him my blood directly, but it didn’t work. We lost him that night.

I felt like an outcast whenever I was around everyone and would be stared at, someone that was tolerated simply because I was made to be immune. So I normally ate alone to avoid being around everyone. I had hoped it would fade, and it has. Now they really only pay attention to me if I speak. I try and do as little of that as possible.

It took Bear and Hell a while to agree to finally let me go on runs. They said that even though I was immune, it didn’t mean I couldn’t be taken out by a bullet or knife from some twisted soul out there. So, I received twice the training all the others got. It sucked but I understood. Even if no one could reproduce my immunity I had to stay alive in case we found someone that could.

Our new home was impressive; the first few we had eventually failed one way or another. Until we came across an old marble mine close by to an newer quarry that had since the world went to shit been abandoned. Much of the heavy equipment though was still there some no longer operated but it didn’t stop us from moving them and using them as blockade material. Lots of marble had already been cut waiting to be shipped on trucks. We had to scavenge parts from places near and far to get some of the trucks up and running.

We had crossed much of the country and made it all the way to Washington DC. When Angel did a recon of the area he found the marble quarry and came back to our makeshift camp with the news.

So, we set up in the mine fortified the blocked gate and would make runs to and from the marble mine setting up quarry like an old fortress made from marble.

Even though my blood was no good for curing a bite or scratch, it turned out to be good to fortify the sick. We had an outbreak of some kind of flu a year ago…? Still no way to keep track of time, even if I can now see the moon and sun daily.

I have no idea how long I was in there. Hell had kept track for a time but eventually she had given it up. We gave Sarah some of my blood when we realized she was getting worse fast, Hell had no idea if it would work.

But between her and I we were able to figure out with the charts and chemical compounds he used he had done something to my immune system that made it act faster and better than everyone else’s.

We still lost a few though to that flu, one of the older men and a few new people that had joined our little group. The old and poorly nourished, food had become a problem at that time, game was scarce and seemingly everything had been picked over where ever we went. Even with my blood in them we still lost them. It was turning out I was not a cure all, but more of an enigma.

Some of the chemical compounds that sick bastard used, even I didn’t know what they were. I was a science geek growing up. I raided book stores and libraries alike taking whatever science book I could find back with me to our “home”. Nothing helped, but Hell, she never gave up.

I had given up, I walked away I was sick of having to look at his handwriting, hearing his voice in my head as I read what he wrote. Bear had caught me, the one day I had finally worked up the courage to open one of his journals and read it. I had nearly destroyed it by tossing t into the fire; Bear retrieved it, he kept those with him from then on, never allowing me near them again.

My blood couldn’t really do much more than act as a booster for regular illness’s or infections. I felt useless, so I made myself useful by learning how to handle different weapons. In the military, I was pretty good with a riffle but I’m crap with a pistol. It was Hell that found out I was good with a blade and took to training me.

Hell and I got along really well, she had been a nurse before all this; and when I finally started to let her in I told her I had been a surgical technician in the military.

It’s how I knew all the surgical procedures he did on me. Since he would read from his journal to me every day and show me things he was doing and explaining them was how I knew most of the chemical compounds he used. The documents weren’t complete some were damaged by fire, others torn or stained with something or another rendering them useless. But Hell insisted we keep them anyway. If we could find a way to read them she didn’t want them to be lost forever by our ignorance.

*****

Lionel nudged me again away from my thoughts and indicated down the road to a truck that was coming. I nodded to another tree across the field of dead closer to where the truck would undoubtedly need to stop by if they didn’t want to get mobbed.

We had come out here in hopes of finding people. It was agreed we would all take turns 2 weeks out on recon for people. Angel and I made it south in a little under a week. We were not far from Charlotte and only had a day or 2 before we had to head back.

One trick Angel and I had found was that the dead didn’t react to me the way they did to everyone else…, well everyone else that was still alive that is.

In fact, they didn’t react at all to me, that is if I moved slowly. When we got back from that run Hell made an educated guess it was because I might not be “fully immune”; she said I could be a carrier but incapable of contracting it, whatever “it” was.

Like someone that was exposed to chicken pox but never got it, but if you examined their blood you would find they had the virus in their system. Since I had scratched Lionel that day I woke up, she believes I am not contagious. She said that was all she could give me though.

Oh, I wasn’t fully protected from them a few newer bite scars that now accompany all the others have given proof of that. Lionel, Bear and I had to do several “experimental tests” to see just what I could and could not do.

Which normally translated into me running away as fast as I could before my ass got bit… again, or worse...

I couldn’t run or make any fast movements around them. I couldn’t talk around them either… not that I talked much anyways… I couldn’t raise my hand up in the air, we found out any noise I made would attract them just like everyone else too, we found that one out one day when I sneezed… That was not a fun day...

Now I wear full sleeves and normally a hood or scarf to cover my neck where the scratches are. Long pants typically too; my favorite are the leather skins I had sewn together like patch work from the skins of the kills both Angel and I got, it’s the easiest to move in and run in if need be.

*I’m normally covered head to toe. But it really sucks in this southern heat to be completely covered. I’m sweating and getting itchy… Ick!* I mentally give myself a shake.

I shimmied down the tree and followed the trees surrounding the fields filled with the dead. When I get closer, I low crawled until I was under some bushes.

I could hear shouting from here but not close enough to hear what was being said, nor close enough to be seen by them. I could see a firetruck covered in filth. *They are obviously resourceful at least* I thought. There was a big guy with red hair and he was shouting and shoving some portly fellow with a mullet.

*Obviously not a “team”* I was about to turn around and go back and write them off but I heard the one with the crappy mullet say DC. But it wasn’t that, that caught my attention.

The man with the mullet shouted 3 words that caught my attention “I’m not a scientist!…”

*What the hell?!?* I think and turn my head back to listen in some more while creeping a little further towards them to hear better.

*I never thought having a Special Forces Sniper as a friend would come in handy when the world went to shit* I sarcastically think.

But what had really caught my attention was one name, a name not even Hell knew about.

Not even in those journals did that sick son of a bitch ever mentioned his name, he wanted all the credit for himself.

Only to me ever did he tell me who was responsible for the project that made a prisoner, The Human Genome Project. The director of it, T. Brooks Ellis.

Mullet man: “ I lied about T. Brooks Ellis liking my hair, as I never met him…”

My heart is pounding and my mind is going a thousand miles a minute.

*Flashback*

Dr. Harris: “You know you should be thankful 685436, you should be thankful Dr. T. Brooks Ellis was my mentor, I know everything about the Human Genome Project he does. Without him I couldn’t have made you the way you are…”

*End Flashback*

*If he has never met T. Brooks Ellis, how the fucking hell does he know the name?!? I have to find out more!*

Just then the ginger man clocked him.

*FUCK!*

To be continued….

#twd #twdfamily #twd reader insert #twd fandom #twd fanfiction #twd fic #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead fic #the walking dead family #the walking dead fandom #twd eugene #twdg

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fashiontrendin-blog · 7 years ago

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This Couple Will Make You Rethink the Words “I Love You”

https://fashion-trendin.com/this-couple-will-make-you-rethink-the-words-i-love-you/

This Couple Will Make You Rethink the Words “I Love You”

In the same way that two people who are “meant to be” eventually have a way of coming together, so too did this story. I met Jannah Handy and Kiyanna Stewart, founders of BLK MKT Vintage (“a collection comprised of black collectibles, cast-off’s and curiosities, representing the richness of black history and lived experience”), briefly back in February. They supplied the props for the A Different World scene of “Iconic Black Sitcoms of the 90s: A Visual Homage to Their Style and Influence.” Later, during a brainstorm, MR Managing Editor Nora Taylor recommended them for an It’s Kind of a Funny Story — not knowing that they’d suited up the set. But isn’t fate funny like that? So this is the tale of how Jannah Handy and Kiyanna Stewart met and (spoiler, I guess) how they got to this current point in their relationship.

Jannah: We met seven years ago in a social justice training, when we were both administrators at Rutgers University in New Jersey. Of course, just getting to know one another, so we were like, “Where are you from?”

Kiyanna said, “Brooklyn.”

I said, “What part?”

And she said, “East Flatbush.”

I was like, “Oh yeah, me too! East Flatbush.”

She said, “Where in East Flatbush?”

I said my two blocks off of Flatbush, and she said her two blocks, and we come to find out we grew up less than a block and a half away from each other.

Kiyanna: But we didn’t know one another and found each other in New Jersey at a social justice training, of all places.

Jannah: It wasn’t a love-at-first-sight situation. We met; it was cool. But then a mutual friend of ours, Marques, was having foot surgery. We went with him to get this procedure done and both stayed during the whole procedure.

Kiyanna: We bought him food. He was taking care of his niece at the time, so we were picking her up from school, doing homework with her and taking her wherever she needed to go.

Jannah: The day of his procedure, I just remember us having a “long hopes, dreams and goals” type of conversation. I think that really was the spark. That got us going.

Kiyanna: But we didn’t start dating right after that. There was still some time because of where we both were at that point. I was finishing up my graduate program and would be leaving the country for a bit. There were a lot of things that were up in the air for me at that moment.

Jannah: I had just gotten out of a very long-term relationship where we were living together. So I was going through a big transition. I also have a daughter. It wasn’t really an ideal time for a new situation-ship.

Amelia: You guys knew of each other before all this, right? When did you two start noticing one another?

Jannah: I noticed Kiyanna before we officially met. Marques, the same mutual friend who had foot surgery, worked in the same office as me. Kiyanna would win poetry competitions on campus all the time, and I’d tell our friend, “She’s so talented; she’s beautiful. Man, why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

It’s funny: I would tell Marques, “I’m gonna marry her,” before I knew if she was into women, before we had even really talked. And he would always tell me, “Why don’t you ask her out?” It wasn’t until after his surgery that I thought I was picking up on some vibes, but sometimes straight women like to flirt with gay women, so I wasn’t entirely sure.

Amelia: Did Marques tell you any of the things Jannah said about you, Kiyanna?

Kiyanna: Marques was always bringing information back. He was definitely the bone carrier. I don’t know how much he was telling you, Jannah, but he definitely dropped some hints.

But I was hesitant about jumping into a relationship because of all these other things that were going on for the both of us. There was always an attraction to her — learning about who she was and actually talking to her in depth was just the icing on the cake. I was definitely feeling some energy from her and I was at a point in my life where I was open to leaning in a little closer to my sexual identity. She’s my first queer relationship, but I’ve always held this attraction to women. I was just in a series of hetero relationships with men and hadn’t acted on my queerness.

Eventually I thought, Okay, I’m gonna do this. But I wasn’t thinking, I’m gonna do this and be in a relationship with her. It was more like, I’m gonna just see where this goes. So I asked Marques to send me Jannah’s number.

There were so many common experiences and friends we had, both being from Brooklyn; one of them was this Chinese restaurant called Snyder. Everyone knows it because they have the best fried soy sauce wings. I just happened to be there and I texted her a picture of the spot like, “LOL, look where I am.” For her, that meant something.

Jannah: When I got that picture I was like, “Oooooh I’m in there! She’s thinking about me on a random day!” It’s funny because I told all that stuff to Marques like, “She’s so perfect; she wouldn’t wanna date me.” So I wasn’t really checking for her. To be honest, I thought she was out of my league. For me to get a text, I realized there was a chance. That was a baby step, but a significant one.

Kiyanna: After that, I remember Marques was supposed to come over for dinner and then —

Jannah: Marques and I lived on the same campus, so we got dinner together a lot. One night he said, “Get dressed, we’re going to dinner at 8.” It was 7:45. I didn’t know where we were going, but no questions asked. We got in the car, and he was like, “We’re going to Kiyanna’s.” I was like, “I’ve gotta go change! I gotta get cute now. You can’t just spring this on me!” Usually we’d just go to someplace local, so I had sweatpants on or something.

She was cooking when we got there. I was like, AND she knows how to cook??? That was also the first time I had been to her apartment — Kiyanna’s into interior design, so her apartment was breathtaking because she curated it so well.

The seal though, was Marques’ birthday — he goes all out for his birthday celebrations and he did a series of events for it that year. This was December of 2013. There was a big party, then brunch the following day. After two or three days of going to the same events and then back to the same houses, we just started to hang out on our own.

Kiyanna: This was getting into the spring, so I was finishing up my degree and then leaving late May to bring a group of students to Ghana for the summer. Simultaneously, I applied for a position at the University of Ghana and was considering staying to take it. It was a lot, but Jay and I maintained communication. I didn’t know what the internet connection was going to be like — we didn’t have a definitive answer from the program director, who was my boss. So to Jannah, I was just like, “We’ll talk. We’ll make it work.”

Jannah: Yeah, you were like, “We’ll talk a couple times a month,” or something like that. I was like, “Wait, I thought we were gonna try this out. What do you mean talking a couple times a month?”

Kiyanna: We wound up having internet in the house. We made it work and we talked every day, even with the six-hour time difference. I remember the sun rising for me at six or seven and you were just going to bed.

Caring makes you do it.

Jannah: We would talk for hours — we had no business talking for four or five hours, especially with Kiy’s days starting so early with her students. It was like pulling an all-nighter in college, but daily. Caring makes you do it.

I made her a book when she came back from Ghana. While we were talking throughout the two months, I was taking screenshots. So I took all the screenshots and made them into a little photo book. I would ask all my friends, “Does this make me look like a serial killer, or is this cute?”

Kiyanna: There were like 60 screenshots!

Jannah: And those were the best ones! I probably had hundreds.

Kiyanna: It’s funny because the photos were of me in different places all over the house: I would have a long day and end it talking to Jannah with a bottle of wine in my room. Or I was in the bed with a sinus infection. It was beautiful. She called the book, “Face to FaceTime” and there’s a beautiful poem she wrote at the end.

I also made her a book — before I left — and said I would fill it with poetry while I was away. It’s covered with this map; you can see Ghana on one side and New York on the backside. I calculated the mileage/distance across the ocean and titled it that. So I filled it with poetry while I was away and gave it to her when I got back.

Jannah: I do think you bring out so much creativity in me! I’m a romantic, but I never thought I was a poet. You inspired me to take it to a whole other level. It felt like, “Whoa, I have something to share, and she wants to hear it.” You did that.

Amelia: Did you guys have the “exclusivity” talk?

Kiyanna: It didn’t make sense to be exclusive until I got back. I was away from May to August. We weren’t official and we weren’t acting like we were official either. There were moments where we were both seeing other people in different ways. It wasn’t until August that she asked me and that was that.

Jannah: I was just like, “Are you gonna stop playing and be my girl or what?”

Kiyanna: I’m pretty sure you said that. We have two anniversaries. That day and Marques’ birthday party. So we celebrate every December and August.

Jannah: Since December 2013.

Kiyanna: Our five-year anniversary for Marques’ party in December will be this year, but our four-year anniversary of being exclusive will be in August. It’s complicated every year, especially with the anniversaries being in two different years, 2013 and 2014.

Amelia: Now that we know your romantic story, tell me about how you two started BLK MKT Vintage.

Jannah: Kiyanna was always a collector — like I said, her apartment was gorgeous with all these antiques.

Kiyanna: It was really just a hobby that I picked up from my mom. We’d go to vintage shops, antique shops, pick up stuff off of the side of the street if it was cool and bring it home to decorate our space with it.

Jannah: I wasn’t really into vintage because I thought it was gross. Kiyanna would always go to the thrift store and I was like, “Okay, I like her. A lot. So, I’m gonna go to the thrift store too — I love it! Let’s do it!” So that’s how I got into it, and when Kiy left for Ghana, I would still go to vintage/thrift shops and pick things up. I started my own collection.

When she got back, we’d go to flea markets and thrift stores together. We were like, “We can do this — sell our stuff.” It wasn’t like, “This is going to be a business.” It was a hobby, and we had a lot of stuff. Plus, we figured we could get more stuff if we sold the other stuff. That’s how we got started: first at the Hell’s Kitchen Flea, then Artists and Flea, then Brooklyn Flea. We did that for a couple years. We knew that BLK MKT would be something we enjoyed doing, but didn’t envision how big it could be until a bit later.

Kiyanna: Yeah, there wasn’t a five-year plan when we sat down to talk about what Black Market Vintage could look like. We saw so many couples who did this kind of work together, so it just kind of made sense. We weren’t looking to make a lot of money, but it did seem like we could make some extra money and preserve these really cool things simultaneously.

Jannah: Once we got on that journey, realizing that we would focus on African-American artifacts and realizing they were so few and far between, we started to see that there’s a void in the market in terms of how vintage is defined and whose histories are included, excluded and valued. So we said, “Why don’t we become the collectors that we wished we had and be that source that we wish we could’ve gone to when we first started out?” Once we took on that thinking, the BLK MKT that we know today was born.

Kiyanna: We talked about the void of black vintage or black antiques, but then also, where are the spaces dedicated to that? We have cultural institutions like museums, but what would it look like for there to be a vintage shop and, instead of all of the faces in the artwork, the music and on whatever apparel being white faces by default, they were all black and brown? What would that look like? Because it doesn’t exist. We were just dreaming up things that were not available to us at the moment. BLK MKT has just grown exponentially because our community recognizes that void as well.

Amelia: How do you separate the work stuff from the personal stuff?

Jannah: We’ve grown in that aspect. We’ve realized that BLK MKT is such a poignant vision, and it takes a lot of work behind the scenes to make that vision come out to the world. Our personal stuff shouldn’t be a barrier to the work that we said that we wanted to do with one another.

Communication is important, and so is making sure we’re able to compartmentalize. That’s something we’re working on daily. When we’re not at our best, BLK MKT is not at its best. There are times where we’ve learned the hard way. I think we’ve grown a lot — we haven’t made it to the mountain top yet, but it’s an everyday process for us. We’re evolving.

Kiyanna: The other day over dinner, we were mapping out our summer and what specifically the next few months will look like with all of our travel. We’re popping up at a bunch of summer events, so we have to schedule when we’re going to go to the spa, when we’re gonna have a weekend away and sometimes, when we’re going on a date. Scheduling time for ourselves, downtime and trying to be intentional about our future, is important. If we don’t plan it, it’s easy to say, “Oh, we’re gonna go on a date next week,” or, “We can just go to the spa next month.”

Jannah: I appreciate Kiy for that because that’s something she’s been pushing, making sure that we’re taking time together and practicing self-care.

Amelia: Jannah, you said that you have a daughter. How does having a daughter play a role in your relationship with Kiyanna?

Jannah: My daughter is from a previous relationship. I’m her non-biological mother. She’s seven, turning eight in December. She’s like a real-ass kid. She’s grown. They live 15 minutes from us, so we see her often.

She has a relationship with Kiyanna. In the beginning, I was very selective about when to have them meet and what kind of setting it would be in. Kids always have so many questions, so it was just about navigating that piece. Now it’s at the forming stage, creating those bonds. She’s also at that processing and possessive age: When Kiyanna and I are hugging, she’ll come over and try to get in the middle. It’s cute because she wants me, Mommy J, all to herself, but she’s also developing her own bond with Kiyanna and with Kiy and I as a couple.

Kiyanna: Definitely the testing stage. And she’s so cute. She’s trying to find language for what our relationship is. As she gets older and has more questions, I think that her seeing that she has a unique family will make space for lots of conversations. Some might be challenging, some not so easy, but I think with time and the amount of love/support she has in her life, it’ll help her make meaning of it all.

While Jannah is an amazing mom and was, like she mentioned, very diligent about deciding on the appropriate time to introduce and bring me into their world, and then also bring her daughter back into our world, I had my trepidations at the beginning. I didn’t know if this was going to be permanent. I was protecting myself and being considerate of Jay and Makayla — but I eventually jumped in.

Amelia: Who said “I love you” first?

Jannah: She asked me if I loved her, and I said yes. Then I said, “Do you love me?”

And she said, “I’m not sure yet.”

And I said, “Okay, I take it back.”

Kiyanna: I was like, “You can’t take it back! It’s mine.” I was just trying to be honest.

Jannah: And I was like, “I’m being honest too. Give me that shit back!!” [Laughs]

Kiyanna: I was just trying to be honest and I really wasn’t [sure]. It was just so great in the beginning. You know how the beginnings are. I was scared as hell because of all the things that were up in the air for me — Is this a honeymoon phase, or is this more than that? Am I just going with the butterflies in my stomach? Are these the butterflies in my stomach, or is this how she makes me feel? Is this the choice? What I now know love to be — the choice to be in a space with someone — I wasn’t sure of at the moment.

Jannah: But then the next day she tells me, “No actually, I do love you, I thought about it.” I was like, “What?”

Naturally I had to undo my take-back and told her that, “I’m sticking with it; I love you and I’m not taking it back.”

Kiyanna: No you didn’t.

The next day she was like, “Alright fine, I thought about it, I love you too.” That back and forth is basically us in a nutshell.

Jannah: I did! And I think you felt guilty. The next day she was like, “Alright fine, I thought about it, I love you too.” That back and forth is basically us in a nutshell.

Kiyanna: And then we were saying it pretty regularly after that.

Jannah: When I say, “I love you,” Kiy asks me, “Why do you love me?” Every time.

Kiyanna: Not every time.

Jannah: I try to come up with unique and meaningful responses each time. Like, “…because you are my person,” or, “…because you accept me flaws and all, including leaving the kitchen light on.” There are so many reasons why I love her, I could speak until eternity.

Kiyanna: People say I love you all the time. It’s become a habit. Just something that we say. I also try to be intentional about asking why we love one another when we are not in our best space, when we’ve been arguing or if we’re just having shitty days. “Why do you love me? Why do you want to be here?” Just to recenter. To ground and anchor both of us in that moment. Like, we’re actively making a choice to be here. I don’t ever want to be in a relationship where someone is staying by inertia. Just because. When I ask that, I’m really just trying to get to the intention behind the decision we’re making to embody love.

Jannah: When you first started doing it I was like, “What do you mean, Why? I told you I loved you.” But I do appreciate it when you ask now. Because we can get in that routine sometimes of just saying “I love you” as a salutation, as we’re leaving or hanging up on a call.

Amelia: What’s been a challenge in your relationship?

Kiyanna: For me, I want to say communication, but poor communication is a byproduct of other things. I’ve struggled with anxiety since grad school. For me, that has impacted my communication because sometimes it makes me withdraw and overthink. I used to pull away because I didn’t have the language for it, so it’s hard to tell somebody else when you’re just trying to put together how you’re feeling. It’s something that shows up in a number of ways, both when things are really great and when things are not so great. It’s my personal stuff that I bring to this relationship.

Jannah: And something we talk about a lot is competing needs. You’re a human, you have your emotions, you have your process, you have whatever you’re feeling that day, and it’s not always going to mesh up with the person that you are in the closest proximity with. There are certain realities, and that grounding we were talking about is so important because those competing needs can make you have an attitude, lash out or make you petty, and that impacts different areas of the relationship — including the business.

I think that’s been the most challenging for us — like you said, it’s a byproduct, so it’s not 100 percent communication. But when those things happen, then communication is one of the first things to go. Like, “Ugh, I don’t wanna talk to you,” or we’re beefing: “Damn, I need to be the bigger person right now?” As long as there are two of us, there will always be competing needs, but naming it has been really important for us.

Kiyanna: Just call it what it is. At the beginning, it was hard — I didn’t know that what I was experiencing was anxiety. I thought it was just my mood. I didn’t have the language for it or understand it the ways in which I do now. Naming it meant so much to her.

Jannah: I don’t like confrontation and I don’t like conflict. Kiyanna had to explain it to me because I didn’t really know about anxiety or how it shows up — especially in a relationship. She talked about it being colored glasses; it actually colors the way that she sees, interprets and makes meaning of things. At the very beginning, I didn’t understand it. I was like, ”Why is she mad at me?” Now that I understand how hers shows up, it becomes easier. If I came in and had a bad day, I can voice that. I can say, “Babe, I need this from you.” Let’s talk about it, let’s not mince words, let’s get it out there so we can make informed decisions and move forward.

Amelia: What do you love about one another?

Kiyanna: Jannah is so family-oriented. She’s a people person. She’s got jokes for days. She’s got the warmest smile. Whenever we meet people or are in spaces with other people, she’s the life of the party, the loudest one in the room — but also shy at the same time. Sometimes it’s challenging because she’s much more extroverted than I am, so when I need quiet time and she’s ready to mingle, we’ve got to find balance.

[To Jannah] I love how you mother Makayla and parent her. Your relationship is special. I didn’t understand it at the very beginning, but shortly after I did. You’re creative — the ideas, the brilliance! You are smart as shit. Tons of ideas, some of which are untapped and we’re gonna work on that. The willingness to throw it all out there and show up — those are things that I love about you. And you’re really romantic and thoughtful.

Jannah: You are brilliant. You are all of those things that I was talking to Marques about back in the day, those things that attracted me to you. You were a beacon out of all these people at the social justice training because you glow. Not just physically, not just the melanin (that’s on point, too); you glow. Your creativity seeps out from the way you wear your hair to the way you tie your sneakers. I appreciate the way that glow has rubbed off on me. I’m a little cooler now that I’m with you. I love that you make me feel beautiful. That’s something I haven’t had in my previous relationships. I’m a solid seven, but I can talk folks into thinking I’m a twelve, but you make me feel like a fifty every time. When I’m getting dressed you’re like, “Aye, girl. Come here, witcho fine ass.” So, I love that. I love that authenticity is important to you. That is one of the ways that we stumbled upon BLK MKT because you talk about being authentic even when it’s hard work and others don’t understand it. Your relationship with your students is something that also attracted me to you, because they love you. You have that swag that makes people want to be in your presence.

Amelia: One of my favorite things to ask is: If you could give advice to anyone, who would you give it to, and what would your advice be?

If you say you want to be somewhere and be with someone, doing the work to stay there is the biggest thing. Love is a muscle and a verb.

Jannah: My advice is to anyone who is in a loving relationship. I think the driving force behind our little magic is: If you say you want to be somewhere and be with someone, doing the work to stay there is the biggest thing. Love is a muscle and a verb. You have to work at it and do it every day. Do it in small ways and in big ways. If I’m saying I want to be with you for the rest of my life, I want you to be my wife, I want us to have children, I want this business to flourish, I want five stores in the nation and one overseas — if I say I want all of those things, the only way that will happen is in the everyday interactions. The choices. How am I proving that I’m making this choice to choose you every day?

Kiyanna: That’s beautiful. My piece of advice is also for anybody in a loving relationship: Show up in those relationships authentically and speak your truth. If there are things you need from that relationship, you gotta find a way to articulate it. If there are things you don’t want, you also need to make it plain. Showing up authentically is most important, and it takes work because you have to first know who you are. “What is my identity? What are my values? What’s the shit I’m gonna stand for? What’s the shit I’m not gonna stand for? What does compromise look like?” Those are all things that we should be constantly reevaluating.

Check out BLK MKT Vintage’s website here and follow them on Instagram here.

Photos by Edith Young. Book image via Kiyanna and Jannah.

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