#the difference and yet harmony of styles is so fascinating to me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nikethestatue · 4 years ago

Text

La Dolce Vita

Part II

On the Wings of Desire

Warnings: Language

(I had to split this chapter into two because it was getting too long. Hence, no sexy times, but angst galore) Comments and reblogs and likes are always appreciated! Let me know what you think.

Chapter One is here

Two Years Ago

Azriel

Azriel pulled up to the flower shop.

There was a surprise that he wanted to share with Elain, and like a young boy on his first date, he was both excited and nervous. But he hoped that she’d like it. Funny how he still got a little nervous with her, exuberant even.

It’s been three months since they’ve met and he loved every minute that they’d spent together. The nature of their relationship was a little undefined, but he didn’t care. So what if they weren’t ‘dating’? So there weren’t official dinners and outings, to show only the best part of each other to one another? They moved beyond that right away. They simply loved being together. It was inexplicable, how quickly it happened, how easy it was between the two of them, but Azriel could never get enough of Elain.

He came to her shop whenever he wanted, helped her out, hung out with her, and she went to the garage to meet him. If he was busy and couldn’t meet with her, she closed her shop for lunch, and brought him a sandwich, so they could eat together. He loved it, even if he actually had a restaurant and a bar on premises and she technically didn’t need to buy him food. But there was something special about her coming up the stairs to his office, dressed in one of her cute, flowery dresses and heels. Every time it was a different sandwich, a different drink and a different snack—sometimes a cookie, or good chocolate, or weird chips, or a full-on pastry with cream and ganache and whatnot. He developed a strange fascination with his lunch options, never knowing what it would be and eagerly anticipating it.

Sometimes, he took her on long rides—one of their favourite past times. If he knew that she was up to her eyeballs with orders, since this was summer and it seemed like everyone was getting married, he would bring her takeout to the shop, and they’d sit and arrange flowers until the wee hours. When things calmed down, and there was a quiet evening ahead, she usually invited him to come and eat at her place. They cooked together, drank wine, and then went for a walk.

They haven’t had a kiss yet.

Did it bother him? He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t dream of Elain all the time, of her supple, soft body, of how she’d look naked, of how she’d feel when he filled her, what sounds she’d make, what her face would look like when she climaxed around him? Was she a screamer? A beggar? Was she loud or quiet and shy?

She never spoke of her past boyfriends, so he had no idea of how many men she’s been with. Secretly, he hoped that it wasn’t too many. Maybe it was some male thing, but the idea of her with another man, the thought of someone else touching her, making her moan, making her love—it didn’t please him at all. He thought that he was more modern, more advanced in his thinking—and usually he was—but in this case, he was struggling with accepting Elain wrapped around some other male.

Surprisingly, even though it wasn’t even 6 pm yet, the flowers that usually spilled outside the shop were not gracing the pavement and the shop looked closed for the day. But Azriel went and knocked on the glass door anyway, seeing as there was some light coming from Elain’s office in the back. There was no response, but he knocked even harder, almost banging, until he heard Elain’s muffled voice yelling, “we are closed!”

“Laney, open up! It’s me!”

A few moments later, Elain appeared in the darkness and then the door opened.

And his jaw almost dropped.

She stood in front of him, wearing a slinky, satin, cobalt dress that looked almost like lingerie. Of modest length, it nevertheless emphasized her breasts very enticingly: soft and full, and pushed together just enough to create a hint of delicious cleavage. A simple set of glittering silver chains nestled seductively in that yummy valley between her breasts. One bare foot was clad in a strappy silver sandal, while she held the other, and jumped awkwardly on one foot, balancing herself on the doorframe. Her hair was curled and arranged over one naked shoulder.

He struggled to keep his breath from whooshing loudly.

“Whoa…”

“Hi Az,” she sounded…uncomfortable.

“Hey you. Hot date?” he chuckled, eyes gliding from her pretty toes up to her eyes.

Her throat bobbed and she didn’t answer.

Shit.

He fought the urge to cross his arms on his chest. But then he’d look threatening, towering over her, much like his father did when he was in one of his moods. Azriel swore to himself long ago to never, ever cross his arms with women.

“I didn’t think you’d be coming over,” she began, voice wobbling.

“So, you figured that you could sneak out?” he spat unkindly.

“I am not sneaking out!” she snapped, flushed and defiant. “I am going out,”

“With whom?” he demanded.

He and Elain had never fought. Never even disagreed.

They laughed together. They joked and discussed. They argued over books and movies. They talked about design, food and travel, places they wanted to visit, and things they wanted to see. Elain randomly texted him names of 3 and 2 Michelin star restaurants from all over the world, telling him where she wanted to dine, why, and eagerly opining on the menus.

Elain was his.

His little foodie, who was a fearless eater, and sampled just about everything and anything.

Elain was his.

His little art lover, who had a surprisingly wide breadth of knowledge of painting, art history and strong opinions on artists and styles. When he found out that she adored Balthus and that Egon Schiele was her favourite artist of all time, his respect for her only increased.

Elain was his.

His little intellectual, who read Anna Akhmatova’s poetry, listened to Alain Elkann’s podcast, and who could easily talk about the history of Lamborghini or Aston Martin, and Formula 1, just to satisfy him.

What the fuck was this?

Why was his Elain going on some date with another man?

Anger rose in him so quickly; he had a difficult time stopping his hands from shaking. So, he clasped them behind his back.

“It’s none of your business,” she said coldly. “I don’t have to report to you who I am going out with,”

“You don’t?” he demanded absurdly.

“No, I don’t!”

“Please tell me who he is?” he decided on a different approach. His brain was working furiously, trying to dissuade her, yet not anger her, yet find out as much information as possible.

“No!” she shook her head stubbornly. “Why do you even care?”

Why did he care? WHY did he care?

He couldn’t have been misreading all the signs. He couldn’t have been misreading her interest, her acceptance, her want.

There was no doubt in his mind that she wanted him—emotionally, as a friend, as a partner, as a lover. Reading people was his job, his calling, and he’d never been wrong. He certainly wasn’t wrong with Elain—she was an open book to him. He didn’t need to evaluate her reactions to his company to know that she was absolutely enthralled with him.

So why this?

Was it something he did? There were no hints of anything amiss the last time they’d seen each other. They were at her place, they cooked Italian together—spaghetti and clams—and he opened a bottle of Petilia Greco di Tufo, a pure, harmonious white from Campania. Then they went to the rooftop—their favourite place—and watched the city, enjoying gelato and playing cards.

Squeezing his hands behind his back, he demanded, “Has he been vetted?”

“Vetted? Vetted?” she exclaimed incredulously. “Who is going to be doing this vetting?”

She stared at him and bit out,

“I don’t like this side of you. This is crazy behaviour,”

“Why? Because you are going on a date? Suddenly. Unexpectedly.”

At that, she blushed furiously, squirming under his heavy, icy gaze.

He continued, “And with some guy you refuse to tell me anything about. Have you told Cass?”

“What? What exactly is Cass? My father?”

“Cass runs security for,”

“I know what Cass does!” she cried, looking furious, but also uncomfortable. Insecure. Anxious. “But I am not telling him. Leave me alone. I am not telling anyone,”

“Not even Nesta? Elide?” he demanded. “And what if something happens?”

“What’s going to happen?!” she asked nervously.

Nothing.

Probably nothing.

He was being an overbearing creep, but he couldn’t stop.

He needed to know. And yes, he wanted her to be safe.

“Who knows?” he shrugged menacingly. “He is unvetted. No one knows anything about him. Have you even Googled him?”

She blushed.

That’s a no.

“Unless you tell me his name, I am not leaving,” he warned. “I need to know who you are going to be with.”

“I am not telling you.”

“Fine,” he propped himself against the door. “We’ll just stand here.”

“Fine.”

The standoff continued for another few minutes, until, exasperated, she blurted,

“His name is Dorian!”

“Dorian. As in Dorian Gray?”

She rolled her eyes. “How funny.”

He took out his phone and asked, “Does Dorian have a last name?”

“Are you seriously going to Google him?”

“Absolutely I will. Since you didn’t.”

“I am not telling you.”

“Fine,” he shrugged. “I’ll await Dorian’s arrival and have a man-to-man talk with him,”

She paled.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Watch me.”

She glared at him, and then sneered, “Why don’t you invite Lorcan too! And Rowan. So the three of you can stand here, in your freaky silent vigil and glare at him, to scare him off.”

“Good idea.”

She shrugged, “And when Dorian comes here, you three can tower over him.”

“Why? Is he tiny?” Azriel snorted.

She rolled her eyes and then thrust her foot into her other heel, finally. As she tied it around her ankle, she muttered angrily, “so disappointed in you,”

“Get in line,” he snapped.

“Adarlan,”

“What?”

“His last name is Adarlan.”

Azriel immediately typed the name into the phone.

A pretty white boy. Columbia. Pre-law.

Figures.

Of course, someone like that would want someone like Elain. And she’d want him in return. Pretty, proper. Pathetic.

“Satisfied?” she rose to her full height. Her cheeks were flushed, brown eyes gleaming with anger and challenge.

She was so beautiful and so annoyed with him, Azriel was blinded by her, by her light, her spirit.

“Not for a while,” he said blandly and shrugged.

That made her redden. Not the blush of anger. Her sexy blush.

So, he went for it.

“Call it off,” he begged.

“What?”

“Call it off. Please.”

“Why?”

Because you are mine.

He wanted to tell her. To explain.

But did he deserve her? All that light and goodness? Perhaps, pretty boy Dorian was indeed more appropriate.

“Because,” he began and then heard a car pull up behind him.

Steps.

He didn’t turn around.

“Elain.”

“Dorian.”

Her face lit up with a smile.

“Ready?”

She nodded. “Just let me grab my bag.”

When she disappeared, Azriel turned around at last.

Dorian was good looking, tall, thin. Young. Looked like a kid, though Azriel figured that he wasn’t much younger than him. But Azriel’s lived about 540 years by now…at least that’s how it felt, and Dorian—Dorian probably had many girlfriends, many friends, and daddy’s money.

He was about as interesting as a bag of beans.

They stared at each other.

Azriel didn’t give a shit.

He didn’t care about anything, other than this is what Elain chose. This Dorian may end up holding Elain’s hand. Perhaps going in for a kiss. That sensuous weak mouth may touch Elain’s perfect lips—the lips that Azriel only dreamt of kissing. And what if it went further?

What if,

No.

Elain was not a ‘first date sex’ kind of girl. Never. Not his Elain.

“Treat her well,” he growled a warning.

Dorian blinked.

“What?”

“Treat. Elain. Well.”

“Who are you?”

“Consider me her brother-in-law.”

“Oh. Okay. Alright. Sure, man. Yeah.”

Fucking intellectual powerhouse.

“I am one of many,”

“Many what?” Dorian asked in confusion.

“Many brothers-in-law. And they all look like me. Some are even bigger.”

“Ready?!” Elain chirped.

“Um, yeah,” Dorian’s eyes darted back and forth.

Azriel finally gave up and crossed his arms on his chest.

“Have fun you two,” he said sweetly.

“Thank you. I’ll see you at Rhys’s pool party on Saturday,” Elain acted like everything was normal.

“Sure. Bring Dorian along,” Azriel jerked his chin. “We’ll be delighted to have him.”

Elain

“He is a charmer,” Dorian finally exhaled once they were inside the car.

She grunted in response.

“Does he have enough tattoos?” he started to reverse. “Oh, look, a Ferrari,”

“It’s his,” she bit the inside of her cheek, glancing quickly at the unmoving figure under the awning.

“His? What is he? A drug dealer?”

“Dorian!” she snapped. She was so on edge, she sat on her shaking hands the moment she buckled up.

“Sorry. Sorry. But really, do you want me to,”

She interrupted,

“What? Are you offering to beat him up?”

“I mean,”

“Dorian. He is a Navy Seal,” she said bluntly. “His bicep is the circumference of my head. His buddies are all pushing 6”7 in height and are all former Navy Seals. I am just saying. You aren’t taking him on.”

Dorian didn’t feel the need to disagree.

Azriel

Elain was his home. She was his happy place. His joy.

Her smile made everything better.

When she touched him--his fingers, his cheek—that touch carried more sensual promise than anything he’d ever experienced. And he’d experienced plenty.

Azriel’s only brush with love was when he was 18 and it was right before Morgana fucked Cassian, lost her virginity to him and got pregnant by him. He wondered if that’s what fucked him up, turned him off love for this past decade. Ploughing through endless bodies felt good, though he was usually left with the feeling of residual emptiness and longing. But he accepted it.

Elain though. He didn’t plough into Elain. Never even so much as seen her breast. And yet, his head was filled with her. Images, both erotic and mundane floated through his brain constantly. Elain’s eyes lighting up when he called her ‘baby’. Elain tasting a pastry, in her own special way, sometimes dipping her finger into the cream, and driving him wild. Elain reclining her golden head on the seat of his car, eyes closed. Elain being a little drill master when it came to arranging flowers, absolutely unperturbed by the idea of ordering Rowan and Cassian and Fen around.

That Elain was offering her smile, her time, her attention to that pretty prick Dorian was just intolerable.

If he could, he would actually climb the walls. But Azriel couldn’t climb walls, even if parkour-loving Fenrys would probably teach him how. Therefore, he went back to the shop, where Nuala was just packing up for the day.

“I need your car,” he demanded.

“We are in a garage,” she reminded him reasonably, but nevertheless tossed her keys to him. He caught them with one hand and said, “I owe you one.”

“You owe me like fifty…but who is counting?”

Nuala didn’t know why he needed her car, but she did know that he was beyond pining, at this point. He was in full love mode. As in LOVE. Capital letters, heart palpitations, sleepless nights, acting-like-a-drug-addict LOVE. Who would have thought? Not only that Azriel would fall in love at all, but that it would be with Elain.

Azriel got into Nuala’s ordinary Acura, drove to Elain’s apartment, and kept vigil the very same way she told him he would.

At this point, he didn’t care at all. He sat and waited in his shadows. Waiting like this—he learned this level of patience back in the Navy, during his recon missions—suited him, and his personality. Lorcan and he could sit like this for hours. Days. They weren’t bothered at all. Cassian and Fenrys would whine, complain and bounce like little children.

Shadows were his friends, as they’d always been, since he was a boy and hid from his abusive father. They protected him then, and concealed him now.

Finally, at an acceptable, and slightly boring, 11:23 pm, Dorian’s generic Audi pulled up.

There was no way that either of them would spot him, or assume that he was around.

Dorian opened the door for Elain, and she stepped out. They talked. She smiled. Then laughed.

It all grated on Azriel’s nerves. Go inside! He wanted to shout to her.

Then, Dorian made a move. Azriel tensed, when the pretty boy reached his hand out and ran his knuckles over Elain’s bare shoulder. The hand stopped entirely too close to her breast, as he squeezed her upper arm, holding her close. If Azriel sensed even the tiniest expression of discomfort from her, he’d be flying out of the car in a snap.

They talked some more, that gross hand still resting on Elain’s arm. But then, she opened her arms and Azriel grimaced. No way. No way was she going for a kiss.

And thank all the gods above, but she only hugged him, and not a close hug either—but that awkward, butts-out, shoulders pressed together weird hug. Something males typically gave each other, so careful to avoid any penile interaction. Then she walked to her building and gave Dorian a little wave. He hopped in his car and drove away.

What a prick. Didn’t even wait for her to get inside.

But she stood still, door unopened, keys in her fingers. And then, she peered into the darkness. A long, penetrating gaze. Aimed right at him. Like she saw through the shadows. She looked and looked, and he melted in the shadows, into the darkness of the car.

And then she flipped him off, and walked inside.

Elain

Piled into Lorcan’s Range Rover, it was Elain ad Elide, Lorcan and Connall in the car.

It was a nice day for a pool party, for a long drive to the Hamptons, for enjoying the sunshine.

Elain was having none of it.

She hated this idea to begin with—pool parties—which were full of too-rich and affected young people, prancing around in skimpy underwear. The women too perfect. The men, full of unreasonable expectations.

Feyre and Morrigan liked this crap, Cassian too, Aelin—certainly.

All the people with their perfect bodies and big hair and bigger personalities.

This Range Rover was like the car for outcasts.

Lorcan looked like he wanted to be at a pool party as much as he wanted to have a rectal exam. Connall, she was sure, would just sit by the bar and nurse drinks all day long. Elide would always find an escape with Lor, and the two of them would huddle together and make snide comments about the attendees to each other.

Elain sighed.

She was such a stupid, inexcusably dumb, fucking idiot.

“Do you know why Az isn’t coming today?” Lorcan looked at her in the mirror.

“Oh?”

She bit inside of her cheek, stifling a pathetic cry.

It shouldn’t have surprised her that Azriel decided not to attend, but she still harbored hope, somewhere inside of her that he would. That they’d be able to talk. That he’d…

Forgive her?

“No, I don’t know,” she mumbled.

“Did you have a fight or something?” Lorcan’s strange black eyes looked at her like they were scraping the edges of her soul. It wasn’t the most comfortable of feelings.

“No.”

She spent the rest of the trip in sullen silence. Even Elide didn’t try to shake her out of her stupor.

As expected, the party was ridiculously over the top.

There were throngs of people milling about, all in various stages of undress. Firm, golden flesh gleamed in the sunlight.

There were three bars—one for beer, one for cocktails and one for everything else. An ice cream station. A s’mores station. Wagyu beef sliders. Lobster hot dogs. Jamon Iberico. Wheels of Parmigiano Reggiano.

Deep down, Elain was grateful that she’d never be this wealthy.

She was happy with her flowers, her shop, and she was considering opening a pastry shop down the road. And then Azriel had his wonderful garage, but successful as it was, it wasn’t on the Darling level of wealth…And that was alright. It was perfectly enough, too much even,

She stopped.

She should’ve just told him. Everything. A long time ago. But the intensity of her own feelings towards him frightened her, and then…she fucked it all up.

She meandered absently around the premises, listening to Feyre’s and Nesta’s screeching from the pool, where both were perched on the shoulders of their respective lovers, whacking each other and others with long plastic poles. Mor and her new girlfriend were making out passionately in a hammock. Fenrys was swarmed by a bevy of busty beauties. And so on…

She was feeling foolish and exposed in her pink bikini, wishing she had a wrap or something. Her body was no worse than all of these other girls’, but she couldn’t help but compare herself to them. They were confident. Exciting. Entertaining. They flirted and laughed loudly. They had sparkly teeth and giant lips.

She didn’t know how to flirt, and wasn’t glamorous or polished like them.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing here all alone? Without a drink?”

A man sidled over, his bold eyes roaming about her body, assessing.

“I am fine, thank you,” she made to get away and walk towards the pool, but he thrust an insistent hand in front of her, holding a drink.

“Come on, sugar. Join me.”

Sugar?

And then, there were four of them. Five.

None were threatening, but being surrounded by so many men, while basically naked was outside of Elain’s comfort zone. They were joking, laughing, chugging their beers. She didn’t know any of them.

“So, who are you?” asked one of them.

“A guest.”

She angled her body towards the pool, trying to sneak past them.

“A guest? We are guests too! Nice party,”

“It is. Pardon me, I have to go,”

“But why?”

One of them caught her hand in his and pulled lightly, grounding her in place.

“Excuse me!” she attempted to withdraw her hand, but he didn’t budge. They herded her a little closer to the house. A sixth man approached, carrying a little tray with tequila shots.

“Where do you got to go, baby?”

Another hand slipped down her back and brushed over her butt, making her jerk.

“What the hell?” she hissed, but her indignation was met with amused smiles.

“Such a pretty girl, all alone. Come, join us,”

“I am not alone!” she snapped angrily.

“Oh no?”

“And who are you with?”

“My fucking boyfriend!” she lied, a little scared now.

“Oh, a boyfriend?” teased one. “And who might that be?”

“Do we know this boyfriend? Where is he?”

She looked around desperately, and then lied again, “He is inside. And coming back, soon.”

Laughter.

“Ohh, I don’t think so. I’ve been watching you for an hour, and there is no boyfriend.”

“I think I need to go,”

“But why!?!”

They goaded, “Tell us about the boyfriend?”

“His name is Azriel Bagarat,” she blurted out.

More laughter. Challenging, condescending laughter.

“Really?”

“Mr. Fancy Garage is your boyfriend?”

“Good one! I almost fell for it.”

“Azriel Bagarat-I-date-a-new-girl-weekly makes for a bad boyfriend, honey,”

“You aren’t exactly his type.”

Tears threatened to pour out of her eyes, and she was horrified by her body’s reaction to the taunting.

She threw, “and what type is that?”

“He doesn’t go for squeaky clean girls like you.”

“Maybe it’s an experiment!” laughed one of them. “He is into all sorts of fucking kink. Maybe he is wetting his cock in some virgin flesh,”

“Are you even legal?”

“You look awfully young.”

At this point, Elain was not above screaming for Lorcan, or Rowan, or anyone else. Her looking weak and pathetic was the least of her concerns.

For a moment, the teasing and the laughter died down. One of them exclaimed, “Oh hey. There you are!”

Fuck. Another one.

The scent hit her first. The sharp, intoxicating smell of his expensive Armani cologne. She’d recognize it anywhere. That hint of cedar and a chilled night air. That was him. Her home.

And then, the familiar dark arm slipped across her stomach, tugging her firmly to his front. Another hand slid to her throat, laying on it, but not squeezing. He held her tenderly, close to him, possessively.

“I missed my girl,” he whispered, his gravelly, husky voice so familiar to her ear it sent a shiver down her spine.

Why couldn’t it be like this forever? Her in his arms? Forever?

“My gorgeous girlfriend always brings all the boys to the yard,” he chuckled. And then, to Elain’s utter delight and pleasure, he placed a warm, open mouthed kiss on the side of her neck.

She shuddered.

He’d never kissed her. Never intimately. Never kissed her like this.

His. She was his. And he just marked his territory.

It was glorious. To be kissed by him was something that she’d dreamt of and here it was—unexpected, sensuous, surprisingly erotic.

His thumb stroked the side of her throat, and then he leaned in and kissed her again. Same spot. Her bare vulnerable throat, her pale neck, his for the taking. She had no control of the situation, and she loved it.

“Thank you for keeping my girlfriend company, gentlemen, but I’ll take it from here.”

Not so brave anymore, in the face of this towering mass of muscle and tattoos, the men sheepishly offered him a shot, which he knocked back and then even attempted to high-five him, though he drew the line at that.

As they scampered away, Azriel did not release Elain from his embrace. She just stood there, with his arm around her, her body pressed into his almost-naked body and all she wanted was to turn around and peek. Or have him kissed her again. She really, really wanted him to kiss her again.

He did not though.

Finally, his arm fell away and he stepped back, causing a sorrowful sigh to erupt in her chest.

She turned around. His face was unreadable, as always, and though she picked out his little tells and signs of emotions now, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“Thank you,” was all she could mutter. He didn’t answer. “I didn’t think you were coming,”

“No need to talk,” he cut her off. Then turned around and added, “feel free to leave with Lorcan or Cass.”

He was walking away when she called out, “Wait. Az. I want to talk. Please,”

“No,” he said simply.

She ran after him, trying to keep up with his long stride.

“Az, please, I need to,”

“It’s Azriel to you,” he corrected bluntly. “You don’t get to ‘Az’ me,”

She swallowed, tears stinging her eyes.

“Okay…okay,” she begged. “Azriel, I want to explain, please,”

“You don’t always get what you want,” he threw back.

She paused, but then added,

“But sometimes, you get what you need.”

A tiny smile twitched on his lips. But he schooled his face into neutrality and without turning to her, said,

“If you must tag along for the rest of the day, pretending like you are my girlfriend, it’s up to you,” he shrugged indifferently.

She didn’t care. At least he didn’t send her away. At least, she could be near him, and with time, she’d thaw his anger.

She followed him silently, like dog. Trying to be inconspicuous, but she stayed at his side, even if they didn’t talk and he continuously ignored her. It allowed her time to ogle his incredible body, which she did with relish and without shame. If he was going to be nasty to her, she at least would feast her eyes on all that muscular gorgeousness. Those Cadre men—they were all stunning, at least when it came to their physiques. Azriel, though, was a little more stunning than the others. Only Fenrys, perhaps, was at the same level of attractiveness.

They went to the bar and she followed him faithfully, not letting him out of her sight. He glanced at her, sighed, shaking his head with annoyance, but Azriel being Azriel, he ordered her a mojito, while he drank Sipsmith London Gin and tonic, and after a while, thrust the drink in her hand and muttered, “I am going swimming.”

She took it and sat on a chair, stiff-backed and patient, watching him.

When he emerged from the water, she was waiting for him with a fresh drink.

“Your tattoos look like wings.”

He rubbed a towel over the black and blue tattoos on his shoulders and arms and looked at her.

“Your tattoos,” she said again, watching his wet body and the markings on it come alive on his skin. When he was in the pool, and his arms rose and fell in the water, they looked like wings. “They look like wings. Bat wings.”

“Is that a compliment?” his voice was still cold, bored.

“Yes.”

She handed him his drink and then took his scarred hand in hers. He made to pull away, but she squeezed.

“You are my boyfriend,” she reminded him. “Would be strange if you didn’t want to hold my hand.”

He had no choice but to grip her hand back,

and fuck if it didn’t feel nice.

Two days, and he was going nuts without that little hand. Two days, and he’d missed her touch like it was his life’s necessity.

And then, she gently rubbed her thumb over his own.

“Stop that,” he ordered.

“No,” she said flatly.

“Elain,”

“Azriel,”

“It’s not going to work,” he warned.

She shrugged, “we’ll see.”

They took a few more steps, her thumb still stroking his fingers, and then he stopped abruptly.

“What do you want?”

She looked up at him and said, voice surprisingly firm, “I want to get into your car and drive home with you. I want to cook you dinner. I want to hold your hand. That’s what I want.”

“And what do I want?”

“You want the same thing,” she assured him, unusual confidence in her voice and on her face.

He watched her, unblinking, but she did not balk from his assessing gaze, did not step back. She just clutched his hand like life depended on it. His jowls twitched and he bit his lip, before says, “go and put some clothes on. We are going home.”

“No. Come with me,” she tugged him with her. “I don’t trust you.”

He smiled, at last, and her heart fluttered with joy at the sight of that magical smile.

They found their clothes, threw them atop the bathing suits and as soon as they were dressed, Azriel took her by the hand and led her out to the parking lawn. It was a Maserati Ghibli today, beautifully embellished with subtle pinstripes. No one would dare do this to their 90K car, but Azriel did. And it looked stunning.

The drive wasn’t comfortable.

He still wasn’t speaking to her and she just sat there, for an hour or more, in silence, hands on her lap.

Finally, once they began approaching the city, Elain asked, “where are you taking me?”

“Home,” was all he said, his first word since they got in the car.

She thought and said, “I don’t want to go home.”

His voice mocking and obsequious, he asked, “Please tell me, Elain, where should your personal Uber take you? Would you like a coffee? A snack? A walk in the park? A trip to the library? Should I deliver you into Dorian’s loving embrace?”

“Stop it,” she snapped at him, all red and angry. “Stop with all that!”

Azriel plowed forth, ignoring her command, “where was he today, by the way? Why was I stuck rescuing the damsel in distress? Where is brave Dorian?”

“Nobody asked you to rescue me!” she lied, suddenly realizing that maybe, that kiss meant nothing to him. That it was all for show.

“Yeah, you looked like you were handling that situation very well,” he decided dryly.

“You know,” she folded her arms on her chest, “do take me home.”

“Good.”

Once they entered the city proper, Azriel fought the traffic aggressively, swearing under his breath more frequently than usual, obviously intend on getting rid of her as soon as possible.

She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t break through. Couldn’t get to him, not around the walls that he’d constructed around himself. She thought that she could, but she was wrong.

Finally, they were coming towards her block.

The silence was stifling. Unbearable.

“Why did you do it?” he blurted suddenly.

She looked at him, but before she could offer any explanations or excuses, he continued, not looking at her, “Was I not enough? Was he better?”

“He is nothing,” she managed, desperation tinging her voice, her whole being. She reached out to touch him, but he jerked his arm away.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Nothing? Why would you do this, Elain? Was I not enough? Too weird? Too brown? Too low-born? Too fucked up?”

Elain stared at him in horror. She was numb. Words failed her.

He was shaking his head.

There was true sadness, dejection written on his face. Devastation.

“I was falling in love with you, Elain,” he said so softly, she barely heard the words. “For three months, I’ve been falling in love with you. I’ve loved everything about you. I knew that the hammer would drop…One day, it would drop because it’s not like this could ever be,” he made a wide gesture with his hand.

He stopped the car next to her house.

“But I thought that it would be me. That I’d fuck up somehow and you’d dump me. Which would be…expected…”

He sighed, his breath so ragged it sounded like a sob.

“But I didn’t expect this. Truly. Though looking back, I don’t know why I didn’t?” he shrugged. “That’s what Mor did—the only other one I thought that I loved. But we were young and stupid, so…” he was looking out the window, seemingly talking to himself, not to her anymore. “But now I am almost thirty and for once, I thought that maybe, just maybe, this one time, I’d get what I want.”

Elain was weeping silently, fat tears pouring onto her hands, dripping off her face.

“I wanted you more than anything, Elain.”

Elain. Elain. Elain.

She hated that he called her Elain.

She hated that he didn’t use his usual endearments with her, that she was no longer his ‘baby’ nor his ‘love’. She wasn’t his ‘gorgeous’ or his ‘beautiful’. She was just Elain.

There was no warmth in his voice. Only some kind of hollowed emptiness, instead of the usual teasing smirk, the undercurrent of humour and love, of tender softness that he always used with her. Only with her.

“You can have me,” she managed finally through her sobs. “You can ha--…”

He finally turned his head and looked at her, that gaze dark and pitiless.

“I am not sure I want you anymore. We’ll coordinate the wedding situation and we’ll be civil to each other, for Feyre and Rhys’s sakes. Goodbye Elain.”

She sat there. He waited. Then, with a groan, he got out and went to open the door for her.

As she stepped out of the car, she begged one more time, “Azriel. Please. Please just allow me the opportunity to talk to you,” she wiped her face, with her fist.

It destroyed him completely.

He didn’t know what to do with himself, as he tracked her movement, that childish, simple, raw flick of her fist over her eyes. It wasn’t the modelled, reserved, dab-the-eye practiced move that you saw on reality shows, the fake tears, the faux sadness.

This was Elain; sorrowful, devastated, begging.

“Please,” she pleaded again.

“I asked you to call it off,” he reminded her. “I begged you. You didn’t.”

She choked on a sob.

“You threw it in my face, Elain. This random man, whom you also led on, by the way. Led him believe that you were interested. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I am too old for this…Allow me the opportunity to just deal with this break up—or whatever it is—however I can. We both need to move on.”

He’d never left a crying woman on a sidewalk.

But he’d also never been in love before. And his heart had never been broken like this.

********************

Azriel

Nuala Gennaro has been trying to reach her boss for three days, to no avail.

He didn’t respond to texts, or to calls. He didn’t show up to work. He wasn’t at the garage, at the tattoo shop, or his design studio. He didn’t seem to be home either, because she drove by his loft a few times and the windows remained dark.

She had keys to his house, but that was a violation of privacy that she didn’t feel like engaging in just yet. Was this an emergency? He gave her the key for ‘emergencies’. Was this one? A healthy, 29-year-old handsome man disappearing for three days didn’t seem like an emergency, but still, Nuala was concerned.

She was going to give him one more day, and if he was still AWOL then she’d begin to worry.

Azriel was responsible. Whatever was happening in his life typically did not reflect on his work ethic. Besides, he was usually so guarded and seemingly unemotional, it was hard to say if he was affected by anything. Nuala had met him in high school—a beautiful, quiet, mysterious boy who looked like a fallen angel and who seemed unusually confident and astute for his age.

They reconnected after he and his brothers returned from the Navy. He was darker and quieter than she remembered, and hardened in his manner and bearing, and had a haunted look in his eyes which worried Nuala for quite some time. She’d been apprenticing as a tattoo artist and they’d met to discuss her joining his venture. She wasn’t sure if this whole garage/restaurant/tattoo parlour for rich people thing was going to be feasible or even realistic, but Azriel believed in the concept and somehow, got her enflamed by his passion as well. They’d slept together over the years, but even if she would have wanted more, he wasn’t willing to give it to her. Azriel went through women with the determination to conquer, mild interest and lack of follow up. But he never gave any of himself to them. Pleasure—yes. Self—no. So, Nuala had decided—staying with him and in his life, in his business, as his protégé and associate was more important than having him as a lover, even if he was by far the best lover she’d ever had.

The only thing that did seem to affect him—deeply, powerfully—was Elain Archeron.

Nuala didn’t think that it would happen. Didn’t think that Azriel was a man to fall in love so passionately, so completely, and even if he was denying it to himself, Nuala knew him well enough to know the truth. And whatever happened between him and Elain, approximately a week ago or so, truly devastated him.

Prior to his disappearance, he operated as if he was in some sort of fog. He answered questions, he gave instructions and directions, he did whatever was expected of him—met with clients, held meetings with his car suppliers, negotiated deals—but his heart was not in it. His beloved business was no longer his priority, and that confounded Nuala, for she had never seen him like this before.

She arrived early, earlier than usual, because she needed to get crackin’. Without Azriel, things seemed…tighter…more difficult. She’d never noticed it, but somehow, he carried this business, made it seem easy, and she falsely believed that it was a walk in the park. Gods, it wasn’t! It was busy, and difficult, and required constant attention and decision making, and reports only piled on her desk—financials, inventory, guest lists, requests, specs. It was endless.

Azriel’s office, a glass cube perched at the top of the building and overlooking everything below, the entire operation, was very dimply lit this early morning. Cassian installed one-way floor to ceiling windows in the office, so no one could look inside, but Azriel was able to see everything, if he so desired.

Nuala climbed the industrial-style stairs and opened the door without knocking.

At first, she thought that there was a fire. The office was entirely engulfed in smoke, but before she could hit the alarm button, nauseatingly pungent stench of tobacco assaulted her nostrils.

“What the hell?!” she exclaimed, rubbing her eyes, and rushing to open the outside windows. She left the door open as well, to encourage some sort of ventilation.

“What the hell,” she muttered again, finally making out Azriel in the dimness, who was sprawled on the leather sofa, in jeans and boots and a black t-shirt, his arm hanging listlessly to the floor, a cigarette between his fingers. On the floor, an almost empty bottle of Jameson’s and an overflowing ashtray, stuffed to the brim with butts. Tom Waits’s insanely gravelly, bourbon-and-tobacco-soaked voice filled the space as well.

“Wow,” she crossed her arms on her chest. “Wow.”

“Why are you here so early?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Funny thing—my boss disappeared for three days. Four days, actually. No word. No text. No call. No email. No warning. No idea whether he is dead or alive. So yes, it’s made for some early mornings for some of us.”

No answer.

He took a deep drag of his cigarette and said nothing.

“What the fuck, Az?”

“Like you said,” he shrugged indifferently, “I am the boss. I don’t have to report to anyone.”

Nuala bit her lip, but did not retort in the way she wanted to retort.

“Where were you?” she inquired calmly.

“Vegas.”

“Vegas?”

“Rhys’s Bachelor Party.”

“Oh.”

“I won money. It’s somewhere,” he glanced around absently. “Give it to some charity…”

“Which one?”

“I don’t care.”

“Fine.”

She didn’t push him. But added, “you can’t smoke here.”

“It’s my shop,”

“Even though. State and city regulations.”

He put out his cigarette compliantly.

“It’s 5 am. When did you start drinking?” she asked, pointing to the bottle.

He gave a lazy glance and shrugged,

“Technically, I didn’t stop drinking…It’s been a few hours…”

She was shaking her head.

He stared into the ceiling blindly, wordlessly.

Nuala didn’t know, but she also knew. So she took pity on him.

“Az,”

“I’d like to be alone now.”

“I will leave you alone,” she promised. “But…” she let out a whoosh of air, preparing herself. “Elain,”

He didn’t react.

“Elain is downstairs.”

To that he did react. He sat up so quickly, she didn’t track the movement with her eyes.

“I found her on the steps, outside,” said Nuala. “She looks like hell. I barely recognized her.”

“Why is she here?” he asked stupidly.

“I think you should probably ask her that. She wouldn’t come inside,” Nuala explained. “She said that she’s been sitting outside since 4 am, hoping to catch you.”

But Azriel was already out the door, sprinting down the stairs, making Nuala gasp, as he took three at a time, and she feared that he’d fall down on the concrete floor and break every bone in his body.

It was only five in the morning, and the streets, even NYC streets, were empty.

It was drizzling, a summer thunderstorm about to erupt.

Elain was sitting on the doorstep, arms wrapped around her knees, huddling into herself in the morning chill.

“Elain,”

She jumped up and turned to him.

He never saw her like this—wrecked. Utterly devastated. Wilted.

His lovely flower girl, his little rose, his darling beauty—wilted. Instead of her usual colouring of pink and golden, caramel and honey and cream, she looked black and white. Like everything was leeched out of her, every spark, all joy, each remarkable hue.

They did not greet each other. She just looked at him, and,

“I’ve hurt you,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady, the tone firm. “I know that. And you can leave and discard me, and you have every right,”

Azriel just stood there, looking at her, unable to get enough. Thinking that there was a possibility that this was going to be one of their last conversations. And that possibility was unacceptable to him. It was intolerable.

The rain began to fall.

Azriel moved under the awning, angling his body so she would come and stand under it as well, but she didn’t move.

Steady droplets pounded the pavement, giving off that fresh smell of wet asphalt. The air was heavy and humid and felt unsettled, like it was preparing for a torrent.

“But know this one thing,” she continued, staring at him, unblinking, eyes brimming with tears. “I fell in love with you on Saturday, May 9th, at 7:14 in the morning. I had loved you every moment of my life since then. I will love you every moment of my life until I die. Nothing will ever change that. I don’t speak to you as some besotted, inexperienced girl, who is smitten by a handsome man…I speak to you from my soul. You have my heart, Azriel. Every broken and sad piece of me, you’ve managed to put together with your beautiful, scarred hands. I will never ask for anything of you—not even a word back, but I needed you to know this. I want you know that I’ve never loved anyone, no man, no being, not my sisters or my parents, as much as I love you. All my joy, my peace, my dreams are connected to you. You are the first thing I think of when I wake up, and the last when I fall asleep—and then I dream of you. I don’t care if you know this, but I’ve built up my whole life around you in my head, all my fantasies are about you. All I want is to love you. That is all. Not very ambitious, I know,” she wiped the tears that were flooding her face, mixing with the rain, “but I can’t think of anything that would ever bring me more happiness, more satisfaction than to love you. And…” she choked a quiet sob, “if you don’t want me—that is alright…I want you to be happy. And if I don’t make you happy, then, so be it, but,”

Azriel couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t contain his bursting breath, his aching heart. Every bit of him felt electrified, wild, untamed.

He grabbed her, his arm pressing her soaking wet body to him, the rain pouring over them, and she trembled and sobbed next to him. Such indescribable hope in her eyes. That maybe, just maybe, it would all turn out like her fantasies.

He cupped her wet, pale face in his palm and murmured,

“You want me?”

Her trembling fingers traced his cheekbone and she nodded mutely.

“Say it,” he groaned.

“I want you,” she whispered.

“Say more,” he begged. “Say everything.”

“I love you. I choose you. I want you.”

He soaked it all up. Every breath. Every word. Every emotion on her face.

“Well,” he muttered, “if we are keeping score…then I fell in love with you on Tuesday, May 5th, at 4:47 in the afternoon.”

She laughed through her tears, clutching at him with desperate hands, as if fearing that he would disappear. Turn around and leave her.

But he wasn’t going anywhere. Ever.

He was exactly where he wanted to be. Yearned to be all his life.

“First glance, baby,” he lovingly caressed her face, “first glance. Love at first sight.”

She kissed the tips of his fingers.

“You are my home, Elain,” he wrapped his arms around her and held her close to him, her cheek pressed to his chest, his hand cradling her head, “my favourite person in my life. With you, all things are possible. Sometimes, I feel like I can fly. Like I’ve grown wings and I hear the song of the wind. But I think that it’s just your voice in my head. You won’t leave, right?”

She chuckled and shook her head, “No. Never.”

“Because this week,” he shuddered, “it’s like I lost a limb…There was this phantom reminder of you, always within me, and yet, you weren’t there. I couldn’t reach and find you next to me. I’ve never felt such emptiness,” he brought her hand to his chest and lay it on her booming heart, “there was nothing here,” he pressed her hand closer, and she felt the steady beat, “empty…You weren’t with me, and there was nothing left.

“I think I’ve been in love with you—forever. I don’t even believe in past lives or other worlds, but sometimes I feel like I’ve known you for eternity.”

She raised her face to him, surprise and awareness in her red-rimmed eyes,

“I feel the same. Az, I’ve always felt the same thing!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” she nodded vigorously, “when we held hands the first time, when we just met, I recognized your touch. I knew your scars. It was all familiar to me, like stepping back into my own home, after a long absence. Reacquainting myself with something that I already loved.”

He cupped her face in his hands and asked,

“May I kiss you?”

“You have to kiss me,” she smiled a happy, luminous smile at him. “I’ve waited for a long time for you to kiss me.”

Azriel smiled, and looked up, rain drenching his face and their bodies.

“Are we really going to do this? In the pouring rain?”

She was grinning, smiling happily, nodding, “All the cliches in the world!”

He clasped her jaw in his hand, wrapping his other arm tighter about her.

“I loved when you kissed me at the party,” she admitted, a little breathless.

“Yes?” he murmured and then dipped his head, and gently pressed his lips to her throat.

Elain shuddered against him, her breasts, nicely full, round and soft pressed tightly against his chest, and she sighed her pleasure.

“Like that?” he whispered against her cold, wet skin, and she half-moaned, nodding. So he kissed her neck again, on the other side, raking his teeth gently along the warm, pulsating vein. He kissed along her collarbones, tender and sweet, but with acute intention. Her breasts moved against his chest, their shirts nor her bra providing much of a barrier between his skin and her firm, swollen nipples.

Up her throat he went with his lips, kissing softly, until he pulled away for a moment, their breaths mingling, warm next to each other. He tilted her face just so, to have better access to her full mouth, and then kissed the plump lower lip. She clutched at his shirt and pulled him closer, the rain forgotten, the world encapsulated in his mouth, in the loving pressure of his lips against hers.

Elain looked irresistible. In his arms, where, let’s face it, she belonged, with her cheeks finally, finally taking on the familiar rosy blush.

Azriel, all 6”4 or “5 of the dark, bestial sexiness of him was wrapped around her. The low, sensual purr that he emitted turned into something more primal, hungrier when his mouth moulded into hers. The base, animalistic attractiveness of him, the bronze arms, the thick markings of his tattoos all over his skin, slithering like shadows, was almost too much for Elain to handle all at once, and she moaned, loud, and desperate against his lips. He brushed his nose against her cheek, and then nose to nose, and she was so stupidly needy for him that she struggled to stay upright. He brushed his fingertips over her lips, squeezing them between his and her own, and she licked on the pad of his thumb, laving some of the scars with the tip of her tongue.

Gods, this man could kiss.

Brutal, savage and noble--all amalgamated into one indescribable, unforgettable experience. Hungry and knowing, agonizingly slow, he devoured her mouth like it was some succulent, exotic fruit that he’s been craving. His lips explored her thoroughly, unhurriedly, tasting and savouring, caressing and worshipping. It was she who slipped her tongue inside his mouth, tentatively at first, but then gaining in boldness and confidence, especially once he sucked her in and stroked it with his own. He tasted of something masculine: alcohol, maybe, deep and rich and smokey, and tobacco, certainly, which, surprisingly, she enjoyed, but also something sexual. If Elain ever thought that she could taste passion, this lazy, indulgent sucking of his tongue on hers was exactly that. He groaned into her mouth, low and hot, and then licked on her tongue, with sensual playfulness which she loved.

She was hot in his arms, against his towering, heated body, and even the pouring rain couldn’t cool her off. The slabs of his abdominal muscles pressed into her belly and she was growing positively addicted to having him so close to her, his massive strength enveloping her so nicely, cushioning her against him. Nothing in her life has ever felt so wonderful, so sublime as Azriel felt in her arms.

Their kiss went on and on, heady and glorious, with him exploring every bit of her mouth with his tongue and lips, his hands caressing her body unobtrusively.

“Gods, I want to kiss you for eternity,” he moaned, tearing himself away from her lips at last.

She was panting, glassy-eyed, in love. He squeezed her face between his palms, looking down at her, her happiness, the unabashed joy in her eyes.

He’d finally made someone happy.

“Okay,” she agreed easily.

He smiled and kissed her again, then again, his lips creating a certain magic between his mouth and her skin and their bodies.

Elain had fought for him.

She didn’t give up. Didn’t shrug it all off. Didn’t leave in anger or panic. His absence meant something to her—perhaps, meant more than he could understand. He knew the misery of not having her in his life. It was only a week, but it was a week of pure hell. Now, he assumed that it wasn’t only he who felt that gaping chasm in his heart. She, for some inexplicable reason, loved him. Of that, he was certain.

“Now, I think we’ve satisfied any girl’s quota of romantic cheesiness,” he decided and she laughed, slapping his bicep lightly. He kissed her softly, “and I am taking you inside,” he said.

Elain only now realized that her feet haven’t been touching the asphalt for the duration of the kiss. She was literally floating aboveground, in his arms, in the throes of their first kiss.

The cheesiness quotient has been achieved indeed.

“Will you kiss me more?” she asked, as he swung her in his arms and carried her inside the shop.

“I am confident that I will never stop kissing you,” he assured and made his way up the stairs, to the office, clutching the dripping mess that she was in his arms.

She’s been here before, but he brought her straight into the attached bathroom, which was appointed outlandishly, and with a nice shower too.

“Get in there,” he ordered, “now. Before you catch a cold because of your love for kissing in the rain,”

She giggled, kiss-drunk and toed off her soaking wet converse that smacked limply on the tiled floor.

“But what am I going to wear?”

“My clothes, obviously,” he shrugged. “Unless you don’t want to, which is fine, because naked is just fine by me. Actually, preferred,”

She snickered, but looked at him, a little uncertain, and he rolled his eyes and muttered, “yes, yes, I will leave! Don’t worry. Though you know, I will eventually see everything anyway. So your modesty is misplaced on me.”

Azriel was correct. A hot shower was perfect. Despite it being late August, standing under pouring rain wasn’t as much fun as they made it seem in the movies.

The door opened and he came in, “here is some stuff for you.”

She looked at him over her shoulder, probably a little sultrier than she intended, and he winked, “Nice ass!”

“Ugh, stop looking!” she croaked, but he only laughed.

“You are the one with the bare butt!”

Then, he scratched his chin and bit his lip, making no move to leave.

“Az!” she exclaimed, blushing, but also kind of … intrigued.

“This is a very, very, very nice ass,” he muttered to himself, but loud enough for her to hear. Her blush only intensified, when he said, “the things I am going to do with it. Mmmm,” he rubbed his lower lip with his thumb, as if contemplating what he will be doing with her butt and then finally walked out, shaking his head.

When Elain emerged from the bathroom, with her hair wrapped in the towel and wearing Azriel’s t-shirt and shorts, she found him in a leather chair, sipping coffee. He’d also changed and his hair was mussed and damp, his bare feet crossed at the ankles, resting on a leather stool.

“There is coffee for you,” he jerked his chin towards a marble coffee table that had a basket of pastries and two large cups of coffee.

He marked everything.

How she looked in his clothes, which were much too big on her, yet cozy, though the shorts that she wore were hilarious, reaching below her knee.

How she brought him his coffee first, before taking her cup.

How she sat on the stool, by his feet and crossed her legs, before giving him a croissant and biting into her own.

“Have you warmed up?” he asked, sipping his coffee. Chugging gallons of coffee American style wasn’t his thing—he preferred quick, small espressos, but this giant cup did take the chill away.

She nodded.

“Do you want to talk?” he asked.

She tensed right away, and he said, “All is forgiven, I swear. “

She eyed him suspiciously, nevertheless.

He smiled at her, and added, “But...I think that I need to understand what happened? Did I do something to,”

“No!” she exclaimed immediately. “No. It was nothing you did. Never think that it was you,”

“Alright,” he said calmly. “Then what was it?”

She didn’t look up from her cup, running a finger over the rim.

“Talk to me, love,” he encouraged softly.

“You’ve consumed me, Azriel,” she confessed, her voice barely audible. “From the moment I saw you, you’ve consumed me. And I guess…” she sighed, “I was stupid…a stupid, stupid person because I didn’t know,”

“What?”

“Whether I was infatuated, or in love with you. So I thought that maybe, if I expose myself to another man, even in some minor way, I might be able to tell what I feel,”

“And? Did you?”

“Dorian…” she swallowed nervously, “he is a nice guy. He is in Law School with Nesta—that’s how I know him. When he asked to go to dinner, and I said yes,”

She looked up at him, tears threatening to spill out from her eyes,

“And I felt nothing,” she admitted, her voice broken somehow. “I could only think of you. The entire time, I could only think of you and I knew that it wasn’t fair to him…”

Azriel agreed, “probably not”.

“And I knew that I’d made a colossal mistake… But,” she set her cup on the floor and squeezed her fingers. “I…”

She halted. Said nothing else.

Azriel waited.

“What?” he probed, sensing that there was something she wasn’t telling him. He reached for her, but she only shrunk into herself.

“Elain, what is it?” he pressed.

She blushed and murmured, “promise me you won’t leave me, if I tell you.”

His brow furrowed, “Please,” he begged, “tell me what’s going? You are legit scaring me right now.”

“You won’t lea--,”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I am not leaving you, no matter what. But are you alright?”

She pulled her hair from the towel and it spilled over her shoulders, half-obscuring her face. He reached and tucked the wet strands behind her ears, so he could see her face.

“Talk to me, baby,” he urged gently.

She exhaled and then said, looking straight at him,

“I’ve never been with a man, Az.”

He looked at her and then blurted, absurdly, “Like a virgin? But you are so hot!”

She couldn’t help and burst out laughing.

“I guess not hot enough,” she shrugged, a bit more relaxed about the situation now that he seemed relieved and smirking too.

He exhaled, deeply, bubbling his lips, “Phew…I thought it was something,” he shook his head, not able to express his relief. “Important…Something, I don’t know, serious?”

“What would be serious?”

“I don’t even know,” he admitted, “but certainly more serious than a hymen!”

He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips.

“And I appreciate you telling me,” he said seriously, kissing the inside of her hand, but then, that glint in his eyes returned and he asked, “so did you want the hunky Dorian to deflower you?”

She pushed at him with her foot and he fell back dramatically in his chair,

“Auuu, you are so unbelievably violent!” he complained, rubbing his side.

“I can be even more violent!” she threatened.

He was laughing, but then he caught her feet in his hands and squeezed them gently, holding them on his lap.

“So you didn’t have boyfriends in high school? In college?” he asked at last, genuinely perplexed.

She sighed and explained,

“In high school I was dating Luce,”

“You were dating a girl?” his brow furrowed. “I didn’t know,”

She started to laugh,

“No! Luce is a man. Lucien,”

“Oh…Oh. Every time you mentioned Luce, I just assumed he was a she.”

“No, he is my best friend. The closest friend I’ve ever had, besides maybe Nesta. We’ve always been close and then in high school, we began dating,” she tugged on her wet hair, “or rather, go on dates.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I didn’t know either—not in the beginning. But then, when we were juniors in 11th grade, he came out, to me only.”

“Ahhh,”

“Lucien’s step-father is really horrible. Like, awful. Physically abusive to all his sons, and always fancied himself this alpha male. So for Lucien to come out to him would have been suicide.

“We agreed that we’d continue our ‘dating’, until we graduate, and Luce was looking at schools only in California. As far as possible from here, from Beron.”

“And you were…okay with it?” he inquired, gently massaging her feet.

She shrugged, “I suppose I was. Luce and I had a good relationship,”

“But it was without any,”

“Intimacy,” she nodded. “I don’t know, I suppose it was enough…My mother had died recently and we lost most of our money, so I guess dating and boyfriends weren’t a priority, if I am being honest.”

He nodded with understanding.

“And college?”

“I had a boyfriend,” her voice wobbled a little, “but he…”

The heavy gaze that Azriel levelled at her told her that he already guessed.

“Sometimes,” she said, “when you are in the situation, you don’t see the warning signs,”

“Did he hit you?” his voice, so cold and menacing, sent a chill down her body.

She shook her head, “No. It didn’t get that far…Cass interfered,”

“Cass?”

“We’ve known Cass for at least a year,” she reminded him, “before he started dating Nesta. He spent a lot of time with us, at the house, because I think he didn’t want to part with Nesta,”

Azriel smiled, “No he didn’t. He wouldn’t stop talking about her for a year…I’d never seen him like that. First Rhys, then Cassian…Guess there is something special about these Archeron sisters,” he decided and stroked her face lovingly, smiling at her. She tucked his palm between her cheek and shoulder and kissed it.

“They do have a tendency to fall in love with the three brothers,” she agreed.

“Yes, they do.”

“Cass, he called us ‘his girls’—Feyre and I. Always asking after ‘his girls’, bringing us presents, doing fun things with us. And I came to love him so much,” she sighed. “And I know that he truly loves us too…But you know Cass—he is a no-nonsense kind of a guy. So once, he observed Graysen with me,”

“Graysen?” Azriel rolled his eyes. “That’s a horrible fucking name,”

She laughed,

“It matched his personality. But you know, on paper, he looked great. Handsome, good family, money,”

“So basically Dorian?”

Elain rolled her eyes,

“You are never going to have me live this down, will you?”

“Not for a while.”

“At least you are honest. Gray, he just…didn’t care, I guess? It was all about him. When I’d talk about opening my shop, it would just be a plain ‘no’. He’s put me down…” she sighed, “sometimes comment on my weight—I was either too fat or too thin.” Azriel flinched at that. She continued, “He’d tell me what to eat. What to wear. Where to go,”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered.

Then, he sat up straight in the chair and opened his arms to her.

“Come here.”

Elain, a bit unsure, and a bit rattled by the memories, moved towards him. He cupped her face in his broad scarred hands and said, “All in the past. Now, it’s just you and me.”

She nodded, gently squeezing his wrists. He leaned in closer and she nodded. His sort of power, the more aggressive and primal, and seemingly more dominant than what Graysen could ever conjure up, did not scare Elain at all. He beckoned and seduced her with that pursuit and challenge, but he did not frighten or oppress. It was similar to what Cassian possessed and how he managed to seduce Nesta with it, turned her compliant to his demand and instruction, or Lorcan with Elide. Azriel’s power, his seduction, were more cerebral, his affection passionate, but controlled. Elain could abandon herself to him, and yet she knew that she’d never be abused or taken advantage of, no matter how much control she relinquished.

This kiss was sultry and voluptuous, and it felt dirtier, heavier than their first one. He sucked her lips, is tongue softly grinding against her in a smouldering, almost smug rhythm. He fucked into her mouth steadily, and purposefully, rendering her completely breathless in his arms almost instantly, forcing all thoughts of previous loves and heartaches out of her head. She made a tiny, strangled noise deep inside her throat and squeezed his wrists harder.

“Tell me things, baby,” he muttered heatedly against her lips, thumbs brushing over her cheeks.

She smiled, “what things would you like to hear?” He kissed her softly, lips pecking on hers playfully, and said, “all the things…all the good things that you told me before,”

“That I love you?” she asked simply, looking at him with earnest, undimming desire.

“Yes,” he groaned, pulling her closer to him, until she was straddling his thighs, her legs naturally falling on either side of him. A desperate moan escaped his lips, as Elain licked on them with the tip of her tongue, before he demanded, between kisses and caresses of his tongue in her parted mouth, “more,”

“I love you. I love you,” she breathed, then panted, “you are mine…I am yours. Forever, if you’d like,”

“I’d like forever,” he agreed.

She pulled away, her soft, lovely face serious,

“Az,”

“Elain,”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” she asked, and he grinned, nodding. She sounded absurdly solemn about this, like she was signing a business contract. “I love you. I want you to be my boyfriend,”

“Alright, babygirl, I will be your boyfriend,” he nodded easily.

“No jokes.”

He then said in turn, “But you’ll be mine.”

She nodded.

“In every way,” he added, in a tone that did not allow space for much argument. “Body,” and he lightly ran his knuckles against the side of her breast, and she nodded. He added, “but I want more,”

“What do you want, Az?”

“Love,” he said simply.

She kissed him. “I love you,” she said.

He waited.

“I chose you, Azriel, the moment I saw you. When my heart dropped at the sight of you, and when everything fell into place. I don’t mind choosing you for the rest of my life, if you have me,” she murmured shyly.

“I will have you,” he agreed, her admission making him swallow hard, a thick glob of air lodged in his throat. He might have cried, if he weren’t so happy. His flower girl. His.

He looked and looked, and considered something. She waited, silent. Silence was always a friend between the two of them. Silence was easy and unoppressive and welcome. It allowed them space, and yet they remained together in that mute, mutual understanding. While he was thinking, she took his hand and softly kissed each scarred fingertip.

“I am calling on my bargain,” he declared suddenly, and stroked her head.

Confused, she scrunched her face and muttered, “what?”

He grabbed her behind in his strong hands and somehow, managed to rise up, with her clutching at him. His nose burrowed into her ear and she squirmed, giggling, when he grunted, “what a nice little ass!”

“You seem to like it,” she laughed, wrapping her arms around him.

“I love it!”

“Now what about this bargain?” she reminded him, a bit concerned. “What are we doing?”

“Whatever I want!”

“Az!”

“Lainey.”

He headed for the door, with her in his arms, and she screeched, “I don’t even have shoes on!”

“You don’t need shoes where we are going,”

“Azriel!”

“Why are you so fussy?” he mused, smirking, as he made it down the stairs.

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“I don’t have to tell you. All I promised was that it’s not going to be ‘bad’ whatever that means.”

She sighed, shaking her head, muttering under her breath. He, in turn, very much enjoyed her clutching at him, her body in his arms, her wet hair swiping over his arm. She looked very cute, if very ridiculous in his clothes, and frankly, he was too elated, too disbelieving that this was even real, to let her go. He held her and nuzzled at her neck, at her face, sometimes returning to her beautiful mouth.

He carried her through the still-empty premises, though waiters at the bar and delivery people in the kitchen were starting their day. When they saw their boss carrying a woman, who frequently visited him here in the past few months, they pretended not to notice, as if this was a normal affair. In fact, no other woman ever came here, to visit him. He’s never been seen with a woman, never said that he had a girlfriend, even if women seemed to lose their minds in his presence. But until this one—absolutely not the type of a woman he typically attracted—he never allowed anyone to get close to him.

Azriel made his way into the cavernous insides of the building, at last entering the tattoo shop that he had on premises. It was elegantly outfitted and bore his usual aesthetic—restrained, modern, striking with its use of black, white, and splashes of cobalt.

Elain looked around, when he set her down and pointed out, “I’ve been here before.”

He nodded.

As she wandered about, looking at various lithographs and prints with unique tattoo designed, she finally stopped abruptly and whirled to him,

“No!”

He was laughing under his breath.

“No!” she exclaimed again.

“No what?” he winked, sitting down on a stool, and patting on a leather recliner beside it.

“You…” she fumed. “No!”

He tsked, “A bargain is a bargain.”

“Azriel!” she stomped her foot.

He crossed his arms on his chest and looked at her, “Elain.”

“I am not getting a tattoo!”

“You most certainly are. Stop being a wuss and come here.”

“I am not going to,” she insisted.

“You know,” he notified her conversationally, as he started to prep his equipment, “a shitty little Bagarat tattoo is like $800 bucks,”

“Congratulations. Give it to someone else,” she offered, scowling. “Maybe someone would like a sleeve for twenty grand!”

“I won’t give you a sleeve. Jeez, you’ll probably faint at the first prick,”

She huffed, “I will not!”

He shrugged.

She pressed, “I will not. I am not afraid of needles and I have a high pain tolerance.”

“Lots of talk, babe, no action,”

Stomping angrily, she crossed the open space and challenged, “do you even know how to tattoo?”

“Cass and Rhys…” he winked. “And whenever Rowan decides to add to his collection…Or Gavriel,”

Those were some of the finest, most intricate designs that Elain’s ever seen.

“You did those?” she asked, brow furrowed.

He nodded.

“They are beautiful,” she whispered.

“Will you trust me?” his voice softened and he extended his hand to her.

Elain sighed and then slid on the lounge chair. It was comfortable. She was nervous.

“What will it be?” she asked. “May I see it?”

Wordlessly, he pulled a piece of paper from a folder, but then did not give it to her. She waited. He suddenly seemed uncertain, almost shy.

“Az,” she said gently, “may I see it? I am sure it’s beautiful.”

He swallowed and then explained, “I traced it the first day…evening…When we met, and you were here, at the garage. I,” he exhaled and then looked at her, “anyway…I was overwhelmed, I guess. I fell in love with you and all I could think of was you.”

The words warmed her up, and everything in her softened at his nervousness, at his admission.

“I want it,” she took the paper from him.

“It’s just for you,” he clarified. “It’s unique to you. I needed to quiet my brain and capture the essence of you, and this was it,”

Elain looked at the drawing. It was smaller than she expected, and rendered masterfully—an absolutely exquisite flower cradled in an embrace of two wings.

He swallowed tightly, and then said, “It’s called On the Wings of Desire.”

Without saying anything, Elain pulled up the shirt that she was wearing, just up to her chest. He looked down at her, expectantly.

She put her hand under her left breast, where her heart was and said, “there. I need it there.”

He nodded, remaining silent.

She saw that this was important to him, some ritual that he desired for her to go through, some sort of marking. That’s what it was. It dawned on her, at last. This was his mark, on her. He was going to do it himself, put a part of him, of his creation, of his work, not just on her skin, but within her blood, into her.

She clasped his hand and his eyes flew to her, a shadow of apprehension and anxiety in them, probably as much emotion as he’d be willing to show. He feared that she’d changed her mind.

“Az,” she licked her lip, suddenly nervous to request this of him. “Can you,”

“What?”

“Can you do it on you as well?” she proposed quietly.

He, it seemed, was unable to verbalize what he needed to, so she helped him, “Same spot, alright? Across your heart. So you know that I am always with you, as you are with me.”

He nodded vigorously, clearly relieved and absolutely in love with her proposition.

“Who will do it?” she wondered. “Please don’t ask me!” she laughed.

He smirked. “Nuala. She will do it. Only Nuala or Rowan tattoo me.”

She nodded and then relaxed back into the leather.

“No crying,” he said.

“Alright,” she shrugged. “Kind of weird that you are this sensitive to pain, but okay. I’ll hold your hand.”

He was laughing.

“I thought only Nesta had a big mouth like that,” he said, as he prepped the skin and pulled on his gloves.

“Mistake number one,” teased Elain.

“I am seeing that now,”

He then said, “Okay, I may accidentally brush against the boobie,”

“How accidentally?” she chuckled, while he pressed the outline into her skin. Then, the needle began its wheezing and Elain winced, as the first prick of the needle stung her skin.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” it was more painful than she expected, and she figured that the spot that she selected was probably not the best and would hurt more than an arm or a leg, but she was set on it.

“Absolutely, totally accidentally,” he lied. “You are the one who chose the spot,” he pointed out.

Elain was a trooper. She did not make any hissing noises or any sounds at all throughout the tattooing. The shading was the longest and most painful part, and even then, she remained composed and only winced a few times.

“I am sorry,” he murmured repeatedly, especially when a bit of blood seeped onto her skin.

“Prick your finger,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Prick your finger,”

“And?”

The soft doe-eyes blinked at him a few times, and she said, “I think you know what to do.”

So he did. He pricked his finger and mixed his blood with hers.

Nuala offered to tattoo ‘No Regerts’ on Azriel’s chest, if Elain so desired. She considered it, while Nuala explained that Azriel was now at their mercy and they could do whatever they wanted to him. At the end, he walked away with only a small tattoo over his heart.

It was about 8 am when Azriel and Elain left the garage. The sun was shining and there were no remnants of the previous storms. It was like it never happened. But it did happen. Everything happened.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, slinging his heavy, muscled arm around her shoulders. She’s been clutching at her side the whole time.

She shook her head no and looked at him. He smiled and then kissed her.

“I love you,” he murmured suddenly. Elain’s face broke into a loving smile and she reciprocated by kissing him back. “Let’s go home.”

#la dolce vita #elriel fanfic #elriel #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #elriel fanfiction #elain fanfic #my writing #new chapter #acotar fanfiction #sjm books #azriel #azriel and elain #elain archeron #elain

102 notes · View notes

dwellordream · 4 years ago

Text

“By the early 1920s, the older generation of physicians who insisted that athletics would damage women's fragile bodies had largely been discredited. Nonetheless, concern that women's participation in vigorous exercise programs, competitive sports, and other forms of strenuous physical activity would undermine "natural" gender differences lingered through the rest of the decade. After all, sport had developed in the nineteenth century as a male preserve, a domain in which men expressed and cultivated masculinity through athletic competition.

Women's assumption of such "manly" activities therefore continued to unnerve many contemporaries who questioned the social consequences of their unprecedented exploits. How could a woman who "on the stroke of six [o'clock] . . . jumps out of bed, throws herself on her bicycle and races like a newspaper boy out to the tennis court or the gymnasium, and then arrives at the office at nine, completely out of breath" possibly retain her femininity, wondered some observers. Could women who participated in "mannish" activities such as soccer and boxing be truly womanly outside the sports arena?

And was it not possible that unrestrained physical activity might really, as some critics suggested, cause young women to "shake off a part of their sex and acquire a considerable part of the robust and rough assurance of a masculine being?" For those who harbored such concerns, the media's endless fascination with extraordinary female physical feats did little to alleviate their worries. Throughout the postwar decade, newspapers and magazines reveled in stories about women, both from Denmark and abroad, who broke gender conventions as soccer players, wrestlers, hammer throwers, long distance runners, motorcycle drivers, sharpshooters, and parachute jumpers.

Photographs of female firefighters, bus drivers, ditchdiggers, and construction workers only added to this carnivalesque display of female modernity that simultaneously announced the arrival of a new type of physically active woman and the collapse of distinct male and female preserves. Equally popular were stories of female accomplishments that seemed to throw into question men's physical supremacy. When, for example, the young Danish-American swimmer Harriet Mille Carson managed to cross the English Channel in record time in 1926, while "the first-class male swimmer" against whom she competed had to "give up due to wind and waves," she did so under intense media coverage.

And the following year, when the seventeen-year-old Edith Jensen became the first person ever to cross the Sound between Denmark and Sweden, only one day after a male swimmer had failed to reach that goal, the press once again touted young women's stunning physical strength and endurance. While most ordinary Danes probably found such spectacular female feats more exciting and entertaining than threatening, those who participated in the public debate were generally troubled by such activities. In their minds, these were examples of the worst aspects of women's physical activities—vulgar in their competitiveness, excessive in their aim, unfeminine in their vigor, and immodest in their public display.

Instead of promoting stronger, healthier female bodies, such activities, they feared, would ultimately undermine women's physical well-being and, rather than making them more beautiful, might make women mannish and muscular. It is therefore hardly surprising that many contemporaries felt that some guidance was called for lest young women slip entirely out of control and lose themselves in unhealthy competition and damaging excesses. Even advocates of female exercise were often uncomfortable with young women's enthusiasm for strength, speed, and record-breaking.

While interested in promoting physical freedom and athletic enjoyment for women, the vast majority of them were also committed to preserving gender difference, and they saw competitive strife as an unfortunate and eccentric American phenomenon that threatened to ruin not only "the sound Danish tradition of women's exercise" but also women's physical health and femininity. In response to charges of masculinization and out of concern about women's health and well-being, they therefore began to articulate a philosophy of female athleticism that defined proper physical activities for women as fundamentally different from those of men.

Women, they argued, should carefully choose only those forms of activity that suited their constitution. Exercise should not exert, and it should never "develop a woman's body so that she becomes too muscular." Besides, women should not engage in competitive sports. Not only might frenzied competition lead a woman to loose her composure and "aesthetic appearance," but it also brought out aggressiveness and other "most unfortunate character traits in a woman." Rather than athletic prowess and bodily strength, the development of soft and harmonious feminine bodies ought to be the objective, and women should therefore confine themselves to the "feminine" category of pleasurable exercise and physical fitness, leaving "masculine" sports to men.

Female physical educators, including exercise instructors, gymnastics teachers, and physical culture specialists, were particularly adamant in this stance. By the 1920s, these women had for decades been striving to develop specifically female exercise programs. Criticizing nineteenth century traditions of gymnastics and physical exercise for their masculine bias, their emphasis on disciplining and strengthening the body, and their stiff, militaristic bent, they insisted on the importance of acknowledging gender difference and cultivating exercise systems for women that were not a "blind imitation" of men's. Instead of strenuous drills and apparatus-based gymnastics that developed muscular strength, they encouraged light floor exercises, rhythmic movement, and figure training that called forth physical expressions of women's feminine nature.

According to its advocates, specifically feminine exercise programs had numerous advantages. First, they took place in gender-segregated spaces and made it possible for women to exercise under the guidance of female instructors without exposing themselves to the lewd gaze of male spectators. Second, in contrast to competitive sports and masculine styles of gymnastics, which were deemed "too brutal and therefore [threatened] to ruin the harmony of the female physique," the new styles of exercise offered physical activities that were designed to preserve and enhance women's "figure and feminine grace" and make them "supple, graceful and rounded in form and movements."

Typically described as relaxing yet invigorating, such exercises allowed women a measure of organized physical expression without violating their femininity. Third, and perhaps most importantly, these forms of physical activity did not seek to "turn women into athletes" or encourage them to become "unappealingly emancipated," but allowed each woman to develop her body to its fullest aesthetic potential. A harmonious, fit female body, radiating health and "natural" feminine beauty, was the inevitable result of such proper exercise.

Considering their emphasis on style over strength, physical attractiveness over athletic accomplishment, and gender segregation over mixedsex companionship, it is not surprising that advocates of the new exercise systems met with widespread support even among many former critics of women's physical activities. By advocating new forms of moderate physical exercise that promoted health and fitness along with feminine beauty, female physical educators had clearly managed to stake out a culturally legitimate position. Edged between modern sports and conventional physical restraint, they proposed a compromise that merged athletic enjoyment with activities suitable for female bodies and psyches.

While physicians, physical educators, and other interested parties debated these issues, young women continued to pursue a variety of physical activities. Some paid scant attention to the words of authorities, delighting in many of those exact activities that most horrified contemporaries. Amanda Christensen, for one, was never deterred from her love of competitive bicycle racing. "I knew, of course, that girls were not supposed to do that," she conceded, "but that never stopped me. Why should people tell me what I could do?"

Most young women were much less assertive and self-confident. While they were enthusiastic about sport and physical exercise, they were also concerned about how their participation in different activities might be perceived. As one young woman wrote to an advice columnist, "I want to have fun, but I am not sure whether it is appropriate for young girls to play hockey." Despite the desire to have fun and take part in what were perceived as "modern" activities, she and many other young women did not want to violate too many cultural norms, and they were unwilling to risk too much social ostracism.

Besides, most young women were as concerned about their femininity as were other contemporaries, and despite their interest in physical exercise they did not want to risk appearing "mannish" and unattractive. Not surprisingly, many girls and young women therefore responded positively to the new forms of exercise advocated by female physical educators. From the early 1920s, both devoted sports enthusiasts and women who had never before participated in organized physical activities flocked to exercise classes. According to Jenny Okkels, "We all took exercise classes."

Regitze Nielsen agreed. "Any young girl took exercise classes back then," she recalled, adding with obvious delight that "it was so much fun, such camaraderie." Part of the appeal of exercise classes for young women lay in the very qualities stressed by advocates of physical exercise. Clearly, the cultural respectability of such activities enabled even cautious young women to engage in various forms of female physicality without exposing themselves to charges of improper behavior. Within a wholesome atmosphere, apart from men and under the supervision of female instructors, they found welcome opportunities for pleasurable and fun-filled physical activity.

Moreover, the particular forms of exercise promoted by female physical educators in the postwar decade offered young women a chance to reshape their bodies in ways that simultaneously set them apart from older generations of women and fit their perception of what constituted a "modern" physical style. Key components of this coveted style included physical self-confidence, a graceful feminine body language, and a certain "natural" ease—all characteristics that female exercise instructors strove to teach their students.

Aja Packness, who participated in exercise classes during her youth in the 1910s, recalled, for example, how she and her classmates learned to "swing and sway and twirl so we looked like butterflies. We learned rhythm, graceful poses, and arm movements, but first and foremost we learned to behave freely and unconstrained. I am to this very day grateful to Miss Schjellerup [the instructor] because she taught us to walk freely across a dance floor where many people were watching us. And we learned to sit properly on a chair—not shyly out on the edge."

Because many physical educators adhered to the philosophy that "each individual [is] endowed by nature with a personal rhythm," exercise classes also encouraged the pursuit of individuality and personal expression, both factors young women associated with female modernity. In addition to these appealing qualities, the enthusiasm that many young women displayed for the exercise classes sprang from the legitimacy they seemed to grant to sensual pleasure and the pursuit of physical beauty, an undertaking that nineteenth-century moralists had often criticized as evidence of female vanity and self-absorption.

Physical educators idealized the healthy, harmonious, physically fit female body, and they were never sparing in their praise of "the beautiful sight of many young, slender female bodies engaged in rhythmic exercise." Many of them actively encouraged women to pay attention to their appearances and to take pride in their efforts to attain "cheerful, agile and healthy" bodies. Of course, the praise bestowed on those who strove to be physically fit entailed an implicit critique of those who failed to do so, but even as they enforced a new set of standards for what constituted an attractive appearance, advocates of women's exercise and physical culture nevertheless succeeded in claiming for women the right to take new kinds of pleasure and pride in their bodies.

In the course of the 1920s, then, the tension between young women eager to explore new forms of physical activity and older contemporaries concerned about the consequences of unrestrained female physicality gradually faded as physical educators managed to develop new forms of female exercise that were sufficiently feminine to deflect charges of improper masculinization and, at the same time, sufficiently exciting and physically gratifying to attract large numbers of young women. Although some female athletes continued to excel in competitive sports and to upstage men in spectacular feats of performance, the fact that the majority of young women turned their energy toward feminine exercise seemed to quell much of the opposition that initially surrounded women's forays into the sporting world.”

- Birgitte Soland, “Fit for Modernity.” in Becoming Modern: Young Women and the Reconstruction of Womanhood in the 1920s

#becoming modern #birgitte soland #history #1920s #gender

68 notes · View notes

mostly-mundane-atla · 4 years ago

Text

Well I got at least two people interested (@esmeralda-anistasia and @deathsmallcaps) so why not.

Quick disclaimer: I understand that some fans can be very sensitive to this topic and take general criticisms as personal attacks and jump to the defensive. Please don't justify your ships to me if you have that reaction to anything said in this post. It's not my business and if I'm honest I really don't care. Your experiences are not mine and will not change mine and nothing I'm about to say is meant to be read as an insult.

Okay onto the rarepairs in question!

I was ten years old when the episode Zuko Alone first aired and Ursa fascinated me. She was so elegant and sweet, and yet the implication was that she was also capable of assassination. Her disappearence and the fact everyone involved kept pretty hush-hush about her gave her character an air of mystery and Zuko's memories involving her made him a great deal more interesting and sympathetic (i still rolled my eyes every time he showed up and thought he didn't deserve all the cute moments with Mai until The Day of Black Sun, and even then still thought Jet was cooler in every way, but you can't please them all). She had quickly become a favorite character and I've held onto that adoration for about 15 years now.

I also really wanted her to kiss Hakoda.

They had compatible personalities and deserved some luck in love after all the heartbreak and trials, and they both loved their children despite having to leave. Ursa was never treated as dead, just gone. She could have been anywhere and there was nothing to say she couldn't have crossed paths with Hakoda and his men.

There was also something about it I didn't quite have the words or media exposure to explain. Often, in fandom or canon, if a relationship is biracial, the partner who is fairer-skinned and/or of the dominant or invading culture, who the audience sees themselves in, is the man and the one who is darker-skinned and/or marginalized or colonized is the woman (heteronormativity got a head start on this one). There's a lot of ugly "taming the savage" rhetoric in this, usually paired with blatant misogyny that's supposed to be in the woman's favor (like suggesting that a woman could only be complicit in this culture because it was what she was told and didn't know any better). The woman's family and friends who oppose this are depicted as unfairly prejudiced against this strange man as if their distaste for people who can be or have been responsible for things like genocide or subjugation is the same as the other side seeing these people as deserving of genocide or subjugation for the crime of not being like them. Sometimes it's the other way around, where the partner seen as "more civilized" is the woman and the one seen as "less civilized" is the man, in which case the woman is often abducted or otherwise the man's defining feature is his brutishness. This supposed brutishness is both intimidating and attractive to the oh so delicate if a bit repressed captive/wife (as well as the audience) and can manifest as being fiercely protective of her, which is how he shows his affection if there is a language barrier between them. And if you grow up Native, this is easy to pick up on and often in the back of your mind, because at least 90% of your media representation likely has some aspect mentioned above.

(Man that was a lot of academic style analysis)

But the dynamic between Hakoda and Ursa wouldn't leave room for any of that. Hakoda, as an absent parent backstory, is defined by having to leave despite how much he loved and would miss his children. Ursa, as an absent parent backstory, is defined by the crime she was willing to commit for her children (for Zuko specifically, but how long would it actually take for Azula to shoot her mouth off at the wrong place and time and also be targeted by Azulon?). Ursa was the one whose willingness to kill sent her fleeing into the night. The culture of her nation betrayed her and made her choose between her own safety and that of at least one of her children. Hakoda is charismatic and a good leader, but he is also soft spoken and understanding, and above all else, gentle. He isn't here to hurt innocents. He's here to see to it that the next generation of his people will not fear invaders or raids or even know that snow can be black from soot. And he's someone Ursa can finally feel safe around and confide in, and she could be the same for him. Someone he doesn't have to be the leader for, to whom he can admit that he just wants to be home and let the tears fall.

I'm honest enough to admit that one of the reasons I liked The Search was that Ikem wore his hair a lot like Hakoda did and that was close enough to it being canon for me.

Another one is Jin/Smellerbee. Something about their personalities strikes me as being so wonderfully harmonious and I like to imagine Jin, smooth-talking and streetwise but still the most genuine person, being the one to sit Smellerbee, who never really got a chance to think about these things, down and explain that anything she might be is okay. That it's okay to not be in love with a guy friend who gave her a purpose and loyal companionship. That it's okay to like girls. That she can have more than one partner. That it's okay to be different from what's considered normal and proper and not have an easy word to describe it. And eventually she'd realize it's true. And eventually she'd realize that she wasn't teasing when she called her beautiful in a wild sort of way.

I also like to think that Smellerbee clearly has more specialized fighting skills and is very good at what she does but Jin is strong enough to bench press her no problem. And Smellerbee acts all tough (because she is) but blushes whenever Jin calls her cute or pretty because she's not used to it.

Sometimes Longshot is involved too. Not as a third wheel or the exact same kind of partner, more like a ghibli style relationship with Smellerbee. Like is it a gentle romance? Is it an intimate friendship? It's love and they know that and don't have to define it by others' perception. And Jin gives Longshot kisses so he doesn't feel left out, which gets him a bit bashful because she really could have anyone, she already has Smellerbee of all people, and she still finds him deserving of a peck on the cheek. They probably all bunk together.

This actually started from a fic I wrote but don't intend on posting more than snippets of. Basically, i was tired of a lot of fanfic tropes, especially those having to do with friends to lovers and soulmates (this world is not kind to aromantics and the last thing I wanted in my escapism was romance being established as a level up for relationships), so I wrote something to actively subvert all of them. Jet and Smellerbee were each convinced they owed the other a romantic relationship after all they'd been through together, even though neither actually wanted it, because that's how all the stories go. So after he dies, she remembers all those times that would have been romantic if either was actually interested, but were instead just uncomfortable because it was entirely social convention and no feeling. But then she comes across Jin, who she's never met before, but who takes her in her arms and reassures her and sympathizes with her, and in this tiny apartment in this seedy side of town, she feels safe. She seeks permission for every touch and kiss and tells her this encounter doesn't have to be anything she isn't comfortable with. And when Smellerbee has to leave, Jin insists she take a candle to light her way, and winks when she says she can return it the day after. She gives her an excuse to visit again. And Smellerbee blushes and accepts it.

And then there's Teo/Haru and Teo/Ty Lee. No special reason I just think both would make a cute couple and want Teo to be happy. He's a good boy, more people should love him. Let him impress people with wheelchair tricks and get smooched.

#response #i also just think Jin has a string of admirerers in ba sing se #and the si je defaille daydream scene from mozart l'opera rock is just an average tuesday for her

63 notes · View notes

natromanxoff · 4 years ago

Text

Record Mirror

QUEEN: Bohemian Rhapsody (EMI 2375)

It’s unthinkable that this six minute extravaganza will not give Queen a hit, yet it’s the most unlikely serious chart contender ever. It has no immediate selling point whatsoever: among its many parts, there’s scarcely a shred of a tune and certainly no one line to latch onto. There’s no denying though that it’s devilish clever, encompassing everything from bits of operatic harmonies to snatches that sound like Sparks and David Cassidy, but, in the end the whole adds up to less than the sum of its parts.

New Musical Express

QUEEN: Bohemian Rhapsody (EMI).

And talking of 10CC, this owes more than a couple of bob to Strawberry Studios — especially in its use of the split cascading chorus, and the elongation of the ends of certain words. The song has four movements of seemingly quite different nature, so it’ll be interesting to see whether it’ll be played in its entirety on the radio. It’s performed extremely well, but more in terms of production than anything else. Charles’ point about Springsteen’s “Born To Run” also applies here — that someone somewhere has decided the boys’ next release must sound ‘epic’. And it does. They sound extremely self-important.

Melody Maker

QUEEN: “Bohemian Rhapsody” (EMI)

Welcome to The Sound of Muzak: an audacious six-minute epic from Queen’s forthcoming album, “A Night At The Opera,” and a superficially impressive pastiche of incongruous musical style. “Bohemian Rhapsody” is full of drama, passion and romance and sounds rather like one of those mini-opera affairs that Pete Townshend used to tack on to the end of Who albums before he really got down to it and wrote “Tommy.” The highlight of the piece is, inevitably, the middle section (or should one refer to it as the Second Movement?) where Queen, with a suitably baroque vocal orchestration, contrive to approximate the demented fury of the Balham Amateur Operatic Society performing The Pirates of Penzance. The significance of the composition eludes me totally, though I must admit to finding it horrifically fascinating. It’s likely to be a hit of enormous proportions despite its length.

The new Queen single, “Bohemian Rhapsody”, definitely one of the quandries of the year. Clocking in at 6.15 mins and containing three distinct sections, can they seriously think it will be played on the radio? Is this a test to see whether they’re so huge they can have a hit single without airplay? Is it all a parody, with their takeoffs of the Beach Boys and the Sweet (the Sweet?!) and that brilliant, hilarious operetta sandwiched in the middle? Are they serious with those lyrics?Answers on a postcard in 25 words or less to Queen Scream.

Credits to Gabriel Hernan.

#queen #queen band #queen scans #nme 1975 #melody maker 1975

49 notes · View notes

hinamoria · 4 years ago

Text

Hitsuhina Week 2021 : Day 1

Hitsuhina Week 2021 : Day 1- Nickname / Hot and cold

Rating: K

Synopsis: Momo remembers the origin of her nickname: Bed wetter Momo

Word Count: 1801 words

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! My first participation at the Hitsuhina week is here. I hope you like it! I had fun writing it \(^.^)/

English isn’t my first language so excuse myself for any typos <3

----

“Shiro-chan!” Hinamori greeted cheerfully as she walked through the doors of the Tenth Division office. “We're going to eat yakitoris with Matsumoto-san and other lieutenants. Are you joining us? "

Hitsugaya, sitting at his desk, frowned at the famous nickname his childhood friend refused to forget, and declined the invitation.

"I have a lot of work to finish," he complained, putting an extra sheet of paper on the already tall pile of his desk. "Maybe next time," he added, afraid to upset his friend. "And Hinamori, for the umpteenth time, it's captain Hitsugaya."

"But Hitsugaya-kun, that nickname is perfect for you!" she replied, keeping her smile.

A perfect nickname from Hinamori's point of view. In harmony with the white and shiny hair like snow of her friend.

"Do you hear me calling you by your childhood nickname yet?” Sighed the captain.

Momo laughed lightly as she thought about it. "Bed Wetter Momo" was much less flattering than “Shiro chan”. Especially since it was referring to a single accident and therefore absolutely no more relevant today.

And yet, even though she wouldn’t like to be called that way again today, she still had a certain melancholy as she remembered the event where it’s from. Somehow, that night, Shiro-chan had for the first time given her a kind gesture.

It happened soon after arriving in Rukongai, when she was eight years old.

She still remembered the hustle and bustle, the lost people trying to get information about what was happening to them, and her in the middle desperately looking for her mom or her plush that she must have dropped something. It must be here. She remembered holding it during her last moments of life. So it couldn't be very far.

It was the end of her old life on Earth. Nowadays, it was just a vague memory. The faces of her biological family had gradually faded. She remembered that her mother had brown hair, often tied up in a bun. Momo may have subconsciously imitated her while growing up. But had she hazel eyes like her or were they a different color? She could no longer remember it.

A cholera epidemic had hit the country, killing thousands of people. Antibiotics did not exist at the time, so the chances of escaping it, especially for a child, were almost nil. Momo didn't end up in pain for long.

At the entrance to Rukongai, men and women dressed in black kimonos, whom she later knew as shinigamis, gave instructions to people around her. They were divided into groups. She was going to go to district number one, "Junrinan". She didn't know this place, but thought she heard the term "lucky" from a shinigami.

Looking back 100 years after, she understood how true it was. Especially after hearing Abarai-kun's stories.

Each person was taken to a different dwelling. Very little explanation was given. Sometimes locals sighed when they saw a new arrival, but others greeted them with a big smile. Her journey ended in front of a wooden house with a small earthen courtyard in front and two imposing shoji-style doors at the entrance.

A lady with gray hair tied in a bun opened the door and smiled at Momo.

"Is that the little new one?" She asked in a voice marked by time.

The shinigami nodded and left the area without another word. His behaviour may have seemed rude, but the little lady ignored it. Momo watched him go with slight fear, but returned her attention to the stranger who began to speak to him.

"Welcome my dear. What's your name? "

"Momo…" the child replied after a brief hesitation.

“Very well Momo. From today you will live here. Come home, I'll explain everything to you"

The lady held out her hand, which Momo took, and together they entered the girl's new home.

-------------

To say that the first few days in her new home were easy would have been a lie. Momo was missing her family. And she kept looking through the portal to see if her mother was going to cross the threshold and come to get her.

Her new grandmother was a sweet and warm woman. She gave Momo time to acclimatize without rushing her. She even offered her a small dog-shaped plush toy to replace her previous one. Momo appreciated the little attention and hugged the plush tightly against her at night.

However, living with Toshiro was more difficult. The little boy already had a strong character and did not seem delighted by the arrival of a new child in his home. He often spoke harshly to her, when he just wasn't ignoring her. Momo, luckily, didn't seem to take offense and came back to meet him all the more, determined to make him her new friend.

He didn't looked to be appreciated by the other children, who seemed afraid of his particular hair. Momo, on the other hand, was fascinated by their color and had repeatedly tried to touch them - usually receiving insults and yelling in return - which didn't stop her from doing it again a few days later. He reminded him of the old cat that resided in her neighbourhood on Earth. He had hissed on her each time she approached. But after a few months, he had accepted her affection. Toshiro would be the same, she could tell.

One night, about two weeks after her arrival, Momo had a terrible nightmare. The pain of her last moments on Earth came back to her. She heard her mom cry and pray, but she couldn't see her. She was terribly thirsty and hungry, but the nausea tugged at her so much that she couldn't take anything. It was the end. She felt death coming to seek her. When a new wave of pain pierced her body, Momo woke up abruptly, breathing heavy.

The pain was gone. But she still couldn't see anything. After a few seconds, a growl to her left signaled the presence of the white haired boy and reminded her where she was. Her grandmother must have been somewhere to her right. They used to stick their futons together and sleep three side by side.

She was safe, everything was fine.

Catching her breath, however, she noticed a new unusual detail. Her clothes looked wet.

She straightened up and inspected her bed with the palm of her hand. A stain of moisture permeated the futon, a small part of the blanket and the entire bottom of her kimono. She was taken aback for a few moments, then realized with dread that she had wet the bed!

It hadn't happened since she was three, how could she have done that now? She wondered ashamed.

Discreetly, she got out of the futon, holding her breath as she saw Toshiro move around in the futon right next to her. Luckily, he didn't seem to wake up.

Would Grandma be mad if she saw this? Was she going to be kicked out of the house? Who would want a messy child?

Trying to swallow back tears, Momo took the blanket and left the room discreetly.

With any luck, she would manage to hide her mistake and they would let her stay here.

First she needed clean clothes, then she would go and wash it all in the basin outside. As a final step, she would take care of the futon in the same way. And when asked tomorrow, she could pretend she spilled a glass of milk on the bed. If no one saw the stain, her excuse would be plausible.

After grabbing some new clothes, Momo went down the stairs of the house to go outside.

Luckily, the moon lit up the courtyard a little and allowed herself to orient without too much trouble. Momo found the basin and put the blanket in it. The cold water made the child shiver, who could now feel the tears running down her cheeks.

Looking back 100 years later, she realized how dumb she could have been to feel so bad for a trivial accident like this, but at this moment, the world was falling apart for her.

She changed, taking a little water to clean herself, then tossed the soiled clothes in the water as well. As she began to rub the whole thing vigorously, a voice startled her.

"What are you doing?” Toshiro surprised her from the doorway.

She turned in his direction, speechless. He kept his arms crossed against his chest, obviously waiting for an answer that took a particularly long time to arrive.

"I ..." stammered the little brunette. “I spilled a glass of milk?"

Her voice had risen in high pitch with a sobbing hiccup, making her assertion closer to questioning. Toshiro certainly wouldn't be fooled by the situation. He was young in appearance, but he was significantly older than her in age. And she realized her excuse was completely incoherent when said out loud.

But strangely, she heard neither reproach nor mockery from the boy who was looking at her seriously. On the contrary, his answer surprised her.

"I'm going to get your futon to have it cleaned too…" He said with a sigh.

And he disappeared for a good minute.

On his return, ditto, he remained silent. He helped her clean up and spread the ling. And when they returned to bed afterwards, he even gave her a bit of room in his own futon for Momo. The rest of the night ended without further accident.

The next day, she said with more confidence her story to her grandmother, who absolutely did not believe a word of it, but who accepted it nonetheless, afraid to embarrass her. When she went out to do some shopping, Momo turned to Toshiro who was finishing lunch.

"Thank you Hitsugaya-kun," Hinamori said in a small voice. "For keeping my secret."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied with his mouth full.

Then as he swallowed, he looked at the girl and let go with a smirk, "Bed Wetter Momo".

Momo froze in her seat upon hearing the new nickname.

"How did you call me?” She asked scandalized.

"You called me Shiro-chan a few days ago, remember? From today you will be "Bed wetter Momo" if you keep using that nickname ". He treated her, pretending to be interested in his bowl of rice. But the smirk he kept showing indicated the pride he felt right now in torturing her.

It was the start of a new friendship.

And he kept his word: he used that nickname for many years, and she kept on calling him Shiro-chan. It almost became a game between them.

And if today she was no longer "Bed wetter Momo", she treasured the memory of the first step Toshiro had taken towards her.

#hitsuhina week 2021 #hitsuhina #toshiro hitsugaya #momo hinamori #bleach fanfiction

17 notes · View notes

pebblysand · 4 years ago

Text

[the thoughts on canon-compliance you did not ask for.]

last night between 2 and 3 in the morning (look, i couldn’t sleep, got up to write, then got caught up, okay? don’t judge me for my terrible sleeping patterns please) i had a super interesting discussion with a few people on the hinny discord channel about the definition of canon-compliant-ness. i think this is fascinating because to be honest, before getting into the hp fandom, i didn’t even think this was something one could disagree about. to me there was what was canon, and what wasn’t. a very black-and-white sort of system. i’m finding that it’s not.

through the discussions that i’ve had both on my fics and other people’s fics, it seems that i can narrow down - in the hp fandom - three elements of canon.

i. the events of the books/films

now, as a general disclaimer, you can obviously argue about whether the films are ‘canon.’ you can also argue whether cursed child is canon. there’s a lot of elements which differ between those and lots of opinions about how to look at them. personally, i tend to ignore cursed child. as to the books v. films, i pick and choose what suits my story more. generally, that’ll be the books. but for instance, i’m writing a harry&hermione friendship one shot right now, and there are a lot of movie-isms in that story because that is an aspect that was more explored in the films. however, for the purposes of this post, i’m mainly considering the source material to be the seven books. nothing more or less.

having said that, to me personally, that’s what ‘canon’ is: the events of the story and the characters that gravitate around those events, as described in the source material. things like: tom riddle killing lily and james, or harry, ron and hermione rescuing the philosopher’s stone. anything departing from that is, de facto, an ‘au.’ the whole world of what-if scenarios: what if Harry was sorted into slytherin, what if dudley was a wizard, all of those, to me, are aus.

generally, both as a reader and a writer, those are not scenarios i’m particularly drawn to. my default answer to those what-if scenarios is: ‘well, if harry is sorted into slytherin, there’s no story.’ or at the very least, there’s no story as i know it, and if there’s no story as i know it, then i’d rather read/write original fiction. it’s obviously a very personal preference and there are exceptions to this preference. i loved the changeling [1] for instance, and love the self-aware style of dirgewithoutmusic’s aus [2]. but as a general rule, that is not my preferred genre.

now, aside from the what-if scenarios, there’s also the question of filling in the gaps of the story itself. like, i find it interesting that we only make tsunamis [3] is labelled as ‘canon-compliant’ because i get the feeling that a lot of people would disagree that a fic in which hermione is harry’s first kiss is canon compliant. but, by exploiting the silence sometimes left by the author and turning it to your advantage, are you writing an au? is a negative space canon? is silence canon?

again, as a matter of personal opinion, i would not push my definition of canon-compliance as including blank spaces. to me, as long as it does not contradict the letter of the text, adding in events to the books to suit your story (i’ll address character in point ii) does not make your fic an au. to give another example that was brought up to me regarding my own work, i don’t believe that the events described in chapter nine of castles [4] are au because they exist in a blank space of the books. the fact that harry didn’t notice the 1:1s between ginny and amycus doesn’t mean they didn’t happen, it just means that they’re not in the positive space described by the books.

ii. the characters/characterisation

(as a quick vocab note, please note that below, i’m using the terms ‘ooc’ to mean that the characterisation of a character in a fic is not canon-compliant. they’re synonyms to me.)

now, while the above was pretty straight forward, i believe that this is where i perhaps differ from the masses in my interpretation of what “canon-compliance” means. more i discuss with people, the more i realise that i don’t really think there’s a real ‘canon’ characterisation. or at least not in the big things. like, yeah, it’s canon that harry likes treacle tart, because that’s a fact. but anything that is down to psychology or perspective of the character is, to me, generally up for grabs.

as a human, i believe that there’s things that people do, events that they go through, that condition them to act a certain way. while there is a core to every human being, i personally believe that in life, anyone would basically be capable of doing anything, given the right circumstances. i’ve recently - rightfully - been told my writing is all about the power of choice in our life, the reasons why we make those choices and the people those choices lead us to be. for example, do i think i might murder someone tomorrow? probably not. do i think i might be capable of murdering someone in wartime? perhaps? i don’t know, that’s not the world i live in and my life choices have not lead me to find out the answer to that. however, my point is: to me, good ‘characterisation’ is down to the circumstances and choices outlined in any work of fiction. hence, good characterisation is essentially, to me, equal to good writing.

i often say that good writing could make me believe anything and i mean it. i don’t tend to gravitate towards these fics because these ships are not my personal taste but i genuinely believe that good writing could make me believe in drarry or rarry if it tried. it’s funny because over the course of the discussion yesterday on discord, this was brought up ‘well, no one tags drarry as canon compliant,’ and i’m kind of like, i don’t know whether or not they do because i don’t read it but if they did and none of it contradicted the events as detailed in the books, perhaps it could be? like, that would take really good writing (imo), but good writing has - on occasion - made me believe in dramione a couple of times, so why not? in ‘til the sirens come calling [5], good writing made me 100% believe that harry and hermione would have an affair together. in we only make tsunamis [3], it makes me believe that they had this quiet little relationship building throughout hogwarts that we never knew about.

now, though, i suppose the question isn’t: do i believe it? the question is: is it canon? and, i think that’s where i differ from most people because to me, it is. to take ‘til the sirens come calling [5] as an example, i believe the fic is an au because hermione marries victor krum in the end. that’s going against the hard fact presented by the epilogue, and thus makes it an au. but i don’t believe the concept of a harmony affair is inherently au, because nothing is inherently au, character-wise. it’s about how you write it. how those people get to that place. that’s what makes canon-compliantness, in my opinion.

for example, for that fic, truth be told, we don’t know what those nineteen years include per canon, so they could very much include an h/hr affair. and whilst i don’t believe that the characters as they are in the books would have an affair together, i believe that the characters as they are presented in the fic, with the events and hardships that they go through, definitely would. good writing, to me, is - in part - recognising that characters are moving on a spectrum and that whilst their decisions/actions might not make sense in book-verse, they make sense in fic-verse. good writing is convincingly moving your characters from book-verse to fic-verse, and it not feeling ‘off.’

if it does feel off, that is bad writing to me, and that is also ooc-ness/non-canon compliant. it means that for whatever reason, the writer has not successfully transitioned and explained said transition through the events outlined in the story. with the right prose, you could make me believe draco decided to take on a career as a ballerina dancer after the war, and it would still be ‘canon-compliant’ to me. on the other hand, i have read fics (i won’t name them because that would be shit and also i don’t keep track of my ‘bad’ reads) where harry, ginny, hermione, or ron all act according to book canon and yet, their motivations felt off to me and completely ooc because the writing didn’t successfully lure me in. specifically, there was a lack of character evolution that i found uninteresting. i read mostly post-war stuff because i want to see my characters grow up [6].

as a last, additional note on characters, i also think that the characters in a story only exist within the prism of how we view them. this means that to me, locking my own understanding of a character's personality as 'canon' is particularly difficult because my understanding of a character is unique. i believe there are as many harry-s or ginny-s or hermione-s as there are readers. so i think saying someone's interpretation of a character isn't canon-compliant is odd because i don't actually believe there's any wrong or right answer. as i said, do i believe it likely that draco would become a professional ballerina? no. but if that works within your understanding of his character as described in the books, who am i to say that is or isn't canon compliant? i'll admit, the idea makes me sort of lol though.

iii. tone

lastly, i’ve come to find (in potter particularly) that canon-compliance might include tone. as in: hp is a story that is a) written in a certain style and b) written for children/young adults.

regarding style at a), this is honestly the main reason why it took me 15 years to write potter fic, despite the fact that i’ve been a fan for even longer than that. i genuinely thought you had to write like jkr. and i, well, don’t write like jkr. i love the books, but i don’t even particularly like her style. i like: camus, and sorj chalandon, and sally rooney, and dirgewithoutmusic and copper_dust [7]. i have zero ambition to write like jkr and don’t particularly want to read stuff that is written like her stuff either. it’s a style that imo works for her, but it doesn’t work for me as written by other people. i don’t particularly think you need to stick to her style to be canon-compliant.

which brings me onto my actual point: b) hp is a story written for children. young adults perhaps, for the later books. it sometimes explores dark themes but the writing style, the tone, etc. is lighthearted enough that it appeals to a younger audience. there’s snogging but there’s no sex, there’s violence but the torture is mostly off-screen, etc. issues like sexual assault, substance abuse, etc. aren’t explicitely brought up in the books, although they would one hundred percent fit in a book about a war that wasn’t necessarily aimed at children. the question is whether this setting and tone is part of what we call ‘canon-compliance.’

honestly, i don’t know. i didn’t think so until it was brought up to me that castles might be a dark!au and i was like: maybe? like, if you want it to be? i know what i like to read in fanfic: i love the exploration of serious themes that were not explored in the books, or explored differently due to the fact that they were written for children. one thing i will say and insist on is that i don’t think castles is all dark. i actually make a point of having lighthearted moments in each and every chapter, even just a notch, because i am attached to the fact that life as a concept is a mixture of good and bad, and you could laugh at the funeral of someone you loved, again in the right circumstances. but yeah, to me the post-war world is dark. so if tone is part of canon-compliance, then yeah in that way castles (as well as most of the stuff i read, to be honest), is a dark!au.

as a last side note, i’m not sure what that means for my other, lighter stuff though. like are the wolf’s just a puppy [8] or slipped [9] more canon-compliant than castles? i never thought about it in those terms but perhaps? it really opens up a world of questions in my mind and i don’t really have the answers to them.

conclusion:

so in sum, as a reader, what i mean as ‘canon compliant’ is basically a) the events as described in the source material and b) the characterisation of characters as they are at the start of the fic. if character evolution is sufficiently justified and well-written in the following thousands of words that the fic has, then said characterisation can still be canon-compliant, even if the characters act different than they would have in the source material itself. i’m a fan of good writing and good writing can make me buy into literally anything. it takes me places that i've never been before and convinces me that those places are the ones i should be in.

as a writer, i hope that regardless of 'compliance,' whatever i write at least makes ‘sense’ to people within the universe, even if they don’t consider it canon-compliant, per se. i feel like i can’t really be the judge of that. from the discussions we had last night, i feel like there are as many versions of what is and isn't canon-compliant as there are people.

---

[1] the changeling by annerb

[2] the boy with a scar series by dirgewithoutmusic

[3] we only make tsunamis by disOrdely

[4] castles by yours truly

[5] ‘til the sirens come calling by vexmybones

[6] as a side note and to take my own stuff as an another example, i totally agree that harry in castles isn’t harry in the books. i don’t think there’s much debate to be had in that assertion. i wrote him like this frankly because every other fic i’d read didn’t. they often had him sort of continue to be perfectly himself after the war, which i felt wasn’t speaking to me on a deeper level. imo, i think the war’s done a lot of scarring and the fic is about him growing into a new version of himself. so, to me, if i get a comment that says ‘i don’t think harry would act this way but i really love your writing’ it’s somewhat flattering but also confusing because i don’t really understand how one can enjoy the writing but not the characterisation. to me, they’re so intrinsically linked. what the comment tells me is: i think you did a very poor job at explaining character evolution and justifying character x’s [harry’s] choices but i still like your writing, somehow? i suppose that’s nice, but it doesn’t particularly compute in my brain. like, if the character feels off, it means the writing feels off and thus, why are you still reading? i appreciate all and every comment that i get but it doesn’t mean they always make sense in my own brain. if i’m honest, these comments often send me into an ocean of self-doubt about how shit my writing must be.

[7] copper_dust’s work and profile.

[8] the wolf’s just a puppy (and the door’s double locked), again by yours truly

[9] slipped (and said something sort of like your name), same.

#writing #fic writing #canon compliant #the meaning of words #pebblysand goes off a tangent #also general disclaimer that these are my thoughts #there's no wrong or right answer #it's just my own thoughts about the meanings of words

11 notes · View notes

bloodybells1 · 4 years ago

Text

ON SCORDATURA

When I was eighteen, I was really into heavy metal and had been practicing the electric guitar for four years. I was devoted to music theory and looked up to guitarists like Steve Vai. I played loudly and fast, emulating the popular style of playing when heavy metal was at its apex of popularity. You might say that I was a “shredder.”

My passion for technique took an unexpected turn, however, when I became fascinated by the classical guitar. I don’t exactly remember when it hit me, the inspiration to explore this type of playing. It might’ve been born from reading the name of Andres Segovia in the magazine interviews of my favorite guitarists. (Also, I listened to a lot of Jethro Tull, and the intro to one of his songs is a quotation of a popular classical guitar score by Bach, the “Bourée in E Minor.” I started teaching it to myself by ear, but soon realized I needed help adjusting to the new technique).

One day I made the decision that I wanted to take the plunge into the classical world. I purchased a cheap nylon string, looked for a tutor and, once I found one in Chapel Hill, NJ, I started taking lessons and practicing every day.

I was enthralled by the new possibilities in this style of playing. I was discovering a wealth of textures and styles I’d had no previous idea about. My parents had not listened to classical music, so all of this was foreign to me. But I fell in love with the genre all the same.

I loved how old this practice was, how its provenance dated back to before there was electricity. I loved the deceptive simplicity of paper scores, how the mere act of sight-reading might open up varied worlds of expression, limited only by the player’s willingness to learn the technique and the player’s ability to perform.

My tutor included Renaissance lute scores in his homework for me. These scores contained instructions for alternative tuning arrangements of the strings. This changes the whole grid of the fretboard. Each string has been tightened or loosened to different notes, so all the note relationships are changed. If you wanted to play the same material you would have to relearn it with new fingerings.

But that wasn’t the point. The scordatura was designed to make available new sonorities. These lute pieces dating back to the Renaissance had a “harpier” texture, with open notes ringing out in different keys and mixtures of notes in registers I didn’t often hear in guitar music with traditional tuning. It was rather exotic, like the simple act of turning a screw on a taut string had turned this plain old Spanish guitar into some new, esoteric instrument.

My experience with classical guitar, and specifically the scordatura my tutor taught me, was a factor later in life when I played bass guitar professionally in the mid 2000’s. Not only do I think that it made me flexible enough to feel confident learning to play another stringed instrument, but it also influenced my tuning. I utilized what’s called Drop D tuning, a simple type of scordatura that lowers the heaviest string by two notes. It gives you two extra lower notes you wouldn’t normally have with the standard tuning—where the lowest note is E.

Heavy metal guitarists love this tuning because of how much heavier it makes the music sound and because it ends up making power chord configurations a one-finger job instead of two, and you can play those heavy power chord riffs much more quickly with just one finger.

Drop D was useful to me, however, because of how it enabled me to interact with the songwriting. My band’s music was dark and a lot of the songs were in D minor. So having a lower D available permitted me to create pedal tones and deeper support functions for chords and textures that were already using that scale a lot. It added depth and character to the music because of this sort of flexible shadow figure moving around underneath the guitars and the keyboards.

I had a profound experience with scordatura later in 2014, while I was in acting school. One of our school productions was a kind of fantasia on Nabokov’s Pale Fire. The novel is already a bit of a fantasia itself, so the production was very post-modern.

The director, Alex Harvey, staged it brilliantly. One of his ideas was that my character would play passages on the piano between scenes. The score was from a series called Revelation by composer Michael Harrison.

Harrison had contrived a bespoke scordatura for the score. An assistant, a specialist who could interpret unconventional concert pieces like these, was hired to transform the school’s simple upright Yamaha, an instrument more often used as accompaniment for students singing from the American Songbook, into a piece of avant-garde machinery.

I had already begun learning some of the passages before the piano had been prepared. They sounded ok, but not extraordinary. Once the tuner was finished and the specific tuning had been accomplished, however, I began learning the pieces in earnest and it was, well, it was a revelation.

Harrison’s scordatura was wild. Some keys adjacent to each other were tuned only fractionally sharper than their predecessor on the keyboard, thereby creating a tonal cloud or wash between the two that sounded a little like an untuned guitar, but in a shimmery, beautiful way. Other keys were tuned a whole fifth from their predecessor, thereby jumping up very far between two adjacent keys. The two extremities canceled each other out to create a distinct sense of balance and harmony, a kind of timbral mist floating in the ether.

As I worked on the score I had a sense that I didn’t know what was happening. It was difficult for me to anticipate and conceptualize the piano with this exotic construction. Yet, reading through the score and performing it, the idea was actualized. A whole new musical sensibility was borne out of this tuning. It was thrilling to put into action such a strange and beautiful arrangement.

What would a trumpet sound like if one could alternate its tuning? It’s a ridiculous notion: it would require bending metal, destroying the instrument in the process. Scordatura is likewise impossible for woodwinds. Ditto, percussion. A timpani, the most obvious exception, is in fact quite flexible and can even be tuned during performance. The percussionist puts their ear to the skin and lightly taps so as to enable them to change the tuning without disturbing the performance of other orchestra members. But you can’t do that with, say, tubular bells.

Stringed instruments and the piano are different than all the other instruments. The oscillators, the strings themselves, are adjustable. Coupled with the fact of their polyphony, it’s plain why these instruments, especially the piano, are so popular. They are great adapters. They can be brought back to their mean and reset for future use in other circumstances. The ubiquity of these instruments, across genres, in barrooms and conservatories alike, is explained by their ability to avail themselves.

And what about the voice? How supple are the cords? Can they be stretched or loosened like the strings of a guitar? Is there a scordatura possible for the human vocal mechanism?

It’s debatable: vocal training, primarily through work in breathing, does fortify ones range by bolstering the lower and upper parts of the register with more support. But your vocal cords are your vocal cords. Even on a guitar, you can’t detune the strings too much. It affects the timbre: the fretboard is designed with a natural state of tension and that string that is being detuned is only thick enough to perform in a certain range before the slackening of the string makes it flap against the fretboard—or before the tightening warps the fretboard.

Vocal cords are similar in this way. Just like with a guitar, once you start “detuning” your voice, you invite corruption of the sound. Your voice cracks when you try to go too low.

When Olivier tackled Othello he tried to lower his voice through vocal training. Obviously, considering all of the other garish and offensive effects—the blackface, the funny walk, the stupid dialect—he should’ve known better than to engage in minstrelsy, but he also should’ve known about the corruption of his voice. Not all instruments have that level of flexibility.

He should’ve known that not everything is available.

What about the human being itself? Can it be construed as an instrument? one that might likewise permit a certain scordatura?

My feeling is that in this case the change is permanent. And, like with a trumpet, one risks destruction. The human being is not a stringed instrument.

I can attest to a certain kind of “permanent” scordatura of the body and mind. It was possible for me to “detune” myself, but it was a commitment to a new state. I won’t ever be able to “go back” to my original tuning. It involved deep structural shifts and I came close to collapse—and in fact did collapse—many times. The instrument—the body and the mind—was constantly at risk of crumbling and warping under the stress of the transformation. Slackening a string is one thing. Shortening or elongating a valve is another.

What is therapy but a type of spiritual scordatura? The patient comes in with a limitation in place and leaves with that “bar” set somewhere else. Thresholds are repositioned. Pain that was once unbearable can be stomached. New life experiences are permitted because the mind has been opened to their possibilities. It is a fact that the change is permanent, but after we recognize the evolution we would never want to “detune” back to where we were.

I have a long history with therapy and it is without question the source of all of the appetite for change that I’ve experienced. In teaching me about healing, it motivated me to seek out other forms of healing. I credit it with helping me gain acceptance to the prestigious MFA program in Acting which I entered in 2012 at NYU, the beginning of three years wherein this process of permanent scordatura would be hastened.

I had many illnesses. Some would find treatment through the program’s vast assortment of exercise techniques addressing body misalignment and spiritual imbalance. Yoga classes, Feldenkrais, Alexander technique, chakra work, these were all deployed to “tune” the bodies in class.

Voice and speech exercises as well helped bring awareness of lifelong limits, expressed through the mouth and in the breath. It was unnerving to encounter these intimate facts about how one walks, how one talks, how one moves, how one breathes.

Most people would never submit themselves to this level of scrutiny. A fellow alumnus with additional experience in the military often jokes that an MFA at NYU Grad Acting is actually more oppressive than boot camp because at least in boot camp you let your anger and hostility grant you relief—you can growl and yawp and hunch over and adapt to battlefields—whereas actors, despite undergoing similar rounds of abuse, must look smooth and collected and relaxed in order to perform well on stage. It really was a double whammy of having my being constantly interrogated in various invasive manners, all while being denied any permission to sublimate the tension.

I had my own motivations to undergo this training. I was desperate to have a classical training in the theatre. But I was also subconsciously motivated towards healing. Despite the horrors of these ordeals, the modalities that are therewith deployed are part of a healing experience that, having undergone them, I wouldn’t trade for anything. Had I known what I was getting myself into beforehand, I don’t know that I would’ve jumped in the pool. But I’m glad I didn’t know because I cherish the experience.

I had a problem with keeping my mouth only partially open which our singing teacher was constantly bringing my attention towards. She had taught me that this was a defense mechanism, a strategy of containment, a means of keeping the world from having access to my heart. (Of course, keeping your mouth closed is also a problem for sound projection on stage, but that’s more technical).

During one afternoon class, singing “Lonely Room” from Oklahoma, I broke down into tears as the teacher kept coaxing me to open my mouth more and more. There I was, a man pushing 40, with tears streaming down his eyes, opening his mouth wide, not even singing the words, just the vowels, but doing something that was so psychically threatening, something that I could never bring myself to do, something simple, like opening a mouth. The limit had been expanded.

There was an element of bodily restructuring to all of this as well. I had done a number on my body during those years of my professional musicianship, when I toured the world in a famous band. And so by this point, I was aware that a shift was needed from the effects of years spent in front of cameras and abusing drugs and traveling and losing sleep. Alice Miller’s book, The Body Keeps the Score, is instructive in this regard. Somatization of traumas explain a great deal of certain physical ailments. In my case, they played out structurally, on my bones and on my muscles and in my central nervous system.

These changes are subtle to the layperson. But they are profound for the student. When I look at how I held my body in old photos, it is obvious to me that there was something wrong. On the stage, with a heavy instrument hanging from my shoulder, it wasn’t perceptible. The lights and the postures have a way of masking the truth. But in the more candid and private shots—the Polaroids and the exposures from my disposable camera which my friends and I took in our apartments—I see evidence of a lot of tension. Shoulders crept upwards towards my ears; chest muscles held; an exploded solar plexus; a chin pointing up. It was a mixture of a lot of holding, a lot of somatization in the fibers, with a learned posture organized to communicate the persona I wanted everyone to see: a demiurge or rockstar.

I came into grad school as though off an assembly line, where the factory had riveted and hammered onto my body and psyche its lessons. It was a capitalistic factory but it was also a societal one, one that bore the hallmarks of the dogged problems which elude solution: childhood trauma, dog-eat-dog meritocracy, bullying, etc.

So now I was this product getting recalled, but I was going to another factory for refurbishment. One that also had rivets and hammers, but ones which were designed to break open the right parts.

I stretched and stretched. By the end of the three years I was essentially exiting with a new body. The myth about the seven year cellular regeneration in one’s body is instructive here. For it truly was the case that new grooves in my brain and muscular and skeletal patterns had taken hold. One of my teachers said during my final evaluation that I had come in to school looking like a clothes hangar with legs but that I now looked graceful.

Even my scoliosis—a condition I was born with and which I will contend with for the rest of my life—was discovered in acting school. I had had no idea about it before one of the teachers told me that I persisted in leaning downwards to my right. My spine curves in the shape of a sidewards C. It’s a genetic condition. Of course, hanging a ten-pound instrument off my shoulder and letting the weight pull me down to the ground so that I could look cool every night didn’t really help either.

The modalities in the movement and vocal training classes in acting school are designed to build awareness and flexibility in the body and the mind. The purpose of this is to permit the actor to be resilient enough on stage so as to be present and believable. So it has a practical purpose and a real-world application.

I had other problems which these modalities could not fix, but which their steady application, encouraging honesty and reflection, revealed. There were addictions and mental illness issues which I’d had no idea about before entering grad school but which were inflamed by the pressure inside. I then had to deal with them. Immediately, since they threatened the goal of getting my MFA.

The cocaine abuse of my years in the music industry haunted me in the form of paralyzing panic attacks and circadian disruptions which complicated my ability to perform in school. The years spent pursuing rampant and anonymous sexual congress created inappropriate obsessiveness with orgasms and romance. Naturally, given that my peers were all considerably younger than I was, this last part wasn’t all that abnormal. But it interfered nonetheless. I was no spring chicken but I was acting like one. I had to double down on sex addiction meetings and on therapy.

It all came to a head inside the cloistered walls of the conservatory. It came to a head when Alex Harvey, the director of the Nabokov rendition, had to massage my shoulders backstage as I collapsed in tears during one of many nervous breakdowns. It came to a head when in a movement class, during an unfamiliar physical exploration, an early painful memory of abandonment that had long been forgotten had been recalled and sent me to the floor sobbing.

I’m grateful that I had the means to address the issues. I had to juggle that with the demands of the curriculum. It was not easy. But I’m proud of my accomplishment and I’m proud of the new person this all made me become.

It is possible to “detune.” I think a better way of looking at it is “retuning.” It is a permanent scordatura and it therefore should not be taken lightly.

#conservatory #scordatura #alternativetuning #movementclass #voiceclass #mfa #nyu #nyugradacting #feldenkrais #yoga #alexander technique stretch and breath classes #classical guitar #heavy metal #dropd #renaissance #michael harrison #alex harvey #revelation

14 notes · View notes

iimanga · 4 years ago

Text

The Whole Marvelous Super Ultra Cosmic Magical Comic Book Universe

The produce of imagination and business that was Marvel Comics was a synchronic harmony sounded by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko and every one of the creators and craftsmen and inkers and colorists who worked there. Everything began during the mid 1960's the point at which the Fantastic Four and Spider-man and the X-men (The Uncanny X-Men) were framed from the creative mind of Stan Lee and Jack Kirby.

X-men was a film industry crush the previous summer. I'm certain you additionally recall the profoundly effective Hulk TV show.

The most punctual X-men comprised of Jean (Marvel Girl) Gray (who later turned into the amazingly well known Phoenix), Professor X (Xavier), Cyclops (Scott Summers), the insightful Beast (Hank McCoy), and Iceman (Bobbie). Freaks brought into the world with exceptional "super-freak" capacities.

Later came the New Mutants with more youthful characters having freak controls that occasionally appeared to have them (the main sort of comic book story I don't care for).

These characters from X-men including (Nightcrawler, Wolverine, Storm, Banshee, Kitty) advanced with the appearance of the imagination of John Byrne (beginning in issue #108 of X-men) and Chris Claremont (Giant Sized X-men #1 and Uncanny X-men #94 now esteemed at $500. up in "mint" condition. The most famous person was the principle star in the X-men film- - Wolverine. There makes certain to be a continuation for this film industry crush.

X-men Comics instructed kids that bias is shrewd. Individuals who live in dread and in this way eagerness attempt to annihilate what they don't comprehend.

Fascinating that both the latest Star Wars film and X-men film truly investigated lawmakers (Congress). In the event that force undermines totally is it conceivable our framework is totally bad? The Senator in the X-men film took in his example somewhat late.

Insect man- - the new Marvel film in progress - is about a typical young child anxiety (menaces thumping him, not getting any darlings, skin break out, etc is gentle stuff contrasted with the present school encounters -, for example, not having chance and killed while going to or going to the everyday schedule lured by a destructive medication or tainted by a stellar infection) is only nibbled by a radioactive bug (revolutionary stuff for the mid 1960's).

This gives Peter Parker super powers- - creepy crawly controls - whenever intensified a man could lift a truck and convey it 20 miles as insects do. (Try not to get me going discussing Henry Pym the Antman who became Giant Man in the Marvel's Avengers ((Capt. America, Thor the Thunder God etc.))). Add to that Peter Parker was likewise a splendid understudy who had the option to concoct a web shooter and other extraordinary innovations. What's more, Spider-man was brought into the world as a bi-result of the bi-item known as radioactive material (which Science actually doesn't have the foggiest idea how to dispose of). (Take a stab at telling that to the Bush organization). Everything is energy! Recall Tesla curls.

However, Marvel was not by any means the only spot strutting superpowered characters.

D.C. Funnies (Time Warner), as well, used folklore and accounts of Biblical extents to entrain, invigorate and energize ages of youngsters, children and grown-ups from the 1940's to introduce.

A few characters like Superman, Atom, Flash, Batman, Green Lantern, JLA and others and even D.C's. adaptation of Capt. Wonder might have been propelled by profound writing which recounted Hindu Gods and Goddesses and surprisingly Biblical personages who could remain in fire and so forth

Contents and Wit

Superheroes: starting through human creative mind and from writing, folklore, religion.

However most likely comic makers just made up their wondrous stories.

When I talked with Gerry Conway for the Comics Journal he conceded to me that he had investigated a portion of the funnies he composed. Conway's companion accomplice Roy Thomas no question investigated Conan and Thor and other material while author and supervisor at Marvel. They cooperated on the incredible enlivened Fire and Ice film. (Ralph Bakshi/Frank Frazetta).

Also, at first Thomas got the Conan property over to Marvel from Edgar Rice Burroughs in Tarzana, CA. (Tarzana- - Tarzan...get it? That's right, it also is a comic.)

More seasoned society know and love the endless Films and TV shows and serials highlighting these and other most loved brilliant characters: Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon, Commander Cody (which might have enlivened the Rocketeer comic and film).

COMIC BOOKS - Born by the sheer exhurberance of the actual Universe through the vehicle of the Human Being!

The Comic Industry is an analogy forever. An inestimable dramatization unfurling. In any case, not to place old wine into new containers: Many occasions in the past Marvel and D.C. have joined to do specials that helps the play of imagination. I initially met Stan Lee while I was the administrator of a Comic Book Store in Studio City, California in the 1970's.

Or then again, more precisely, I met him through his works at Marvel Comics - his exceptional contents and mind in 1961.

Exceptionally astute association with the fans through clubs and letter sections in bygone times caused one to feel like one was a piece of something. With Merry Marvel "we had a place."

Stan Lee's accounts contained genuine person's, finished with issues and the start of incredible groundbreaking thoughts and standards for carrying on with a decent life.

As when Spider-man didn't stop a Burglar - a similar Burglar who later killed his caring Uncle- - Peter Parker (Spider-man) got the message - serve humankind. With extraordinary force comes liability.

Furthermore, obligation is the capacity to react.

Energizing anecdotal stories loaded with experience and energy with ethics. Outlined lavishly.

Wonder Super characters were at first looked on by society as trouble makers. Even subsequent to saving human butt large number of times.

J. Jonah Jameson (modest Editor of the Daily Bugle paper) has abhorred Spider-person for more than 30 years. Jameson really attempted to annihilate Spider-man by turning into a super reprobate.

Adrenaline junkie (blind Attorney yet Batman-esque in capacities and actual strength and spryness - however with uplifted faculties) the Man unafraid was regularly marked a scalawag too from the start.

Similar to the always well known Incredible Hulk - first deified as a comic book during the 1960's. Who went from dull and idiotic to approach virtuoso relying upon the decade where this suffering person is perused.

What we dread we regularly view as shrewd.

Funnies have attempted to instruct us that the means are pretty much as significant as the finishes they produce.

What we do en route decides the outcome we will get. Funnies are distributed in light of the fact that a word sounds great to the distributer. However, a portion of these new youthful free distributers need to find out about the significance inside these words (thus do their clients). However, more capacity to these ambitious youths.

What is Yoga, Meditation, Tai Chi, Mantra? What is Zen? (One youthful upstart distributer of "Harmony - intergalactic Ninja" had never known about Alan Watts - incredible advertiser of Zen until I let him know Alan Watts was a renowned and famous scholar turned maverick Philosopher and Author (one of many) liable for acquainting Eastern Religions with the profoundly starved West- - frequently heard on KPFK radio. Alan Watts is potentially the chief advertiser of Zen. Watts' book " The Wisdom of Insecurity," specifies, for goodness' sake, Comic Books. What are Chakras? The Tao implies what? When children grow up and find out with regards to Meditation will they be spoiled by our ineptitude and insatiability?

Trendy expressions ordinarily lower cognizance and create turmoil. Obviously when I use to distribute stuff as a young person I made up names that sounded great however had almost no significance, for example, Beyond Infinity, مانجا لاند, Eon the Magazine of Graphic Illusions. I know less now than I did then, at that point. What is make, craftsmanship, Love, Truth?

I held a few signature parties with Stan Lee and Jack Kirby in the 1970's and 1980's. I tossed more than 50 effective signature parties with numerous awesome comic book specialists and authors. I'd have the occasion, give rewards, do all the publicizing, realistic workmanship, official statements, and so forth It was an invigorating encounter. It was enjoyable to cooperate with professionals and fans. I parted with a ton of free promotion stuff.

10th Nebula's first signature party was held with Stan Lee, distributer of Marvel Comics. For a considerable length of time my shop suffered in North Hollywood, CA nearby to the world's most seasoned Science Fiction Club (an inherent crowd of companions and fans and PC monsters).

The Stan Lee occasion evoked long queues of Comic Book devotees of any age slobbering for Stan's mark on the sprinkle page of their old and new funnies. These days experts sign funnies on the front of their title en mass which I don't support. (Yet, who pays attention to me).

Funnies structures are frequently manhandled by hopeful youthful distributers who utilize a few pointless full page sprinkles when the impact could be accomplished in a minuscule board - misuse of cash, ink and paper if you were to ask me. Not at all like bygone times when Steve Ditko gave us our best possible value as around 6 boards for each page - he in his manner resembled a Zen Master - the accuracy of his work matched the craft of Chinese Calligraphy (see his one of a kind style in old Atlas Comics from the 1950's). A portion of the new experimentation's by Frank Miller and different gifts have all accomplished outstandingly imaginative work as well.

#new

1 note · View note

vampiregirl1797 · 5 years ago

Text

Hopeless: Epilogue

Klaus Mikaelson x OC

GIF Not Mine

Warnings: this is over 10,000 words, so get some snacks and a hot cup of chocolate!

Click Here For Masterlist

Five years after Evangeline returned from the 15th century.

‘Bekah, really this is completely unnecessary.’ I tried to reason with her, but I wasn’t surprised when my protests seemed to fall on deaf ears.

‘It may not be necessary but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening.’ She winked, turning back to the owner of the cute little clothes store we’d found in the centre of the city. She was compelling her to let us have free run of the store, seeing as clothes were limited and she didn’t want to lose out on the perfect outfit to someone else.

While she did that, I wondered around, absentmindedly looking at the different clothes she had to offer. I had to hand it to her, everything was beautiful and all one of a kind, seeing as she made the clothes herself and only ever made ten of everything. Once they sold, that was it.

‘Find anything?’ I asked Elena when I reached her.

‘Oh my--,’ she cut off with a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart.

‘Sorry.’ I grinned, amused that after so many years of me being a vampire I could still startle her.

She shot me a look, clearly not believing my apology but she waved me off anyway.

‘You know, I’m surprised I can still startle you with your newfound heightened senses.’ I teased.

Elena had become a vampire a few years ago, after she had turned twenty. She had given it a lot of thought beforehand, and was content with her decision when she asked Stefan to turn her so that she could spend an eternity by his side. The younger Salvatore had been hesitant, but after my sister assured him that she had done nothing but think about it since she met him, he followed through with her request.

‘Well I was too busy wondering if this top would look cute on me.’ She protested, holding up a white and baby pink lace crop top.

‘It would not.’ Bekah interjected, sliding up next to me and holding out a similar style crop top but in red, ‘this colour suits your skin tone better.’

‘Thank you, Bekah.’ Elena smiled gratefully and put the reject back on the rack before adding the new addition to her basket.

I smirked in amusement when I realised that Elena had already gathered enough to fill half her basket, while Bekah had enough to warrant moving onto a third while I had nothing.

Bekah seemed to notice that too, ‘why haven’t you got anything in your basket yet? We only have another hour until we need to be back for dinner and the barbecue is tomorrow!’

‘I know,’ I sighed, running a hand through my hair, ‘I’ve never been good at picking out clothes for myself Bekah. I hate shopping.’

Elena and Bekah gasped dramatically, as if this was news to them, which of course it wasn’t. I rolled my eyes at their dramatics, but a small smile still found its way to my lips.

‘Well that’s easy enough. I’ll pick something for you.’ Bekah smiled, already wondering off to the back wall—I imagined she already had something in mind.

A few years ago, I would’ve tried to stop her, but I knew that she would only pick something that would compliment my figure and my personal tastes. She had a gift when it came to styling people, in any other time she could’ve been an amazing personal shopper. But then again, owning her own clothing line seemed more Bekah’s style.

‘So when are Stefan and Damon getting in?’ I asked, following Elena around while she browsed through the other options.

‘Tonight after dinner, which sucks but we can all probably watch a movie together.’ Elena replied, the excitement at the prospect of seeing her love leaking into her voice.

‘True, though it is Kol’s turn to pick this month. Probably means we’re gonna be stuck watching some gory horror movie.’ I rolled my eyes fondly—the younger Mikaelson loved watching scary movies to mock and point holes in the stories.

‘Better than Elijah’s documentary obsession.’ Elena joked. She wasn’t wrong, though. Elijah was fascinated with watching documentaries on anything—the last time it had been his pick, we sat through a two hour movie on how cans were made.

‘No arguments here.’ Bekah laughed, adding an armful of clothes to my basket.

I knew there was more than one outfit choice there, but I also knew better than to argue—she liked to add options for me to choose from, plus anything I didn’t want to wear tomorrow I could just wear some other time.

‘Thanks, Bekah.’ I smiled offering her a side hug, ‘you’re a godsend.’

Bekah snorted, commenting on the fact that no one had ever called her that in a thousand years. She offered me a kind smile though and I knew she was grateful for the compliment.

‘Well if everyone’s finished, I’m craving something sweet.’ Elena mused.

‘I know just the place.’ Bekah smirked; I could already feel my mouth watering at the prospect of pastries.

‘So, how’s being newly married?’ Bekah asked my sister just as I’d taken a huge bit of one of the beignets from the centre of the table.

My eyes closed in pleasure and I couldn’t help the small moan that formed at the back of my throat from the taste. Heaven.

‘Great.’ Elena’s expression visibly lit up, as it always did when she spoke of her relationship with the younger Salvatore, ‘we’re actually thinking about moving to New Orleans permanently. Stefan wants to talk to you guys about it first, just to make sure it’s alright, but hopefully there won’t be an issue. I’m ready to move on from Mystic Falls, and I want to be closer to my second family, seeing as the only ones really left back home are me, Stefan, Damon and Bonnie.’

It was true; Jeremy and a few of his friends from school had decided to travel the world before committing to a college, and Jenna had moved back to Denver after Jeremy had graduated. The old house was currently being rented out by Jenna being as none of us had the heart to put it up for sale.

‘I don’t think that will be a problem, Elena you’re family.’ I assured her with a smile, honestly the thought of her moving to the city filled me with joy, ‘the Mikaelson’s love you like a sister, and Stefan and Nik have the biggest bromance going on, there should be zero issues.’

‘She’s right, Lena.’ Bekah assured her, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement—I imagined mine looked the same. The prospect of us all living in the same city all the time was just too wonderful to comprehend. Usually we had to made do with one weekend a month—that was the mandatory minimum for the whole family to meet up, no matter where they were in the world they had to be back for family weekend. Though to be fair, Elena, Stefan and Damon were the only ones who didn’t live in the city permanently, so that rule only really applied to them.

‘Do you think Bonnie will come to the barbecue?’ I wondered, sipping my caramel latte as I waited for an answer.

Bonnie was a somewhat touchy subject for the group. When I’d gathered the courage and will to go back to Mystic Falls to tell my family the truth about what had happened, Bonnie and Katherine were the only two who had an issue. Bonnie because she believed I’d defied the balance of nature by helping break a curse that had been in place for so long, and Katherine because she’d lost five hundred years bound to paranoia and fear.

It had taken some time, but eventually Bonnie realised that if the curse shouldn’t have been broken, the means to break it wouldn’t have existed. Katherine was more stubborn and even attempted to gather enough firepower from witches, vampires and werewolves to take Klaus and Elijah down. Of course, when they found out whom she wanted them to go up against they immediately backed out, a few even coming to New Orleans to warn the Mikaelsons of the potential threat—they didn’t want to go up against the strongest supernatural army in the world. Which was of course what the Mikaelson’s had built in New Orleans. It was the place that any species could come and live with different supernatural creatures in harmony. They did such a good job ruling it, fairly and with a genuine care for each and every person, that the loyalty they earned from each member of the city was unwavering. That was something Katherine hadn’t realised, until it was too late.

Klaus and Elijah had sent a few werewolves and vampires for her to “recruit.” Of course, it had been a ploy to lure her to New Orleans and once they had her, they gave her three options:

- Give up her ploy for revenge and start living her immortal life without a thirst for repentance

- Let herself be compelled to once again forget why she wanted vengeance

- Or die.

Her rage had inevitably made the decision for her. After she had been given her options, I had returned to the compound after meeting Cami for a drink at Rousseau’s. My appearance reminded her of her hatred and she’d attempted to attack me immediately, before she could however Elijah had removed her heart while Klaus had flashed to my side, prepared to aid me should I need it. We had both stared at the elder Mikaelson in shock, but he simply dropped her heart and ordered for her body to be burned to ash.

I still remembered the conversation I’d had with him that night.

A few months after Evangeline returned from the 15th century.

I took a deep breath, trying to build up the courage to knock on his door, but I found myself shuffling from foot to foot. I was just about to bolt and return to bed with Nik when the door opened of its own accord.

‘Evangeline, is there something I can help you with?’ Elijah’s calm voice tampered a little of my anxiety, as did the absence of anger or sorrow in his eyes. But I didn’t let that fool me completely—I knew just as well as anyone that he was the best at withholding emotions from those closest to him.

‘I- I just wanted to apologise.’ I said, clearing my throat as my voice broke.

‘Whatever for?’ he gestured for me to enter his bedroom and I took a seat on one of the armchairs he had opposite his bed. Elijah himself perched himself on the foot of his bed, rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows as he awaited my response.

‘For Katherine. I know you cared for her once, and it’s my fault that nothing happened with her.’ I murmured, suddenly finding myself enamoured with the sleeves of the Henley that I was wearing that happened to belong to my hybrid.

‘If I ever cared for Katarina, it was because she reminded me of another life.’ Elijah said, the softness of his voice caused me to look up to him, ‘she reminded me of a time where my biggest worry was competing with my brother to win the affections of a woman who looked a lot like her.’

‘Tatia.’ I said, familiar with the story.

‘Indeed. When we were human my biggest concerns were trying to win Tatia’s hand in marriage, and protecting my siblings from our brute of a father. Katarina reminded me of that, and as a result caused me to yearn for that simplicity.’

I nodded, somewhat understanding.

‘Of course, that changed when I realised that Niklaus was finding his humanity, due to a mysterious girl from the future.’ Elijah smiled knowingly at me, and I couldn’t help but look down, grateful that I couldn’t blush, ‘you see Evangeline, your appearance in our lives made me yearn for my life in the present. It made me yearn for a time that we could all sit down together as a family and be happy. Happier than we ever were when we lived in that small village in Mystic Falls over a thousand years ago. For the first time in a long time, I was excited by what the future would bring, rather than being consumed with dread over the prospect of witnessing my family commit heinous acts before my very eyes. You saved this family. And for Katarina to come along and try to inadvertently tear that apart, well you know by now… no one hurts my family and lives. And you, Evangeline are just as much a part of this family as I am.’

I knew that my cheeks were wet with tears but I didn’t care. In a flash I was hugging Elijah and unconsciously soaking his shirt with tears. He hugged me back and I found myself grateful and lucky to have been accepted into the Mikaelson family.

‘Thank you, Elijah.’ I murmured against his chest.

‘Always and forever, sister.’ He murmured back, placing a chaste kiss to the top of my head.

Back to five years after Evangeline returned from the 15th century.

That had been a few months after I returned from the past, and Elijah and I had only grown closer. He was like the big brother I had always wanted, and being accepted into the fold meant that I was also gifted with the huge family I’d always yearned for. I was immensely grateful, being as I’d given up on the idea of a big family when I’d been turned into a vampire. I was lucky, and a day didn’t go by where I wasn’t reminded of that.

‘No. She’s accepted everything and I know she understands, but she doesn’t want to be a part of it.’ Elena said, her bright expression dimming considerably at the reminder of her absent ex-best friend.

‘I’m sorry sweetie.’ I murmured, squeezing her hand comfortingly.

‘It’s okay. It’s her life to live, and she doesn’t want to live it immersed in the supernatural world like we do. That’s her choice and she’s well within her rights to make it.’ Elena murmured, her eyes conveying the sincerity behind her words.

It sucked, of course it did, but Elena was right. Bonnie was living her life like she wanted to—without vampires, hybrids and werewolves. Elena and I still loved her, but we knew it was just a part of life; some people are only meant to be in your life for a certain amount of time before you drift apart and they leave you with the memories you created together.

‘Aren’t you ever going to tire of painting me?’ I murmured, partially amused and fond from where I leaned against the doorframe.

After lunch with my sisters, I’d returned to the compound and after placing my newly acquired clothes into our room, I went to find him. Where I found him wasn’t a surprise; he was in his art studio painting yet another portrait of me. My heart fluttered every time I saw him taking the time to put me onto another canvas; I’d been so overcome with love when he’d shown me the ones he’d painted in my absence that I’d been reduced to a puddle of tears. Nik still had yet to let me hear the end of that.

‘How could one ever tire of capturing such beauty?’ he grinned, his eyes sparkling with adoration as he turned to face me. In a flash I was at his side, my arm wound around his waist as I placed a chaste yet passionate kiss to his lips.

‘How was your day?’ he asked, pulling me against his chest and winding his arms around my waist.

‘Fine. Bekah picked out some clothes for me to wear tomorrow.’ I told him, my hands resting against his chest and my head against his shoulder.

He chuckled, ‘I don’t know why you go; you hate shopping.’

I hummed in agreement before adding, ‘but I love spending time with my sisters.’

‘Forgive me, I find it hard to imagine why anyone would enjoy Bekah’s company.’ He deadpanned, but broke out into a laugh when I lightly slapped his shoulder in reprimand.

‘Elena mentioned that her and Stefan were thinking of moving here.’ I grinned, my hands moving to his shoulders as I leaned back to meet his gaze.

‘Is that so?’ he said, his hands falling to my hips as a smile formed on his at the sight of my happiness.

I nodded, ‘she mentioned Stefan wanted to run it by you all first, but it you’re okay with it then they’re gonna come.’

‘Why would we have a problem?’ he mused, his eyes dancing with mirth.

‘I think it’s Stefan’s idea to be honest. Just to make sure they’re not stepping on any toes.’ I shrugged, not really understanding the need for permission myself.

‘Well I’d never deny them residence here and I doubt anyone else would either, lest they incur your wrath.’ He teased, grinning when I playfully glared at him.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I said innocently.

It was true, of course. Over my time with the Mikaelson’s I’d gained a reputation. My temper was known to rival Nik’s when someone threatened or hurt my family. I’d always been protective, and that instinct had only become heightened when I’d become a vampire. And now I had a family that ruled New Orleans, we were bound to attract trouble, which led to my protective instincts rearing their head more often than I was used to. The Mikaelson’s, Nik especially, thought my ability to go from calm to a force that the devil himself would be intimidated by was hilarious. But I couldn’t help it. And I was happy to have found a family that understood and even rivalled my over protective tendencies. I thought back to the first time we’d incurred a threat after Katherine.

A year after Evangeline returned from the 15th century.

I woke up to the sun shining on my face, which wasn’t unusual seeing as Nik and I had a habit of forgetting to close the drapes. I smiled when I felt his arms still wrapped around me, his warmth seeping through the shirt of his I was wearing. I rolled over to face him and was unsurprised to see his eyes already open; it was rare that I awoke before him, but even though he woke before me most days, he preferred to stay and hold me until I woke up before he even thought of getting out of bed. I’d asked him about it before and he’d admitted to taking the time to bask in the gratitude he felt for finally being able to wake up with me in his arms. I’d held him tight after that.

‘Good morning my love.’ His voice was husky with sleep, and I couldn’t help the small shiver of desire that shot down my spine.

‘Good morning my hybrid.’ I murmured back, placing a kiss to his cheek, a wave of adoration washing over me at his bashful smile that always followed me calling him that.

That became my nickname for him not long after I found him again and he was able to finally reveal that he had broken his curse. At first, the reception had varied from fear to acceptance. Unfortunately the latter opinion was rare; Elena and everyone from back home had accepted it fairly quickly, though I assumed that Elena not needing to die for the curse to be broken was the main reason for that. It took a while for the factions of New Orleans to realise that Klaus being part werewolf as well as vampire made no difference to who he was as a ruler. When they did, the criticism, fear and disgust had dissipated. Though Nik liked to joke that my attitude towards those who criticised him was the main reason for that. I’d started calling him “My Hybrid” because I wanted him to know he had no reason to be ashamed of who he was, and to remind him that I loved every single part of him.

‘Do we have any plans today?’ I wondered, nuzzling into his neck, his scent keeping me in a state of contentedness. My eyes were starting to flutter shut again, and I found myself not wanting to fight it.

‘Actually, Sophie has contacted Elijah and informed us of a potential threat coming to New Orleans.’ Nik murmured, his lips against my hair.

‘Hmmm.’ I said, not really processing his words and placing a kiss onto the side of his neck.

He chuckled kissing my hair and pulling me tighter against him, ‘I should tell you of all potential threats after you’ve just woken up my love.’

‘Hmmm.’ I sighed as his hand starting to move back and forth across my lower back.

I thought I heard him chuckle again and it made me smile as I fell into unconsciousness.

Kol and Bekah were doubled over in laughter where we were gathered in the courtyard of the compound. Klaus was laughing a lot less rambunctiously, while Elijah was a lot more reserved, though his amusement was still obvious on his expression.

‘I don’t bloody believe this.’ I muttered, shaking my head in exasperation, ‘are you having me on?’

‘No my love, we’re not.’ Nik’s dimpled smile eased my embarrassment a little, ‘I told you of the threat three days ago after you woke up. You must have still been half asleep.’

‘That’s cheating!’ I complained, slapping his shoulder, ‘you should’ve told me again when I was actually awake.’

‘Technically you were conscious.’ Kol pointed out, seeming to have recovered enough to add a comment.

‘Obviously not enough.’ I rolled my eyes and ran a hand through my hair, ‘now tell me about this threat.’

‘The De Martials are on their way to New Orleans.’ Elijah said solemnly and I nodded, familiar with the story.

The elder Mikaelson had informed Niklaus over what he had done a few centuries after I’d returned to the future, and Nik had told me a few months ago. Nik had definitely been furious but his rage had subsided when he realised why his elder brother had done what he’d done. It had been around that time that Nik had told his siblings the truth about what happened to their mother. The reactions to that news had varied. Kol hadn’t had much of one, Elijah had already known but Bekah had taken it the hardest. But after some time, she came to forgive him.

‘So they want revenge for the time they spent pretending to be you and leading Mikael astray.’ I summarised, the wheels in my head turning.

‘I’d imagine so.’ Bekah mused, coming to sit by me on the sofa and stretching her legs out over my lap. Kol came to sit on the other side of me and rolled his eyes at the intrusion of Bekah’s legs on his lap as well, but he didn’t protest.

‘Do you think Aurora might have other motivations?’ I asked, internally wincing at the insecurity in my voice.

‘If that psychotic bitch comes anywhere near you darling, I can assure you she will be torn limb from limb.’ Kol patted my shoulder for reassurance.

‘That’s not what I’m worried about.’ I rolled my eyes and then frowned, ‘why would she be interested in me? I doubt she even knows who I am.’

‘Over the years you were not with us, we were subtle and discrete over your existence, but evidently rumours did get out about you.’ Elijah explained, smiling at my wide eyes, ‘your name along with your importance to this family made you somewhat of a legend. Though, no one knew why, or even knew of anyone by the name of Evangeline, so it’s often been dismissed as a rumour.’

‘Until now.’ Nik murmured, his eyes on me and shining with concern.

‘And Aurora always was the jealous type.’ Bekah sneered.

‘I don’t care about me.’ I muttered; my only concern was with my family, ‘you’re basically invincible. If they’re coming for revenge now after all this time, that must mean they have a plan, one that they’re confident will work.’

‘We’ve faced many people over our thousand years, all of which intended to end us all, and yet we’re still here.’ Elijah murmured, smiling in assurance, ‘I assure you, this time will be no different.’

I wished I had his confidence, but I had a bad feeling about this and Nik must have sensed it because he held his hand out to me from where he was sat on the armchair. I shifted Bekah’s legs off me and moved to sit on his lap. His scent soothed my nerves like a balm—I’d always be grateful for how safe Nik’s arms made me feel. Especially in that moment because the absence of anxiety allowed me to think clearly and I had a plan.

Nik: They’re here. Aurora left a body surrounded by lavender and a scavenger hunt for me to follow.

Kol: Tristan has made himself known; he’s already got the strix out looking for vampires descended from Elijah.

Elijah: The witches are preforming the spell now.

Me: Lucien has just walked into Rousseau’s.

Bekah: This is an insane plan; I just want that on the record.

Nik: Now is not the time. Focus.

Me: If anything bad happens, I just want you to know I love you all.

I slid my phone into the back pocket of my high-waisted jeans, subtly watching Lucien from where I sat at the bar, while Bekah was blending in with the crowd thanks to a glamour spell a witch had placed on her. My hair was down and wavy, cutting off at the bottom of my spine and offering me some comfort as it covered up the most of my back. The crop top had been Bekah’s idea, it was white, lacy and entirely too revealing but I was looking to gain the attention of Lucien.

A small smile formed on my lips as I noticed a family of tourists sitting by the window, a mother and father sat across from their twin daughters. They were all laughing and talking, enjoying their meal together. I felt a small wave of homesickness wash over me in that moment. I hadn’t seen my family in almost a year—not since I’d told them the truth about everything. We were still in touch, but I hadn’t seen them in the flesh for ten months, and I realised in that moment that I missed them. It wasn’t as bad as it could be, as I was already surrounded by family, but I found myself wondering if Elena, Jeremy and Jenna would be up for a weekend visit. Though it would be difficult to organise now; Elena was coming up to the end of senior year, Jeremy near the end of Junior, and Jenna was in the middle of writing her thesis. Though I’d heard from Elena that she was thinking of moving back to Denver after Jeremy was done with school. As the youngest Gilbert had already mentioned his desire to travel after he graduated, and with Elena potentially going to collage, Jenna would be in Mystic Falls all by herself. It wouldn’t be the same not having Jenna back home, but I understood her desire to move away being as the life she had before our parents died was in Denver.

‘Hello there darling.’ An arrogant sounding voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked to my right to see just the man I was looking for, now occupying the empty seat beside me.

‘Hello.’ I forced a smile and hoped the disgust didn’t show on my face. He was sitting far too close and his scent was overwhelming me. He smelled like he’d bathed in cologne and whiskey, it was so bad that I had to make due with breathing through my mouth. A pang of longing to be encased in my Hybrid’s scent overwhelmed me, but I forced myself to focus.

‘Now what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?’ He smirked, his breath fanning over my face. If I were still capable of vomiting, I would have in that moment.

‘You’ll have to be more specific. In this bar or in this city?’ I was being evasive, but I couldn’t help it.

‘This city, of course.’ He said, taking a sip of the drink in his hand.

‘I like it here.’ I shrugged, downing the shot of tequila Cami placed in front of me. Apparently seeming uninterested was a sure way to garner his attention, which was exactly what was needed. I leaned forward over the bar to grab the bottle of liquor that Cami had purposefully left within reach.

‘I’m starting to as well’ I rolled my eyes when I realised he was checking out my ass and when I fell back into my seat his eyes trailed over my chest. I fought the urge to cross my arms to try and cover up as I poured myself another shot.

‘How would you feel about coming back to my place later?’ he asked, his fingers trailing up and down my arm. I assume he mistook my shiver of disgust as pleasure, because his hand moved to my back, trailing up and down my spine and lightly tugging my hair.

Quick as a flash I held his wrist in mine, before he could react I snapped it like a twig, ‘I think I’d rather set myself on fire.’

‘You’re feisty I like that.’ He bit out as he reset his wrist with a click.

‘I’m leaving now.’ I huffed placing a hundred on the bar to cover my drinks and tip.

I shot Bekah a reassuring look before I left. I didn’t have to turn around to know he was following me; his pungent scent assured me he was.

It shouldn’t have been so simple, but it was. I led him into a trap; witches bought him to his knees while I turned and snapped his neck. After that, he was trapped in a basement with chains and boundary spells, where he would be bled out until the vervain was out of his system. Which shouldn’t take long for how fast the selected vampires were working on him. One down. Two to go.

‘Nik?’ I called out as I entered the compound—he should have been back by now and I’ll admit the fact he wasn’t had me feeling both worried and insecure.

I was about to call him when the scent hit my nose—blood. Most importantly Nik’s blood. I followed it to his art studio—he was in the centre of the room a circle of salt hinting at the boundary spell that was around him. He was shirtless and the dried blood on his torso hinted at how much he had lost. Despite the overwhelming urge to go to him, I forced myself to focus, someone had obviously done this to him, but where were they? I didn’t have to look far. She had her back to me, which hinted at her arrogance—she clearly didn’t perceive me to be a threat. She was staring at one of the portraits Nik had painted of me and hung along the back wall. Her fingers were pressed against the canvas gently at first, and in the blink of an eye her fingers tore through with such force she created a hole in the brickwork. That was when she turned to face me. Her eyes is what stood out to me at first, they were a striking green, seeming to shine brighter due to the red curly hair that draped around her shoulders and down her back. She was dressed in a short and low cut black dress; clearly she’d been intending to impress my Hybrid.

‘Aurora I presume.’ I said, unable to keep the venom from my voice.

‘You’ve heard of me?’ she seemed to preen with the knowledge.

‘Yes, when Nik was recounting his psychotic exes you were the first name out of his mouth.’ I smiled, inwardly cheering when her expression transformed into fury.

‘I cannot understand what he possibly sees in you.’ She sneered, walking around me like a shark circling its prey.

‘That makes two of us,’ I shrugged.

‘I’ll admit I’m disappointed. I expected more fire.’ She said, coming to stand in front of me again, and that was when she revealed a stake, ‘white oak seems a waste on you, but it’ll kill you just the same and to be honest, I rather enjoy the poetry of Nik waking up to see you dead beside him. The pathetic abomination will be so overcome with grief that he’ll be powerless to falling into my awaiting arms. As soon as that happens, I’ll be able to easily convince him to dagger his other pathetic siblings and we’ll live happily ever after as King and Queen of New Orleans.’

My eyes flashed and before she could comprehend it, the stake clattered to the floor as the snap her wrist made when I twisted it behind her back echoed throughout the room.

‘How dare you.’ I growled, unbelievably enraged, picking the stake myself and plunging it into her stomach. She fell to her knees with a cry of pain, her hands moving to the wound when I yanked the wood out.

‘How dare you come into this city and threaten my family. How dare you call my Hybrid an abomination? The way I see it, the only abominable creature in this room is you, you psychotic, ignorant, pretentious bitch.’ I snarled, too far-gone in my fury to notice my Hybrid stirring behind me.

‘This isn’t your family.’ She protested, albeit a little weekly as I drove the stake through her chest, a mere inch from her heart.

‘Yes it is. I love each and every one of the Mikaelson’s, and I’d be damned if I let you threaten one of them, but all of them, including the man I love more than anything? Well you just signed your death certificate.’ With that, my hand punctured her chest cavity, clenching around her heart and tearing it out. I watched with relief and satisfaction as her corpse turned grey, before dropping the organ to the ground.

I pulled my phone out of my back pocket to send a text to the group chat; pleased to see everyone else had achieved their goals without a hitch.

Me: Need a witch back at the compound. Aurora has Nik trapped with a boundary spell.

Elijah: Will bring Sophie now.

Me: Thanks, Lijah. Glad everyone else is okay.

Elijah had been with the witches to lure those of his sire line and trap them. Those who already resided in the quarter had been given a remedy that granted them immunity while the spell was being cast. When the strix arrived they would be given the chance to leave Tristan’s leadership or risk death. Tristan himself was trapped much like Lucien in a separate space secured with chains and witchcraft, which is where he would remain until the vervain had been drained and his plan had been compelled out of him. Either way, after that was discovered they would both be dead. The same had been planned for Aurora… before I’d gone AWOL.

‘Evangeline.’ I jumped a mile at the sound of his voice, having not heard him come around. When I faced him I was surprised by the intense expression on his face.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked, my fingers pressing against the boundary in vein as I tried to reach him.

‘I’m fine. A little hungry, but otherwise I’ll live. I managed to secure the location of the white oak from her mind before she incapacitated me.’ He smiled softly, ‘I already sent the location to Kol, I’m sure he’s taken care of it by now.’

‘Then why do you look so… astounded?’ I wondered.

‘Because watching you defend our family, and defend me has got to have been one of the most erotic things I’ve ever seen.’ He told me honestly.

I blinked in surprise before letting out a laugh, him joining me. Though I knew he was being sincere due to the lust in his eyes, which seemed to grow as his eyes roamed over my outfit.

‘I’ll take it your part of the plan was successful?’ he wondered.

‘Yes, though I feel like I need to scrub every inch of my body. Lucien is a pig.’ I informed him honestly. There were no secrets between us.

‘What did he do?’ Nik growled, his eyes flashing protectively.

‘He touched my arm and back, pulled on my hair and leaned way too close. Not terrible when you say it aloud but he made me feel really uncomfortable. But it doesn’t matter now.’ I waved it off, ‘once he’s had the vervain drained from his system and whatever plan they had in place is revealed he’s dead. At the rate they were draining him, I can’t imagine it would take long.’

This seemed to soothe him somewhat, but I could see him itching to hold me, his wolf needing to make sure I was indeed okay. Thankfully in that moment, Elijah walked through the door, Sophie following closely behind him. The elder Mikaelson raised a brow at the dead De Martial on the floor in confusion, looking over and pursing his lips in amusement when I hid my bloodied hand and the stake behind my back.

‘I don’t remember killing her being a part of the plan,’ Elijah commented as Sophie got to work.

‘I know. My temper might have gotten the best of me.’ I winced like a child about to be reprimanded by their parents.

‘She defended us brother. Aurora intended to kill her and use my grief to manipulate me to dagger you all and allow her to rule beside me.’ Nik explained, amused by my timid behaviour.

‘I couldn’t help it. I’m protective of my family, and of Nik, she threatened all of that.’ I pursed my lips, glancing down to her body, ‘she was one crazy bitch.’

Nik laughed loudly and the sound bought a smile to my lips, relieved that at least he wasn’t pissed at me for messing with the plan. A glance at Elijah and the amusement on his expression assured me he wasn’t all that mad either. I felt the tension in my shoulders ease.

‘She had white oak though,’ I revealed the stake and handed it to the older Original, ‘Nik sent Kol to collect the rest.’

Elijah nodded, some tension easing from his expression. In that moment Kol entered the room, grinning so widely I was surprised when his face didn’t split in half.

‘The white oak is gone. Apparently they gathered it from the wood made to construct a bridge and sign in Mystic Falls. Ironic, but alas I has all burned to ash.’ He said, practically bouncing with happiness at his success.

‘Excellent. Well done brother.’ Nik said, his expression conveying the sincerity behind his words. Kol’s expression softened under Nik’s praise and I couldn’t help but smile at the strong bonds they all now shared—My Hybrid had told me of Kol’s feeling of being left out of the family and so moments like this reminded me of how much they’d all overcome.

Kol nodded, a soft smile aimed at his older brother before he accepted a hug from Elijah and then me. When I pulled away, he frowned at the dried blood on my hand and forearm.

‘Don’t ask.’ I said before he could inquire.

Kol looked over to Nik who grinned and nodded in answer to his silent question: he would tell him later.

‘It’s all done.’ Sophie announced, but before she could even get up from the floor I found myself surrounded by Nik’s warmth and his scent.

All of the tension eased of my body, and I felt Nik relax too as his face nuzzled into my neck and took in my scent, now assured that I was in fact okay.

‘You two are too cute.’ Bekah commented, I noted that she had her own voice back, which meant the glamour had been removed, but I didn’t lift my head to look.

I hummed in contentment as Nik’s hand moved back and forth at the bottom of my spine, while his other hand rested at the centre of my back, his thumb moving back and forth comfortingly. The warmth his arms and hands emitted would never fail to make me feel safe and home. One of my hands were moving through the curls on his head, while the other rested against his chest, playing with the collection of necklaces that laid there. I was so contented and relaxed that I almost forgot where we were and what had happened when—

‘Why is Aurora dead?’ Bekah asked.

Nik laughed and I hid my face in his chest, embarrassed and already aware that I would never live this down.

Back to Five years after Evangeline returned from the 15th century.

‘Come on, Kol!’ Bekah complained from one of the love seats—Nik and I occupied the other.

‘It’s my choice, Bekah. You think I wanted to watch that god-awful romance movie you picked last month? No. But did I complain?’ his question was intended to be rhetorical but I answered anyway.

‘Excessively.’ I deadpanned, chuckling with the others.

‘Well—I didn’t complain as much as I wanted to.’ He said, as if that were a solid argument. I rolled my eyes and settled further into Nik’s side, my head resting on his chest. His arm was wrapped around me and he was tracing random patterns on my arm. I sighed in contentment, knowing that if he kept that up with how warm and relaxed I was, I wouldn’t see ten minutes of this movie.

‘Then Bekah can complain just shy of how much she wants to, and you’ll have to take it.’ Marcel pointed out, laughing at Kol’s affronted expression.

‘Can we just get this over with? The sooner it’s on, the sooner it can be over.’ Elena mumbled, a blanket wrapped around her, that and her husband’s arms around her providing her with protection from the zombies that Kol was subjecting us to. She was sat on the far end of the couch, Stefan to her right, Kol to his right and Damon on the other side of him. Bekah and Marcel were sat on the armchair; the female Mikaelson basically sat on her husband’s lap.

‘Come on, you’re a vampire. If zombies were running around in this world, they’d be no match for any of us.’ Damon smirked smugly from his seat next to Kol.

‘You don’t know that. What if a zombie bite affected us? If we also became zombie’s I’d hate to spend an eternity like that.’ Elena argued, pointing to the zombie that was now on the screen.

Instead of arguing, Damon shushed her, reaching for a handful of popcorn where the ridiculously huge bowl rested on Kol’s lap. I busied myself with the chocolate Eminem’s I’d commandeered, occasionally feeding some to Nik as I munched away.

I reached over to the arm of the chair for one of the blood bags we’d bought over to sustain us through the movie. I opened the cap and drank a few sips before offering some to my Hybrid, when he was finished I recapped it and placed it back where I’d grabbed it. I sighed softly, not interested in the movie in the slightest. But I knew this was the whole point of movie night, it wasn’t simply to watch; it was an opportunity to spend time together. Glancing around I noticed that Bekah and Nik were also unimpressed, Elena was terrified, while Kol, Damon, Marcel were overly amused by what passed as a horror movie.

I shifted in Nik’s arms so my head now rested on his shoulder, I faced his neck, not bothering any further with the terrible acting on the screen and started to play with the collection of necklaces around his throat. A small smile always formed on my face when my fingers connected with the only metallic one he wore—the locket I’d given him all those centuries ago. He’d tried to return it to me, but I insisted he wore it, liking that a part of me was always with him on the rare occasions I couldn’t be. In return he’d gifted me with his necklace that bore the Mikaelson crest. It had originally hung from a leather cord but he’d had it transferred to a silver chain and I wore it around my neck, happy to have something that reminded me of him for always.

‘Bored there my love?’ He murmured, to quiet to be heard by anyone else over the T.V.

‘While I’m in your arms? Never.’ I grinned as his chuckle, placing a kiss to his pulse point.

‘Do you ever think about getting married?’ Nik asked and I blinked at the question.

I leaned up, my hands resting against his face so I could take in his expression. He looked curious, yet slightly nervous.

‘I used to all the time when I was human. Had my perfect wedding all planned out. But it was something I gave up on when I became a vampire.’ I told him honestly.

‘Why?’ he wondered, reaching up to brush some hair behind my ear.

‘Because I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to spend an eternity with me. I could barely imagine sixty years, but forever? It just seemed impossible.’ I murmured.

‘What about now?’ he seemed tentative, which was rare for him and I couldn’t help but instinctively move a hand to his hair, knowing that it soothed him.

‘Is that your way of proposing?’ I teased, trying to ease his nerves.

He grinned, leaning up and pecking my lips before falling back to the love seat, ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.’

The sincerity in his expression caught me off guard, but my surprise quickly faded to delight, ‘really?’

He nodded, relieved by my excitement, ‘I even have a ring. I was planning on a romantic dinner with just the two of us, ending with me asking you.’

‘That sounds like quite the proposal.’ I commented, my hand gently moving back and forth against his jaw, ‘why mention it now?’

‘My love, patience has never been my strength. I’ve waited so long to have you back in my arms and I can’t keep putting off making you mine because I’m waiting for a perfect moment. Every moment with you is more perfect than I ever could have imagined, and certainly more perfect than I deserve. I love you Evangeline, with everything that I am. Spend an eternity with me. Marry me.’ He said, softly wiping away the tears that had fallen down my cheeks.

‘Okay,’ I was sure my tears didn’t dampen the pure happiness that I could feel radiating from my face. Nik captured my lips, kissing me with a softness and tenderness that made my heart flutter in my chest.

‘I love you.’ I told him, my voice barely above a whisper, but his soft smile assured me that he’d heard me.

‘I love you too.’ He replied as I settled against his chest again.

I drifted off to sleep there, surrounded by our oblivious family and in the arms of the man I loved.

Five years and six months after Evangeline returned from the 15th century.

‘You look beautiful.’ Jenna said, dabbing away the tears in her eyes with a tissue.

I smiled at her from where I was sat, getting my hair curled by one of the professionals Bekah had hired for all of us.

‘Thank you Aunt Jenna.’ I winked.

‘If you’re this emotional now, you’re gonna be done for when she puts on the dress.’ Elena teased, winding an arm around Jenna’s waist.

They had all gotten ready before me so they (mainly Bekah) could assure everything else was going to plan everywhere else. The female Mikaelson was currently checking on the boys and making sure they were finished, honestly I was so grateful for her. If it hadn’t been for her input, I doubt we could’ve pulled off the wedding I’d been dreaming of since I was a little girl.

‘I know, I just keep thinking about your Mom and Dad and how proud they would be right now.’ She said, barely squeezing out her words before the tears started streaming again.

‘They are here, Jenna. Maybe not in body but definitely in spirit.’ Elena assured both our aunt and I. I offered her a grateful smile, my eyes flicking over to my bouquet of red and white roses I would be holding while walking down the isle—my mom and dad’s favourite flowers. It had been Nik’s idea and I’d loved it.

‘You’re right.’ Our emotional aunt nodded, seeming to steel herself as she dabbed her eyes one last time before securing her tissue in her bra. Elena and I shared an amused glance.

‘You both look beautiful by the way.’ I complimented them.

I had chosen Elena as my maid of honour, with Bekah and Jenna being bridesmaids. Each wore a deep purple A-line styled dress made of chiffon material. This colour matched the ties of the groomsman, aside from Nik’s—his would be white. The dress cut off just below the knee, revealing the black platform shoes each of them wore. I had encouraged them to choose how they wanted to wear their own hair and was surprised when they’d all agreed on one hairstyle for them all. Their hair had been curled, with the front being pinned back to the backs of their heads with a jewelled clip that matched the deep purple of their dresses. They looked stunning.

‘Not as beautiful as you’re going to look.’ Bekah commented as she re-entered the room, looking moderately relieved.

‘What’s up?’ Lena asked.

‘Nik’s pacing a hole in the floor from his room. It amazes me how quickly his paranoia grows the longer he’s separated from you.’ She shook her head in amazement, moving over to the mirror to unzip my dress.

‘Well maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if someone hadn’t made us sleep apart last night.’ I muttered, already reaching for my phone.

‘It’s bad luck to see the groom before the wedding!’ Bekah protested, frowning when she saw me walking towards the bathroom, ‘what are you doing? You need to put your dress on, the ceremony starts in ten minutes!’

‘I’ll be two, I promise.’ I smiled reassuringly and closed the door behind me, finding Nik’s contact and clicking it before bringing it to my ear.

It rung once before he answered, ‘Evangeline.’ He murmured; his voice already sounding a little more relaxed.

‘Hello my gorgeous Hybrid and soon to be husband.’ I answered brightly, smiling at the sound of his chuckle, ‘what’s this I hear about you being paranoid?’

‘It’s nothing, my love. Just my self depreciating voice rearing it’s ugly head and telling me that I don’t deserve you.’ He said, his voice more sombre now.

‘Nik, you are the strongest, sweetest, smartest, funniest, sexiest and most talented man I’ve ever known. So you tell that voice inside your head to shove it because you’re an amazing man and I promise to keep reminding you of that fact for eternity.’

‘Thank you, my love. You always know what to say,’ he said, his voice soft.

‘You’re welcome, we all need reassurance sometimes, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ My voice was as gentle as his.

‘I can’t wait to marry you.’ I could sense his smile on the other side of the phone.

‘Right back at you my Hybrid.’ I grinned, ‘speaking of I should put my dress on before Bekah has an aneurism. I’ll see you soon.’

‘That you will, my love.’

I hung up the phone and exited the bathroom, handing my phone to Jenna while Bekah and Elena helped me step into my dress. I had surprised everyone with my determination to choose my own wedding attire, which was fair seeing as any other clothing trip ended with me leaving it to Bekah. But I’d had a very specific dress in mind for my wedding day and I was overjoyed with the end result. It was a ball gown dress with a three-foot train; the bodice had a lace overlay that extended on sheer material to my arms. There were hundreds of diamonds scattered all over that twinkled when they caught the light just right. The veil that was clipped into my hair was also decorated with lace and hung all the way down to the floor. I was wearing my Mikaelson necklace, which I’d been sure to pull from underneath my dress, displaying the crest proudly where it rested on my chest. My hair was curled; the front pinned back similarly to the girls’ but mine was secured with the clip of my veil. My made up was natural; my lips painted with a deep red lip stain that matched the roses I’d be carrying perfectly.

‘You look radiant.’ Bekah said, tears forming in her own eyes.

‘Don’t, you’re gonna make me cry.’ I warned.

‘We can’t have that, you’ll ruin your make up and you look perfect.’ Elena nudged Bekah playfully.

A knock on the door broke us out of our conversation; Elena answered the door to reveal Elijah. His expression became soft when he saw me, his own eyes glassing over as emotion overcame him.

‘Sister, you look… wonderful.’ He murmured.

I hugged him, ‘thank you Lijah.’

‘Well, it’s time.’ Bekah announced, shooing the other bridesmaids out of the room, ‘remember walk down the isle when you hear the wedding march.’

‘We know Bekah.’ I chuckled, my arm linking through Elijah’s as we followed them.

I had asked him to walk me down the isle because I couldn’t imagine anyone else doing it. Elijah had become the best big brother I could have ever hoped for, and it seemed wrong to be given away by anyone else. Of course, Nik had also asked him to be best man, so after he’d delivered me to the end of the isle, he would take his place in between Nik and Kol. I took a deep breath as we reached the entrance to the ballroom; we were getting married at a house Nik had built in Mystic Falls long before I had even been born. He wanted to have a house where we could live when I wanted to visit my home, and a place that he could stay in to reminisce about the village he’d lived in when he was human. He’d built this house on top of the same place he’d resided all those years ago. When he’d told me that, it seemed to be the perfect location; the town where I’d grown up, where my parents were born and buried, and the village he’d spent time with his family before they’d become vampires. It held a lot of nostalgia and meaning for the both of us, and I knew then that this is where we could become husband and wife.

‘Are you ready, sister?’ Elijah murmured, turning to me as the march started.

I nodded, unable to keep the smile off my face as I followed Elijah’s lead down the isle. I’ve never felt more love and happiness than I did in that moment, surrounded by those I loved, and the man I loved more than anything. Those invited had been kept to a bare minimum. Nik had most of his friends as groomsmen: Marcel, Stefan, Kol and Elijah were all stood up there with him, while on my side stood Jenna, Bekah and Elena. Other than that, Damon, Jeremy, April (he’d asked to bring her as his guest), Sophie, Josh, Cami, Finn and Freya all sat in white wooden chairs as the audience.

Freya had been a surprise to the Mikaelson’s not long after Nik had proposed. She’d popped up explaining that their aunt Dahlia had kidnapped her and cursed to spend a hundred years sleeping to every year of life. That had been a close fight that involved another time travel spell for Esther’s blood and a few other ingredients, but we defeated her and Freya was free and connecting with the family she’d yearned to know for centuries. Finn was a different story. He’d been undaggered after Nik had tracked down Sage, who’d been his long lost love nine centuries ago. After their reunion, they’d departed and we hadn’t heard a word from him until Freya popped up and he came to the compound to visit her. Even during those visits he’d only really spoken to his eldest sister. Still, we’d extended a wedding invitation to him seeing as he was technically family. But I’ll admit I was stunned by his attendance; I suspected Freya had something to do with it. Though I was unsurprised that Sage hadn’t come; her and Nik had apparently never gotten along.

After my eyes had quickly glanced over those present they fell and remained on the most important one of all. My Hybrid was positively beaming with happiness, the same kind that I was sure he could see on my face. The kind of elation that you felt at the prospect of marrying your best friend, your confidant, your lover… your person. His gorgeous blue eyes were glassed over as he fought to hold back his tears, I want as strong however, my tears having long fallen onto my cheeks. Bekah would have a fit, but I didn’t care. Elijah took my hand and placed it in Nik’s and just like that, I was home. My fingers entwined with his as we faced the man we’d chosen to officiate our marriage.

‘We are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in matrimony.’ I couldn’t help but tune out what he was saying, too lost in Nik’s eyes to worry about anything else.

‘I believe you have written your own vows?’ I startled at the question, and nodded.

‘Nik, before I met you, I had given up on the idea of marriage, of finding someone to spend the rest of my life with. When I was human, it seemed plausible, as sixty years doesn’t seem as daunting as an eternity. But suddenly faced with the prospect of forever, I couldn’t imagine finding anyone who would love me enough to want to be tied with me for eternity. Then I met you. We might have first gotten of on the wrong foot,’ we all shared a chuckle at that, ‘but I fell in love with you so fast that it scared me. I’d never felt so much so fast before, but before I could get too lost in my own insecurities, you told me that you loved me too. Not with words at first, but in the way you protected me, the way that you touched me and the way that you looked at me. From that moment all those years ago, I couldn’t picture a future without you in it, and now I can’t wait to spend eternity with you as your wife.’ I gently wiped away the tears that had fallen onto his cheeks before grasping his hands in mine again.

‘Evangeline, I’ve been on this earth for a long time, and for a majority of it I was a man I’m not proud of. As a human, I was berated and beaten for no reason other than my father’s unexplainable hatred of me. When I became a vampire and my werewolf side was revealed, I was more of an outsider then I had ever been. I learned to be ashamed of who I was, because that is what my mother inadvertently told me when she cursed my werewolf side into dormancy. This created a man whose insecurity and fear manifested itself as anger and aggression. I believed I didn’t deserve to be loved by anyone. I became a monster, pushing away those closest to me until I believed they hated me too. I belittled anyone who showed emotion, when deep down I envied them for being brave enough to love, to adore, to laugh, and to be happy. I spent centuries taking the fate of my sibling’s into my own hands, because while I knew they hated me, I loved them and I couldn’t tamper my protective instincts when it came to their safety. They perceived it was out of spite or superiority and I let them believe it because it was easier to accept their hate than their love. But then I met you. You came into my life and within two minutes you’d already, albeit unwillingly, revealed your plans to kill me.’ I chuckled with him, my tears falling steadily down my face, ‘but despite the obvious threat, I couldn’t bring myself to hurt you. When you offered a plan to help me I was grateful that it meant I didn’t have to come up with an excuse myself. Your light, your kindness to a man who you only knew to cause you pain drew me in. You bought out my humanity without effort and I found myself overcome with my love for you, with my protectiveness and adoration. You accepted me for who I was, you made accepting your love and returning it effortless. You made me realise that I deserved to be loved.’ He took a breath, gently wiping the tears from my cheeks and smiling when I leaned into his touch. ‘I vow that for the rest of eternity, you will never doubt how much I love you, Evangeline.’

My hands squeezed his gently as we shared a smile.

‘The rings?’ The officiate asked.

I turned and took Nik’s ring from Elena, while Nik retrieved mine from Elijah.

After we exchanged ‘I do’s,’ Nik pulled me in for a passionate kiss and just like that, we were married. The idea of an eternity with one person may have scared me once. But that was before Nik. That was before I’d met the one person in the world who seemed to understand me better than I understood myself. He was my rock, my Hybrid, and as long as he was by my side the prospect of forever was anything but daunting.

#klaus mikaelson #klaus mikaelson imagine #Klaus Mikaelson x OC #the originals #the vampire diaries

60 notes · View notes